Удушье (Choke)

back to the woman for details, her belly button, the curve of her hipbones. My only gripe is the way Denny draws women is not the way they look for real. In Denny's ver­sion, the cheesy thighs on some woman will look rock-solid. The bagged-out eyes on some other woman will become clear and toned underneath.

'You got any cash left over, dude?' Denny says. 'I don't want her to move on just yet.'

But I'm broke, and the girl moves on to the next guy down along the stage.

'Let's see, Picasso,' I tell him.

And Denny scratches under his eye and leaves a big smudge of soot. Then he tips the legal pad enough for me to see a naked woman with her hands over her eyes, sleek and tensing every muscle tight, none of her looks trashed by gravity or ultraviolet light or poor nutrition. She's smooth but soft. Flexed but relaxed. She's a total physical impossibility.

'Dude,' I say, 'you made her look too young.'

The next patient is Cherry Daiquiri again, coming back around, not smiling this time, sucking hard on the inside of one cheek and asking me, 'This mole I have? You sure it's cancer? I mean, I don't know, but how scared should I be . . . ?'

Without looking at her, I hold up one finger. This is interna­tional sign language for Please wait. The doctor will see you shortly.

'No way are her ankles that thin,' I tell Denny. 'And her ass is way bigger than you have there.'

I lean over to see what Denny's doing, then look down the stage to the last patient. 'You need to make her knees lumpier,' I say.

The downstage dancer gives me a filthy look.

Denny just keeps sketching. He makes her eyes huge. He fixes her split ends. He gets everything all wrong.

'Dude,' I say. 'You know, you're not a very good artist.'

I say, 'For serious, dude, I don't see that at all.'

Denny says, 'Before you go trash the whole world, you need to be calling your sponsor, bad.' He says, 'And in case you still give a shit, your mom said you need to read what's in her dictio­nary.'

To Cherry crouching there in front of us, I say, 'If you're really serious about saving your life, I'm going to have to talk to you someplace private.'

'No, not dictionary,' Denny says, 'it's diary. In case you ever wonder where you really come from, it's all in her diary.'

And Cherry dangles one leg over the edge and starts climbing down off the stage.

I ask him, what's in my mom's diary?

And drawing his little pictures, seeing the impossible, Denny says, 'Yeah, diary. Not dictionary, dude. The stuff about your real dad is in her diary.'

Chapter 17

At St. Anthony's, the front desk girl

yawns behind her hand, and when I ask if maybe she wants to go get a cup of coffee, then she looks at me sideways and says, 'Not with you.'

And really, I'm not hitting on her. I'll watch her desk long enough for her to go get some coffee. This isn't a come-on.

Really.

I say, 'Your eyes look tired.'