"Hey, Marx is a fine old name of ancient Eiru. The group just doesn't ask me to sing 'cause they're jealous of my voice."
"Like I'm jealous of Maureen's way with men."
Jo hung up and stared at the phone again. She felt warm just from talking to him. Maybe David was The One.
She thought The Cave was a good suggestion. It called itself chemical-free, which was a euphemism for drug-free, which was a euphemism for alcohol and tobacco free. God knows, they served coffee. She could use a little of that particular psychoactive alkaloid right now.
She'd made fun of David, still asleep at four in the afternoon, but she felt drained. And a little sore in assorted private places. And very, very happy with some portions of her life.
So what if Maureen was mad? Mad Maureen was mad. It had a certain symmetry.
The phone bleeped, quietly, an electronic purr intruding into her thoughts. It was probably Mom calling back, not about to let her own daughter get in the last word of an argument. Either that, or one of those click-and-an-empty-line calls she guessed was a computerized dialer that had hooked another fish first. Screw Verizon.
That was an interesting thought. God knows, they were phallic enough, with all those thousands of telephone poles.
The phone insisted.
"Hello?"
"Maureen?"
"No, this is Jo. Maureen's out, right now. Can I take a message?"
"Uh, this is Brian, Brian Albion. I walked her home last night, and I wanted to check to see everything was okay. She wasn't feeling well when I left."
Jo filled in the words he didn't say. Like, she was stone drunk, and he wasn't sure she could find the pot.
"You the guy who told her how to fix her Toyota?"
"Yeah. When a car like that refuses to start in wet weather, it's usually the ignition."
He sounded saner than she'd figured, from Maureen's rant. So much for witches and warlocks.
"Well, you were right. She's out driving it now."
Jo paused, gears starting to mesh and turn in her head.
"She won't be back for an hour or so, I guess. She really didn't say. Give me your number and I'll tell her you called."
"Uh, I'm going out again. Maybe I'll call back later."
Meaning he didn't have a phone and was calling from the bus station. Or was married. Jo's sixth sense about men kicked in. She'd heard that one before. Still, he could serve as a diversion.
"Try about six or six-thirty. We usually eat around then, and she doesn't like to miss the news. We'll probably be going out again later."
"Okay, I'll do that. You're sure she's fine? She was acting a little strange last night."
"Brian, Maureen always acts a little strange. That's who she is. She said some nice things about you, though. That car has been a bitch."
All true statements. Thus she washed her hands of his future problems. It was time to cast a fly over the trout.
"Uh, Brian? Do you like Celtic music?"
"Yes, if it's good. More the traditional performances than the modern fusion stuff, I guess."
"So does Maureen. That's where we're going tonight, a place called The Cave. I think she wants to talk to you. Be polite and she might invite you along."
"Thanks."
She set the phone down and stared at it. Interesting. So that was a Welsh mage. He sounded like a normal human being, worse luck for him.
Jo had been raised to believe in lightning rods. Based on a random sample of Maureen's comments, this Brian character could be in for a rough evening. And it was just the sort of thing Maureen would do, meeting the poor bastard in public. The Cave could be a safe chance to sort things out.
Whatever.
That was his problem. If he came along, Maureen might not spit quite as much venom. She could calm down even faster than she blew up. Hell, supply a substitute and she might not kick and scream at her "loss" of David, might even start to realize she'd never had him in the first place. Just inviting a man back to the apartment once didn't give her ownership.
Put her and this Brian character together in a public place, Maureen would probably act normal. Jo had seen it happen before. The paranoia seemed to be a one-on-one thing.
And maybe the magic of the fairies would work where modern psychiatric medicine fell short. A man who could faith-heal a Toyota might sort out the tangled web of Maureen's brain.
Or maybe he was just as far around the corner and would never notice.
Whatever.
If they could ever get Maureen's head sorted out, the next question was cutting back on her drinking. God help her if they tried to work on both at once.
One problem at a time.
She couldn't throw Maureen out. It would be like kicking a puppy.
A puppy with a .38 Special.
Chapter Seven
Dé hAoine. It meant Friday in Irish Gaelic. Brian thought it wasn't a bad name for a Celtic garage band. The group's lead singer had explained it in his opening spiel: Friday had been the only night the band could practice when they'd first started playing together, so the name just sort of stuck--the Friday group.
The Cave was also a fitting name. He'd done a bit of recon after Maureen's terse agreement to meet him here, checking on exits and security. The club was a barn of a place, an old storefront right off the streamside parking lot behind the post office. It smelled musty, like it probably got a bit wet at spring high water. The dominant theme was black: black walls, black ceiling of exposed steel joists and concrete, black carpet, black tables and chairs and snack-bar. They'd even slapped black paint on the outsides of the pinball machines and pool tables in the game-room. The interior decorator hadn't spent a hell of a lot of time on the color schedule.
Apparently it was
