did. He hated me 'cause he hadn't died.'
'Did he have a girlfriend?'
'No. Not really. Nobody did, much.' He tried to follow the question. 'He was okay, wasn't cut up-you know, there.'
'Was he gay?'
'What?'
'Im sorry,' she said, sounding frightened. 'I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have said that.'
'No, it's okay. Really, really, it's okay.' He wanted to hold her, show her it was all right, calm her fear, stop his own. 'The thing is, you're right. One day-this was maybe a year before his accident-Rob said, 'Let's go for a ride,' and we got on our bikes and just rode. I don't know how far, five miles at least. That's when he told me.' How would she understand? She came from the other side of the earth, and lived here, even farther away. 'We didn't have 'gay people.' Sometimes you heard somebody was a fag. You know what decent people do to fags in Iowa?'
'I know what they did in Ohio,' she said quietly. 'Probably not much difference.'
'Probably not,' Danny said, and shut himself up for a moment. Suddenly Ginevra seemed much closer to him, maybe close enough to touch.
He said, 'I guess that's why he hated me so bad. If he could have gotten out, come here, or anywhere, who would have cared? But now he'll never get out. I didn't let him die, and I sure didn't save his life. Like I say, he knew how to tell you things.'
'I think you know how to hear things,' Ginny said. Damn. with no answer for that, took a swallow of the tea. It had gotten cool, and bitter. 'I think I ought to leave/'
'Do you?' She unfolded, arching her feet on the floor, opening a lap to sit on. 'Nothing's found us yet We could keep looking.'
'No, I'll go.' She seemed about to say something: would she ask him, straight out? He shifted uncomfortably. Could she tell he was hard? If she- begged him He stood up. 'I had a really good time tonight, Ginny. Thank you.'
'Oh. Hey, it's your birthday.' She stood up. 'You still have a hug coming.'
He nodded. She put her arms around him and pressed. She was naked under the pajamas. His crotch tightened some more.
She pulled him down to the floor. They bumped knees, elbows, scraped ankles. She was on top of him, soft, so soft. He held her; he couldn't stop.
He said, 'I just don't-'
'This is your birthday hug,' she said, her breath warm against his ear, her hair blinding him. 'You say when it stops.' Her hands played his ribs like a piano. 'Or how tight it gets.'
This was good, he thought, relaxing. This was fine, he could do this. He didn't want to let go; he didn't seem strong enough to pull away. They stayed there, just holding, until Danny's head bumped the floor and he realized he was almost asleep.
'I should go.'
'Go? / think you should-' She stopped, pressed her face against his shoulder. 'What should / do, Doc? What do you want me to do?'
He almost told her. His hands were near enough to pin her shoulders in a moment, to lock around her slim strong wrists. He shook.
He looked down at her, and saw the brutalized elf-woman from the night before, clutching and pleading. He wanted to crawl under a rock, away from his thoughts.
'Doc…?'
He said, 'Just… don't be angry.'
'Is that your safeword, Doc? 'Don't be angry'?' she said, smiling.
'Maybe.' It came out a whisper.
'I'll never be angry with you, Doc.' She unwound herself, sat up with her hands around her knees.
Danny stood up. 'Will I see you at the club on Halloween?'
'No. I'm helping sit some of the little kids in the building, so their parents can go out.'
'Oh.'
She laughed. 'Night of horror and suspense, huh.'
He said, 'Next Friday's some kind of special show at the Laughs. Stagger Lee keeps talking about it.'
'What is it?'
'I forget. Somebody named Corvette.'
'Not really.'
'It's something like that. Want to go?'
'It's on.'
The air outside woke him up, but it did not make him cold.
L
ate on Halloween afternoon, there was a knock at Danny's door. It was Boris Liczyk, carrying a small leather case and a garment bag. 'I've brought your costume, sir.'
There were slightly baggy trousers, a high-collared white shirt with a ruffled front, a velvet string tie.
'Shall I manage that for you, sir?'
'That'd be fine, Boris.'
Danny faced the mirror; Liczyk stood behind him and effortlessly spun the tie into a shoelace bow. Boris held up the jacket, and Danny slipped his arms in; it was a long coat, nearly to his knees, with a narrow waist. The slightly stiff fabric was deep forest green, the collar of a lighter green velvet. Liczyk did a bit of pinching and the fit was perfect.
Then he brought out a long cloak, dark brown with a golden satin lining, adjusted and tied it around Danny's shoulders. 'You might wish to walk about for a while, sir. Men don't wear such things nowadays; moving gracefully requires a bit of practice. Please be quite careful on the stairs-wouldn't do to lose our physician.' 1
'I'll be careful.'
Boris held out a pancake of dark green silk. 'Observe, SIT.' He flexed the object, and it sprang into shape as a top hat. 'Just like Mr. Astaire,' Boris said, smiling. He put it on Danny's head, showed him the proper tilt. 'I am to remind you to earrv your bag as well. sir.'
'To the party? With the costume?'
'Yes, sir. That's all I have for you: is there anything else I can do?'
'No, I don't think so. Uh, Boris?'
'Yes, sir?'
'Shouldn't formal stuff be, you know, black?'
'Not for you, sir. Black isn't a red-haired gentleman's color. Which reminds me, we must fit you for a dinner suit soon. It'll only take an hour or so.'
'Sure. Thank you, Boris.'
'My job, sir. I enjoy this.' He bowed and went out.
Danny looked at himself in the mirror. Okay, what was he supposed to be? The ruffled shirt and tie had a sort of Western look; he'd thought of Doc Holliday. But surely not the top hat and the cloak. And he was supposed to carry his bag. Was he Doctor Jekyll?
Oh. Of course. He got the bag, took out the dissecting knife.
The phone rang.
'Hello, Jack the Ripper here.'
There was a burst of laughter. Mr. Patrise's voice said, 'Good evening, Jack. Would you join me in the office for a few minutes? Bring your costume things-we'll go straight to the party.'
'Certainly, sir.'
Danny went up a flight. Boris Liczyk was right: the cloak was dangerous on the stairs.
Patrise's office was a long, high-ceilinged room with geometric carpets, Deco furniture of glass, chrome, and black wood, artwork on the walls. The desk was a spotlit, L-shaped block of white metal with a black marble top. Patrise sat behind it in a leather swivel chair. He was wearing an ornate brocaded jacket, like something from a
