The Hell Yo - lanyon Josh (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗
decided he left by his own volition. I did what I could.”
“Bob…” I gave it up as I read the stubborn fear on his face.
He said, “Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself.”
* * * * *
Monday was Velvet’s day off, and I was too busy dealing with the legions of shoppers
to worry about the legions of evil. The holidays were great for art books like Strange Sisters:
The Art of Lesbian Pulp Fiction 1949-1969, and audio books. We were having an
unbelievably good Monday. By eleven o’clock I had sold Langman’s A Guide to American
Crime Films of the Forties and Fifties, priced at over a hundred dollars, which had been
sitting on the shelf for over a year, and three copies of Gunn’s The Gay Sleuth in Print and
Film. One customer even tried to talk me out of the replica Maltese Falcon statue perched
behind the counter.
Then, like that, the rush was over, and the place was a boneyard. I washed down half a
chicken salad sandwich with a can of cold Tab and was lugging coffee-table books the size of
paving stones back to their shelves, when Jake walked into the shop.
I smiled, then stopped smiling at his expression.
“I need to talk to you.”
I nodded. “We’re alone,” I said, turning toward the office, but he walked toward the
front of the shop, so I followed. We stood in the alcove that faced the street. His face looked
like granite as he stared out the window trimmed with the fake pine boughs he had helped
me hang so short a time ago.
Had he found out about my trip to Pacific Palisades? I’d realized that he might be
pissed. But no… This was different. My stomach churned, waiting for whatever was coming.
He met my eyes levelly. “I’m telling you first. Kate and I are getting married.”
I had known it was coming, but that didn’t make it any less painful. My throat closed,
so I nodded.
He folded his lips tightly. “I want this marriage to work. I want it to be a real
marriage.”
“I figured.”
Then he seemed to run out of words. We stood there. I was afraid my face would give
me away, so I stared out the window at the cars flashing by down the street. Red, white,
white, green….
“I’m not going to try to explain or make excuses,” Jake said, and his voice sounded too
loud, like if he didn’t speak strongly, it would shake. “This is my chance for a normal life. I’m
taking it.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not going to apologize. You knew the score going in.”
I lifted a shoulder.
There were things I might have said. Maybe even things I should have said. But I knew
they wouldn’t change the outcome, and I wasn’t sure I could say them and keep control of
my voice and face. Right now, keeping control in front of him seemed like the paramount
thing.
“It’s not because of your health.”
“I know that.” Hostility turned my gaze back to his. He looked away from me.
“I know that asshole you were with in college –”
“Can we leave that asshole out of it?”
Please, gentlemen, one asshole at a time.
He seemed reluctant to drop this tangent. “It’s got nothing to do with the way I feel
about you,” he added, as though I were making an argument.
But, after all, that was a stupid comment. I surprised myself by giving a sort of ironic
laugh and saying, “Whatever.”
“Whatever?”
His eyes were so dark they looked black. I realized that he wanted to get angry, that
anger would make it easier, and I didn’t want to make it easier. He didn’t deserve to have it
made easy.
So I met his gaze. Asked quietly, “What do you want me to say, Jake?”
His face worked. His jaw clenched so hard, my own hurt watching. He shook his head
fiercely.
“Good-bye,” I said.
* * * * *
“Is everything all right?” Guy asked suddenly. The Miata whined as he downshifted to
veer around a slow-moving dump truck materializing out of the darkness ahead of us.
It was Monday night, and we were on our way to Hell’s Kitchen. Guy had picked me
up about fifteen minutes earlier.
“Sure.”
He was silent.
The CD playing almost inaudibly in the background clicked over. I recognized the
delicate opening chords to “Rain.” Instinctively I reached across to turn off the CD player.
Guy glanced my way. “Patty Griffin. She’s sort of an acquired taste.”
I made a noncommittal noise.
He made another try at conversation. “I saw on the news that Angus and Wanda were
denied bail.”
I nodded. “Flight risk.”
I’d had another visit from the defense team investigators late that afternoon. I’d told
Best I had nothing more to say and shown him the door.
I didn’t know if I was making life harder on myself or not. I just didn’t give a damn at
the moment.
We finished the rest of our trip across town in silence.
There was no parking near Hell’s Kitchen. We parked down the street, Guy set his car
alarm, and we hiked back to the club. From a block away we heard the music – the bass
thudding against the heavy night clouds.
Outside the building there was a short queue of Hammer Films extras waiting to get in.
Guy and I were conspicuously underdressed, me in black jeans and a black turtleneck (which
fitted my mood nicely) and Guy in black jeans and a black muslin Renaissance-style shirt
with leather ties. The flock of femme fatales in black plastic and leather minidresses – hair
lacquered about three feet high or arranged in Medusa-like dreadlocks – kept a prudent
distance. There seemed to be a lot more girls than boys present.
We paid the cover charge, wriggled our way through the crush of young bodies
blocking the doorway. Once inside we were engulfed in smoke and purple mist. Strobe lights
flashed, illuminating glimpses of the monster mash on the gameboard-sized square that
served as a dance floor. Canned music boomed overhead. I felt the bass vibrating in my chest
cavity. You make me want to La La…
It really was the Devil’s playground.
We stood there for a time, adjusting to the heat and noise and mass of people. The
place had to be in violation of the fire code. That was probably the least of their violations.
How were we going to find anyone in this hellhole? I could barely see six feet ahead of
