Thomas Noble spoke of the winter dance often. Some days she merely told him to fuck off, others she accused him of plotting to spike the punch then do wicked things once she had passed out cold. She called him a sexual predator and he scratched his head and pushed his frames up his nose.
The first day of December he brought her a bunch of bluebells he’d been saving. Long dead, a sorry sight but the sentiment was there. He biked the four miles through icy roads and up their carpeted driveway. By the time he arrived mild frostbite had set in and he was seeing stars. Hal sat him in front of the fire till he thawed.
“I won’t dance with you,” she said as they watched the flames. “I won’t kiss you or hug you. I won’t hold your good hand. I won’t dress pretty and I may not even speak to you for most of the night.”
“Okay,” he said, a slight chatter in his teeth.
From the doorway she saw Hal and Robin smiling and she flipped them off.
The next Sunday, after church, Hal drove them to the strip mall in Briarstown. Ten stores in a neat row, from Subway to Cash Advance. She found women’s clothing in a place called Cally’s. She rifled through rails of polyester, held a sequined gown to the light and saw it bald in at least five places. “It’s like being in Paris.”
Hal pointed to a yellow dress and she asked him what the fuck he knew about fashion. She pointed to his boots and faded jeans, his plaid shirt and wide hat and declared him a scarecrow.
They circled the store three times. Robin brought over gaudy finds, beaming as he held them against her then running off when she asked him if he wanted his sister to dress like an eighties streetwalker.
Cally herself came out, read the mood and retreated to the counter. She wore a beehive and platforms and hid twenty surplus pounds beneath a wide belt. Hal smiled at her and she returned a smile in sympathy.
Duchess found it at the back, stopped still and stared. Then, slowly, she reached out and picked it up. She placed the hat on her head and felt her stomach flip, her mind on Billy Blue, her blood. Her place.
It was a thing of beauty, leather studs, brim just right, the kind of hat an outlaw would kill for.
Hal appeared behind. “Suits you.”
She took it off and checked the tag. “Jesus.”
“Stetson,” Hal said, like that explained the eye-watering price.
She would not ask for it. It was too fancy, but still, she glanced back longingly as she walked back to the dresses.
“It’ll have to be this piece of shit then.” She snatched the yellow dress from the rail.
Hal made to speak, to tell her that was the very dress he’d picked out near an hour ago. She glared and he thought better of it.
* * *
Cuddy set up the meet. A burger joint just south of Bitterwater, Bill’s, all fading red paint and air of going out of business, handwritten signs told of three-dollar specials. It was empty, Walk rolled down the window as he headed to the drive-thru.
The guy was old, Hispanic, hairnet and apron and furrowed brow, the kind of old man that took shit from punk kids then picked up their trash like a tip. Walk checked the name tag, “Luis.”
Luis clocked Walk, then pointed to the lot.
Walk drove over and parked, got out and sat on the hood. Ten minutes till he came, stooped walk, shuffling feet.
“I only got five minutes break,” Luis said.
“Thank you for meeting me.”
“Any friend of Cuddy.”
Luis had occupied the cell beside Vincent’s for eight years. Armed robbery, the last in a long line of crimes. Tattoos on his arm spoke of affiliation, Walk guessed he was long past all that now.
“You ask and I answer. And then I get on. The boss man, he doesn’t like cops around his joint.”
“Fair enough. Tell me about Vincent King.”
Luis lit a cigarette, kept his back to the windows and fanned the smoke as he blew it. “The only guy I ever met who didn’t say he was set up.”
Walk laughed.
“Serious. He didn’t say much of anything.”
“He didn’t have friends in there.”
“No. Not Vincent. He didn’t even take his yard time, man. And the pudding cups.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pudding. The food is dog shit, the pudding isn’t. I seen a man get stabbed for his pudding cup. Vincent gave me his every day.”
Walk wondered what to do with that one.
“You don’t get it, cop. He ate just enough. He said just enough. Shit, he breathed just enough.”
“Enough to what?”
“Stay alive. No existence beyond the fundamental. He stayed alive to serve his time. And he made fucking sure it was the worst time he could serve. No TV, radio. No nothing. Would’ve spent his time in solitary if Cuddy had let him.”
Luis held the smoke deep.
“He had trouble in there,” Walk said.
“Everyone does at some point. He had a girl, right? Outside. Others talked about her, maybe that was his weakness. Maybe thinking of her with someone else. Jealousy, I tell you, inside it’ll drive a man crazy. He dealt with it well enough, made sure others left him be after.”
“But they still came for him. I’ve seen the scars.”
“The only enemy that guy had was himself.”
“How do you mean?”
“He asked me to get him a blade. No big deal. I figured he wanted to settle up with someone.”
“He didn’t?”
“Same day I gave it to him I heard the guards hollering. Ain’t unusual, but this was Vincent’s cell so I went up to see.”
“And?”
Walk watched his color drain.
“Messy, man. Cut himself to ribbons. Deep, serious cuts. He didn’t hit the arteries. He didn’t want to die, just to suffer.”
Walk let that sit a while, found himself unable to speak, throat tight like he could barely breathe.
“We done?”
“I need
