and—” she paused, reaching for a word, “your problem.” I could see from her face that she was more scared than sorry. She recovered her composure, cleared her throat. “So can I get you something to drink?”
Before I could answer a buzz of excitement rose through the diner. I leaned around the waitress to see the door.
There he was. Unmistakable, speaking into the other waitress’s ear, a hand on her shoulder. He still had the spiky blonde hair, and his outfit, though not particularly loud or flashy, announced that he was someone of note: black-rimmed hipster glasses, expensive leather jacket, jeans. He wasn’t wearing a mask—the only person in the diner.
I waved. He spotted me, gave me a two-fingered salute, sauntered over wearing a big smile, his hand outstretched. I met him partway and we shook, then he clapped my shoulders as if making sure I was real.
A young woman was hovering behind him, clutching a pen. I motioned to Mick. He turned, exchanged a few pleasantries with the woman as he signed her napkin.
A few other admirers left their booths to meet him. Mercury gave his attention to each of them in turn, listened to their brief testimonials—how they’d seen him at his first Atlanta concert, what this or that song meant to them. He seemed to enjoy himself.
When an elderly woman came forward, her hand outstretched, Mick blurted, “
The woman let out a startled “Eep”; others gasped in surprise.
“Sorry,” Mick said, holding his palm over his mouth. “Been working on a new vocal style. Thinking I might try crossing over into some of that Goth vampire music.” He grinned brightly, eliciting a few nervous chuckles. “Finn and me are going to have some breakfast now, so if you don’t mind…” He gave everyone a gentle “shove off” gesture.
When everyone was back at their tables, Mick and I settled in.
“So. What the fuck is wrong with us?” Mick murmured.
I took a quick sip of water—my mouth was dry. It was jarring, to realize I was sitting with a rock star. I found it impossible to look across the table at Mick Mercury and see nothing but another guy. It was Mick freaking Mercury.
“Seems to me it’s got to be connected to the anthrax,” I said.
Mick pointed at me, nodding emphatically. “That’s what I said, but the doctor said it ain’t possible.”
The waitress came over. I stared at the table, still embarrassed by my outburst, and it seemed as if she was standing a lot further from the table than she’d been before. She was wearing gold sneaker-shoes with Cleopatra’s face on them.
She gave Mick a level look. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not going to ask for your autograph or anything juvenile like that.” She shrugged. “But if you happened to sign that place mat for some reason, that would be okay.”
Mick grinned. “I’ve done stranger things.”
“Yes you have,” the waitress shot back, prompting Mick to cackle madly.
True to his word, Mick ordered a scotch with his bacon and pancakes.
When the waitress had gone, I said, “The doctor told me the same thing. But it’s the only thing that connects our cases. That and the fact that we both died for a few minutes.”
We compared notes. The things we were blurting were similar in some ways, not in others. I recognized a lot of what I said—it had to do with the strip, people and places I knew, and especially my grandfather. Mick recognized some of what he said—about his music, the lawsuit he’d fought with his collaborator, and so on. Other things weren’t at all familiar, like the beauty he’d just uttered.
“Sometimes it’s like I got a bleeding anorak in my throat. Programs on the telly, comic books. I go on and on about the most trivial dross.”
It definitely didn’t fit with my psychiatrist Corinne’s theory that my blurting was the result of unresolved issues with my grandfather. If that was it, why would Mick Mercury have the same problem?
“Let me ask you something,” Mick said, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. “You much for getting trolleyed?”
I shook my head, totally lost.
“You know, do you like to get pissed?”
It took me a minute, then I remembered that pissed was British for drunk. “Oh sure, I like a few drinks now and then.”
Mick nodded, looked around, as if afraid some of the patrons might be undercover paparazzi. “But when you’re done having those few drinks, do you have a few more?”
“When I was in college, maybe, but now it’s mostly two or three max.” I wasn’t sure where he was going with this.
“Harder stuff? Pills and powder?”
“None of that. Why?”
Mick waved it off. “I thought maybe it was from brain damage. You know, brain atrophy and that.”
Mick’s cell phone rang. He checked it, then held up a finger. “Just a sec.”
“My guardian angel! Yeah, I’m with him right now.” He nodded at me. “Nah, he ain’t angry. He says to say thanks.” Pause, then Mick laughed. “I bet, I bet.”
The person on the other end—Mick’s mole receptionist in our doctor’s office, I assumed, said something that lit his face with surprise. “No kidding?”
She went on; Mick fumbled in the pockets of his jacket, then covered the mouthpiece of his phone. “You got a pen?” I handed him the sketching pencil I always carried. He pressed it to the back of his menu. “Can you give me a name?” He rolled his eyes toward the hammered tin ceiling. “I promise, you won’t get in trouble. I’ll be very discreet.” A moment later he jotted a name and number on his napkin. “Thanks. You’re an angel from heaven! You’ve no idea how much this means to me, and Finn Darby too. He just said to give you a big wet kiss for him.” Mick winked at me, grinning, as I pressed my hands to my cheeks and shook my head. I’d have to face her again, whoever she was, next time I went to Dr. Purvis’s office.
“Jesus flipping Christ,” Mick whispered as he closed the phone. “You ready for this?”
“What?”
“Dr. Purvis saw three more cases like ours in the past twenty-four hours.”
I wasn’t sure if that was good news, but it felt like good news. Mick and I smiled grimly at each other.
“You ever see
“One of my favorites,” I said, pleased that Mick and I liked the same film.
“‘Where there’s one, there’s another, and another, and another,’” Mick quoted.
I recognized the line: Three stranded astronauts, crossing a lifeless desert, come upon a single scraggly weed in the rocky soil. I nodded understanding. We weren’t alone. We weren’t freaks. It was a relief, even if it didn’t explain what was wrong with us.
The waitress was back with our food.
“You ever see
“Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape,” she said.
Mick and I burst out laughing, drawing curious looks from the other tables.
“I bet that line comes in handy for a pretty bird like you, eh?” Mick said.
The waitress just smiled, refilled our coffee cups.
When she’d left, Mick asked, “How long were you, you know, dead?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes, as well as I can figure.” Out of the corner of my eye I watched the waitress duck behind the counter, feeling a longing to get to know her, knowing that wasn’t going to happen as long as my inner zombie was with me.
“It’s something, ain’t it? To know you were dead, that you weren’t in your body?” Mick said. He seemed to be watching my reaction, peering over his scotch.
“I definitely wasn’t in my body,” I said.
His eyebrows shot up. “When you were dead, you mean?” He paused, searching for words. “What was it like for you? Do you remember anything?”
