Drunk and sitting in an inch-and-a-half of some woman's blood and there's a sad spring night breeze coming in through the window and some goddammed sad black rhythm and blues song on the radio and then I start talking to her.
Asking her about herself.
I've never really found out anything about any of my victims.
She sits there, kind of propped up, all blue of skin and deeply bloody of wound, and she just stares straight ahead in her stunned, dead way.
And I'm talking to her because I'm so drunk and because the melancholy is on me and when it's on me I just want to be held and held tight and then suddenly I'm jumping out of the tub and I grab her and break her arms until they fit around me and then I start dancing with her, the way I used to slow-dance back in high school, with a big embarrassing erection that brushes against the girl every few seconds or so. I'm dancing with this dead woman in my bathroom and the worst thing is that it makes me feel better.
Not so lonely.
At least for a time.
The night breeze feels good.
And I don't feel so scared now.
I just dance and dance and dance.
CHAPTER 29
Sister Mary Margaret decided to stop at the corner news stand and get herself a magazine.
Black and white habit flowing in the October night, she approached the small kiosk where the dumpy man in the ratty cardigan sweater and the big cigar butt stood talking to another male customer aboutwhat else the Bears.
The night smelled chill; in the autumn scents were traces of winter.
Sister Mary Margaret listened and shivered as the two men made dire predictions about how the season would turn out.
Traffic raced by. The night was alive with an energy that was both exciting and terrifying.
She scanned the magazines. So many promises they made. How to lose weight. Get a man. Find God. Make your erection last longer. Double the profits on your investments. Make your children like you. It was all sort of sad and desperate, the splashy magazines and their even splashier pledges.
Sister Mary Margaret cleared her throat.
Stan, the guy who ran this magazine stand, glanced over at her and said, 'Hey, Sister, sorry. I didn't see you standin' there.'
The good Sister, who was a very shy lady indeed, kept her face tilted down, ostensibly so she could scan all the newspapers Stan had laid out across the front of his counter. 'That's all right. You've got so many interesting things to look at.'
'So what can I get for you, Sister?'
'I wondered if you had a copy of Hustler.'
Stan glanced at his football pal. Both men looked shocked.
'I don't think I heard you right, Sister.'
'I thought she said Hustler,' said the football pal.
'Yeah, so did I.'
'I did,' said the nun.
'Hustler?' Stan repeated. 'With the broads and everything?'
'Yes,' Sister Mary Margaret said, 'with the broads and everything.'
And it was then that she reached up and looked Stan right in the face and said, 'Boy, did I have you going.'
'God, Ralph look, it's Marcy!'
'Marcy Browne!' his football pal said. 'The chick private eye.'
'I'll be damned,' Stan said.
'I'm sure you will be,' Marcy said.
'What's with the nun stuff? You undercover?'
'Something like that.' The grin again. 'Plus I just wanted to see what you'd do if some nun came up and ordered a copy of Hustler.'
'You sure had me goin',' Stan said admiringly. Then, 'So you really want a copy?'
'Are you kidding? That sleazy rag?' And Sister Mary Margaret walked huffily away.
Marcy really dug this acting stuff. It was fun.
Once she was back in her office and dressed in her own clothes again, Marcy heated up some soup in a pan on her hotplate and then sat with her feet up on the desk, sipping Campbell's tomato soup from a Spiderman mug and reading a copy of American Ballerina.
Only her mother knew that Marcy had always wanted to be a ballerina. She'd seen The Turning Point with Shirley MacLaine when she was twelve years old and ever since… But, her Dad being a steelworker and all, Marcy didn't come from the proper social background anyway. After being told by his wife that Marcy needed ballet shoes, Ken Browne had said, 'What the hell'm I supposed to do about it, Candy? Go out to Sears and charge her a pair.' Right, Dad. Ballet slippers at Sears.
But that hadn't been the only thing to hold her back. Even worse than having a dad who thought that Sears sold ballet slippers was being a girl who had absolutely no dancing talent whatsoever. Sweet little face. Sweet little body. But no talent at all.
She slogged through three years of training until one day Nick, the dance instructor, finished his session with Marcy and asked if he could see her mother alone. Mrs Browne came over and Nick looked right at her and burst into tears. 'I can't do it anymore, Mrs Browne. She's driving me crazy. She's a great kid, your Marcy, but she moves like a moose.' At which point he put his head on Mrs Browne's shoulder and proceeded to weep.
The subject of dance was never again mentioned in the Browne household. The ballet slippers were given away; the costumes were packed in a trunk. And Dad was relieved that they didn't have to watch any more PBS dance shows where guys walked around in very tight pants and big cast-iron nut-cups. Those guys made him extremely uncomfortable.
So all that was left of that era for Marcy was her fondness for American Ballerina magazine.
She loved it. Pored over every single page, fantasizing that she was every one of those agile, fragile princesses up on their toes and breaking all those artistic hearts.
Not for Marcy Browne Paris or Vienna or Rome, or any other noted dance city of the world. No, for Marcy Browne it had been Hilton Community College and Criminology 101, Crim 102, Crim 103 and Crim 104, putting in her first years as a security guard (minimum wage and no health insurance) at Montgomery Wards (or 'Monkey Wards' as Dad always called it) and then three years with the Night Shift Detective Agency, where she'd mostly followed around unfaithful spouses, and then that teeny tiny inheritance from Aunt Paulajust enough to start her own teeny tiny agency…
Now, she hoisted her Spiderman cup, finished off the tomato soup and then glanced at the dusty wall clock directly across the office.
It was time to check out Jill's place again. Marcy hadn't promisedand couldn't delivertwenty-four-hour surveillance, but since she was wide awake she might as well run by Jill's apartment, just on the off chance that the blue Volvo had put in another appearance…
She went to her closet, chose an outfit, dressed and then walked outside to her car.
She just hoped her Dad never saw her in this get-up. The tight black micro-skirt was slit right up to her hipbone, and the white peasant blouse was cut so low her breasts practically stood up and waved at people.
