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"Oh, yeah," I say. "Never better."
I'm still staring at the new guy, and Kevlar finally gets the hint.
"This is Michael. He's & a friend of Morningstar's. He just dropped in."
A friend of Morningstar's? What did that make him, I wonder, a demon? A chief
commander of Hell? My intestines twist at that thought, so I'm really happy
when I can speak without a squeak: "Pleased to meet you."
I don't bother with the whole handshake thing and instead look around the
kitchen for something to eat. Despite everything, my stomach is growling.
"As sala'amu alaikum," he says, giving me the traditional greeting of one
Muslim to another.
"I'm Jewish," I lie. I hate when people assume something about me because of
the color of my skin. The kitchen, like this whole place, is a mess. There's
nothing on the counters except rotting take-away boxes with most of the food
still inside. "Merciful Allah, Kevlar. What did you do, just buy this stuff
and not eat it?"
Kevlar shrugs. "I forget to eat."
"Yeah." A major hazard of any addiction, I imagine. I push aside a carton of
curried beef and try not to notice if anything scuttles out from under the
box.
"So what's going on?" I ask, giving a meaningful glance in the direction of
the bedroom/living room. I get the sense that I've interrupted a private
conversation, but I'd rather irritate these two than go barging in on Satan
and the Antichrist.
"It's been quiet," Kevlar says. "She's still out."
"Victory sure doesn't spend a lot of time in her head," I say, leaning against
the counter to take some pressure off my leg.
Kevlar snorts out a little laugh. "Would you?"
Michael remains silent during our exchange. His eyes are intent on me, though,
making me feel profoundly watched.
"Can I help you?" I finally ask.
"Maybe. You're Mouse?" I give him a suspicious look, but he continues as
though I'd agreed. "Can you get a message to Deidre?"
"Deidre? Deidre McMannus?"
He nods.
Out of the blue this guy brings up the name of the woman who sent me to
prison. "Oh, sure, we're best friends."
"Yes, I remember that," he says, apparently unaware of this thing we call
sarcasm. "I need you to tell her what's happened. I've lost Amariah. She
should know."
"Amariah?"
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"Our daughter."
"Deidre has a daughter?" I mean, I knew she was pregnant. I'd read about it in
the newspapers in prison. It was kind of a scandal. After all she'd done to
save the world from a nuisance like me, she ended up being an unwed mother. In
America there were laws against that sort of thing. She'd been disgraced. I
should have gloated, but I never did. Despite everything, I liked Deidre.
She's a crackerjack thinker, one in a million. Yeah, we ended up enemies, but,
well, I should have figured she'd be the one to catch me. Nobody else could
have. Nobody else ever even came close.
But a baby? I just never thought she'd go through with it. I didn't see her as
the mothering sort. And with this guy? I had to say I was a bit disappointed.
Sure, he was classically handsome, if that sort of thing was important to you,
but, really, where was his style, zip, brains?
Michael stares at me expectantly. "Are you talking to her? What does she say?"
"She says you're a big loser, and she's breaking up with you."
He looks crestfallen for a second; then his face turns into a deep scowl.
"Breaking up? We're not together."
Thank Allah for small miracles. I should have known Dee would have more sense
than to stay with a lug like this guy.
"I don't have the LINK anymore," I say. "I can probably get a message to her,
but it'll have to be through mouse.net. Do you know if she still has a mouse
account?"
He gives me a baffled look. Not a tech-head. I wonder how Dee can stand
knowing she let this guy seduce her even once. Hopefully Amariah inherited her
brains.
"I'm sure she does. Dee would keep a backup for emergencies. She's good like
that," I say when he doesn't answer. "I'll do what I can."
"Thank you," he says.
Then we stare at each other until Kevlar clears his throat. "Maybe you should
go call her," he suggests.
"Sure," I say. "I'll just step outside. You know, for a little privacy."
I haul myself up onto a wall built in the Middle Ages. The stone is wet and
cold, but feels pretty good against my bruised body.
The basilica of Sacre Coeur is perfectly framed by the buildings on either [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]