Lost Girls

''Try me.''

''Like hurting them.''

''And did you?''

''No. But sometimes it feels like whether I was the one or not--that it doesn't make much difference, if you thought about doing the same things yourself.''

Behind me the intercom is calling out for Dr. MacDougall, Dr. MacDougall. Please come to Emergency, Dr. MacDougall. The nurse's actual voice at her desk down the hall as loud as her amplified one.

''That's an interesting philosophical debate you've introduced, Laird,'' I say, voice lowered. ''But I'd still like to know what I'm doing here. You want a shrink, talk to Principal Warren. But I'm a lawyer. I defend people who've done things. And you haven't done anything. Unless there's something you're not telling me.''

''What I'm not telling you is that I'm scared shitless,'' the kid says, and is immediately silenced by a lengthy spasm of shivers as though to prove the point. ''It's like I see them sometimes in these places around town. All of a sudden, just turn my head and bang, there they are. Laughing their heads off with mouths that could swallow you whole but quiet, quiet.''

''You're talking about people who are most likely dead, Laird.''

''No shit. Hello! I'm the guy in the hospital on account of he thought he was losing his fucking mind.''

Laird throws his eyes over to the cup of water on the table once more but I pretend not to notice. His oversize spectacles set like welder's goggles to forehead and cheek.

''What were they wearing?'' I'm asking now, wobbling almost directly above him. ''The girls. When you saw them.''

''That's the other weird thing,'' he says, bringing his voice down now along with mine. ''It was like these old- fashioned dresses. But ripped up and stained all over, as if it was the only thing they'd been wearing for the past year and a half. Nothing else but-- What's wrong with you, man?''

''Don't they have any goddamn chairs in here?''

''Have a seat here if you want.''

He pats the surface of the bed as though bidding the family dog up for a nap but instead it's me planting myself next to him, legs dangling over the edge like water balloons.

''You okay?''

''Fine, fine. Hot,'' I manage, gesturing a paw toward the heating vent.

''I know, man. I'm buck naked except for one of those hospital thingies that no matter how you tie it your ass is always sticking out, and I'm warm in here.''

''Did you help Tripp, Laird?'' I ask in a rush, the words mingling with the kid's nervous laughter.

''With what, man?''

''Did you do something to them together?''

''You don't seem to understand that what I'm getting at here is that I could have. But then intention is half of the criminal act, isn't it, Mr. Crane? Who knows? Maybe I would've said yes if he'd bothered to ask me.''

I'd like to move away from him now. Slide forward and return my body to its own command but I'm sinking where I am, half tilted against Laird's skeletal pokes and jabs.

''I'm not saying my client did anything, by the way,'' I say in place of moving. ''I was only speaking hypothetically just now.''

''No, you weren't. But don't worry. I won't tell anybody.''

There's a moment when I consider denying this, or telling the kid to go fuck himself, or bouncing up off the mattress and out the door without another word. But the moment passes.

''I think you have to do something, man,'' the kid's saying now, the words clicking out through blocked sinuses.

''Like what?''

''I don't know. But everything's fucked right now and unless somebody steps up I have a bad feeling it's going to stay that way.''

''I'd like to help, I really would. But I still don't know what the hell you're talking about.''

''Yes, you do, Mr. Crane.''

''How can you tell me--''

''Have you given my files over to the police yet?''

''As a matter of fact, I haven't.''

''And why's that?''

''I'm still considering my options.''

''Bullshit.''

Solid footsteps coming down the hall that send creaks through the ceiling tiles, rattle the metal strips that hold the walls in place.

''You're keeping them for the same reason I did,'' he says.

''And why was that?''

''To make them mine, man. But the thing is that now they're dead, it feels like I'm fucking theirs.''

Shoes scraping to a stop at the door.

''Ach, well now. Isn't this comfy cozy?''

Dr. MacDougall a mile above us in the overhead lights, grinning like an ape.

''I was just leaving.''

''Oh, no, no. I wouldn't want to disrupt such a comforting scene as this.''

I'm up now and none too steady, but there must be something on my face that gives MacDougall cause to go easy because he slides back to let me out without another word. And with his retreat there returns a trace of the bitter energy I've come to depend upon over the course of my professional career. The sugared blood of pride bringing me back to life.

''Hey, Laird, you want some advice?'' I say as I step out the door.

''Sure, dude.''

''Next time you decide to OD, do it right.''

chapter 43

That night I go through the usual contortions, paper rufflings, and brow furrowings at my desk in a half-hour show of work before pushing back the chair and panning my eyes around the room. The wallpaper of words and faces now so familiar, I can note daily changes in the individual pages: an air pocket enlarging under Ashley's chin next to the door, a tear through ''Search Area Expanded: Exhausted Police Admit Desperation'' that flaps in the radiator's rising air. The Lady's face pushing out from the flat light of the bedside lamp.

At this point it's my habit to fix my sights on the only other interesting object within view. The thermos. But tonight it's impossible to look at, sitting beside the bundle of wet hair that even now drips the water it was pulled from into a widening puddle around it. What I need to do is fit my substance to my surroundings. Coke is fine for sharpening the passing imagery of downtown hustle, but up here it just makes the grotesque more apparent. What's required is a good, old-fashioned depressant. What I need is a drink.

Down I go to the old Lord Byron Cocktail Lounge where it's burlesque night again, the stage lit watery blue although currently empty, the room occupied by a sparse distribution of anesthetized onlookers.

''Double rye-and-ginger, please,'' I tell the bartender as I settle on a stool at the bar. While he pours I look over at where I sat on my first visit, a corner dark enough not to see a hand held by another's on the tabletop or a leg touched beneath it.

''Excuse me,'' I ask when the bartender returns. ''I'm just wondering if you have a certain dancer working