Living with Saraub, she'd gotten used to low-level background chatter whenever she was home. He talked on the phone with Los Angeles a lot. Producers, agents, studio executives, secretaries, and crazy people, who tended to encompa.s.s all of the previous. For as long as she'd known him, he'd been trying to get financing for his doc.u.mentary about the privatization of natural resources, Maginot Lines. Maginot Lines.

Last she'd heard, he was close. But that was Hollywood, he'd once explained. Even the shoeshine guy thinks he's close to a green light. He paid the rent by directing commercials freelance. I[image] New York was his biggest account. He'd been doing it for years now, and the thrill had worn off, but they both agreed that it was significantly better than shoveling coal. New York was his biggest account. He'd been doing it for years now, and the thrill had worn off, but they both agreed that it was significantly better than shoveling coal.

She repositioned Wolverine. This time his name tag faced east. A stained-gla.s.s bird caught her attention. Its red eyes were disproportionately small, beady. "You're weird," she told it. "No offense."

Her hands were spattered with paint, and she chewed on the cuticle of her left index finger. It tasted, well, metallic.

What was Saraub doing now? Had his mother set him up with another Indian dial-a-bride? Was he getting drunk every night alone? Or maybe his best friend Daniel, who never slept with the same woman twice because he didn't want her getting clingy, was taking him to strip clubs.

Did something bad happen here? The mover had asked...How had he known? The mover had asked...How had he known?

She wished she had a little hash. Make that a lot of hash. Old school, three fatties a night back in Nebraska hash. Instead, she turned up the volume on the television-where s.e.x and the City' s.e.x and the City's Carrie Bradshaw was explaining why sleeping with strangers is awesome, and sat Indian style on the inflated AeroBed, with her laptop balanced between her knees. Somebody close by had a wireless account (BettyBoop!), so she Googled "Remaining examples of Chaotic Naturalism."

On the television, Carrie wore a washcloth for a dress and wondered whether men liked freckles. Online, the first entry that popped was a reprinted Cambridge University psychology thesis in a critical journal called Extrapolation: Extrapolation: Diary of the Dead: Casualties of Chaotic Naturalism She moaned. Oh, crud. Seriously? She wanted to shut the laptop, but now that she'd seen the link, there was no turning back. Its ominous t.i.tle would fuel her nightmares unless she investigated. She clicked on it. The article was written in 1924, by a graduate student who'd trained under Carl Jung. She skimmed the introduction, which espoused the merits of alchemy, and started on page two: -ravings of madmen.Edgar Schermerhorn's religion, Chaotic Naturalism, waned more than a decade ago, and only a scant few of his buildings remain. Most people don't know that he was originally an architect, and did not found his cult until after reading Darwin's On The Origin of Species. On The Origin of Species.His theory was founded on the notion that the human mind had evolved into a pattern recognition machine: man perceives cause and effect, and from this, extrapolates reason. For example, plants grow from seeds. This fact is now obvious, but back in 1000 B.C B.C., the idea that wheat could be harvested triggered the Neolithic Revolution and transformed civilization from nomadic to agrarian. Because of pattern recognition, society emerged. Humans transcended their biology and ceased to be animals.But Schermerhorn believed that the human mind was overactive. It miscategorized, and forced patterns where they didn't exist. For example, natural observations a.s.sume that time is linear-Humpty Dumpty can't be uncracked, and returned to the wall-but such narrow perceptions don't account for Yeats' widening gyre, alchemy, particle-wave duality, or time travel.In the stead of realism, Chaotic Naturalists' followers embraced chaos, which they reflected in their breeding practices (like good eugenicists, they abandoned or drowned imperfect newborns); the families they raised (most were bigamists, and it was not illegal for siblings to marry one another); and the buildings they designed (Schermerhorn had many disciples). In eastern Europe, they were hailed as visionaries, and even here in America, they achieved a brief celebrity. It wasn't until the 1880s that their membership dwindled as their buildings crumbled one by one, and popular religious leaders of the Second Great Awakening proclaimed that they deserved it, for having made an enemy of G.o.d.There were twenty-six true Chaotic Naturalist edifices all told.Schermerhorn honed his craft, then returned to America with what he thought was a perfect design. Like the modern Gaudis in Barcelona, they were modeled after nature, not Euclidian geometry. But unlike Gaudi, they borrowed from the snails' spiral, the winged bivalve, the honeysuckle vine, and then broke apart these natural patterns into a disjointed mishmash, as if to prove that not even G.o.d held providence over man.The buildings' tenants were self-selected crews who tended toward emotional instability. With so many neurotic personalities housed under one roof, they fomented each other's afflictions, unleashing the anima and animus. It is Jung's contention that it was this release of unconscious desires, and not the architecture, that is responsible for the wealth of reported Chaotic Naturalist hauntings.Jung has stated that the buildings functioned as repositories for their tenants' repressed desires, and over time, became closed universes unto themselves. Eventually, the tenants' suppressions became animate, not solely to the dreamer who'd dreamed them but to everyone in the building: the singular psychosis reached the critical ma.s.s of collective mania.Mirroring the structures of the buildings that housed them, the tentants' thoughts fragmented, and they went mad. Their waking hours degenerated into Byronesque nightmares. Some took refuge in their opium pipes. Others ceased to go to work or care for their children, claiming that all efforts were futile, because the end of the world was at hand. In many cases, their journal entries started out in pen, and finished in childish, nonsense scrawl.I would never contest the brilliant Mr. Jung's conclusions, but in studying the history of Chaotic Naturalism, I've found cause to attach some qualifications to his theories.As we learned from the Freiberg philosophers, it is anathema to his biology for man to embrace chaos. Even if spirits exist (watching us, haunting us, inhabiting alternate universes that subvert time), granting them entrance through the s.p.a.ces in our minds, or the structure of our homes, and any other doors we might construct, can only result in man's utter destruction.Who is to say that the door, once opened, could ever be closed? And in these alternate worlds, what capacity might man inhabit? Witness? King? Or victim, host, slave. Both author (Schermerhorn) and interpreter (Jung) neglected one thing: because of pattern recognition, mankind has learned that kindness and fellowship are in his best interest. Society evolves slowly, through group effort and the education of its children. A world without pattern recognition would be a cruel, inhuman place. Forgive my sentimentality, but without consequences to our actions, there is no love. And without love, man has no echo or memory. He can never be immortal or transcend his own coil. He returns to the slop with the swine.Happily, few of Schermerhorn's buildings still stand. Each pile of rubble tells the same wretched story. In Dubrovnik, a woman refused to abandon her seaside, Schermerhorn house with her family, despite the likelihood that it would crumble. She insisted that the walls spoke to her and that she had work yet to do. Her husband, recognizing that she'd lost her wits, removed all the sharp objects from the house and stranded her there, hoping that without food or the means to cook it, she'd eventually surrender to the city where he'd moved with the children. When he visited two days later, a plume of black smoke frothed from the lopsided chimney. Inside, he found the coal-fire stove burning blue flames, and her head stuffed inside it. He was not at first able to determine how she'd written her epigraph across the side of the house until he saw her right index finger, which was broken and raw. In the absence of a knife or kindling, she'd carved her last words with her own, still attached index finger bone: eventually surrender to the city where he'd moved with the children. When he visited two days later, a plume of black smoke frothed from the lopsided chimney. Inside, he found the coal-fire stove burning blue flames, and her head stuffed inside it. He was not at first able to determine how she'd written her epigraph across the side of the house until he saw her right index finger, which was broken and raw. In the absence of a knife or kindling, she'd carved her last words with her own, still attached index finger bone: "Gol deschis in sfarit." "Gol deschis in sfarit." Translated from Romanian: Translated from Romanian: The void opens at last. The void opens at last.In Krakow, the Pigeon sisters Gwendolyn and Cecily bludgeoned- Audrey stopped reading. Something squirmed in her stomach. It felt like a worm. She scrolled past the rest of the text and moved on to the lithographs and black-and-white photos at the end. The first depicted a mansion with its slate roof caved in. The spike of a four-poster bed poked out from the rubble. The caption read: "While They Were Sleeping at The Orphanage, Boston, 1887." There were houses in Romania, Croatia, Poland, Boston, and finally, the last photo: The Breviary. Boston, 1887." There were houses in Romania, Croatia, Poland, Boston, and finally, the last photo: The Breviary.

Her mouth went dry, and her heart double-beat inside her chest. Its limestone was white, and its gargoyles sharply carved. 1900, she guessed, when the world had still been new. The caption read: Schermerhorn's Iniquitous Darling. Its foundation is embedded in Harlem's subterranean granite mountain, so despite its slant and impossible geometry, it is the only Chaotic Naturalist structure expected to stand.

She sat back. Oh, boy. She wasn't sure what "iniquitous" meant, but she didn't like the sound. On the television, crazy Carrie Bradshaw decided that some men like freckles, and some don't. But she wasn't going to bother with the men with freckles, because that would be self-destructive, wouldn't it? Except, she couldn't help but bother. Really, she was so depressed about it that she couldn't get out of bed. Why, oh why, didn't the man she kind-of-almost-loved, like freckles?

Audrey scrolled. In next the photo, a crew of blue bloods posed outside The Breviary, all dressed in three-piece suits and Gibson Girl swan-bill corsets. They smiled for the camera without a care in the world. New York's party elite. The caption read: Once the most lavish address in all Manhattan, by the turn of the century, a total of thirty people who'd lived within The Breviary's walls were committed to insane asylums. They fared better than the seven who were murdered, by their own hands or otherwise.

"Bees knees," Audrey moaned, then looked left, right, left, right. Okay, one more time: left-right! left-right! On the television, Carrie the idiot called her redheaded friend to commiserate about how they both had freckles, which clearly made them lepers.

Just then, the buzzer rang. She jumped. The buzzer rang again. Saraub?

She looked like c.r.a.p! Her hair was a mess. The buzzer rang a third time. Zzzzt-zzzzt! Zzzzt-zzzzt! It sounded like an outdoor bug killer. She smelled under her arms: musky. Good grief, had she even showered today? It sounded like an outdoor bug killer. She smelled under her arms: musky. Good grief, had she even showered today?

Now he wasn't buzzing. He was knocking. Polite little taps. She jumped up. "Coming!" Then she looked through the peephole, and stopped shivering. "Oh," she mumbled.

A pet.i.te redhead in her early thirties grinned up at her, like she could see Audrey's blinking eye through the backward telescope.

Audrey swung the door wide. Immediately, awkwardly, the woman stuck out her hand for a shake, and poked Audrey in the stomach. It didn't even slow her down. "Hi! I'm Jayne! I live across the hall!"

Audrey didn't know what to say. Except at cheap motels, where she'd known better than to answer the door, neighbors had never dropped by. Was this a joke? Was this woman a Jew for Jesus?

Jayne waited for Audrey to speak. Audrey waited for Jayne to grow wings and fly away. Her hair was the phony color of a fire engine, and she'd shaped it into a chin-length bob. Her mouth and teeth protruded, horse-like, from her face. She had three gold studs in one ear and two in the other. The skin surrounding them was swollen, like she hadn't worn jewelry in a long time and had recently popped open her skin with the sharp ends of her earring posts to get them to fit.

"I'll bet you had a long day," Jayne said. Her voice was sandy. She smelled like fertilizer and smoke-Winston cigarettes.

"I wanted to say hi. Also, I thought you might like these." Jayne thrust a pile of glossy papers in Audrey's direction.

Audrey accepted them with a tight-lipped grin. She was sure they had something to do with Hari Krishnas, the evil Freemason conspiracy, or rescuing cats from cruel and unusual juggling. But no, she realized when she glanced down. Just take-out menus. Chinese, Indian, Greek, and Middle Eastern.

Jayne bopped her head up and down. "I figured...You know. You'd probably be tired. I heard it was somebody young moving here, and I thought, thank G.o.d. They're all, like a hundred years old, you know?"

"They are?"

Jayne puckered her lips and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, in what Audrey could only guess was an imitation of a dead person, halfway decayed. "Fossils! Bat-s.h.i.t crazy, to boot. This one guy downstairs, Mr. Galton, only ever wears a plain, white mask. What is that? f.u.c.king creepy." She leaned in close, and lowered her voice, "And 14D's a taxidermist. Evvie Waugh. Animals all over the walls. Basically, we live with Michael Myers and Norman Bates."

Audrey lowered her voice, too. "I thought...I haven't seen any of them, but they seem strange. I feel like they've been watching me."

Jayne nodded. "Totally. That's because they are watching you. They were born and raised in The Breve, and they've got nothing else to do but sit around and spy on the young people. I swear to G.o.d, sometimes I think they peek at me through the opposite end of my peephole. But they're harmless, and my place is dirt cheap. I moved in three months ago, and if I hadn't found it, I would have wound up with a twenty-year-old rich-girl-hipster roommate in Brooklyn. And not even near the park! Totally embarra.s.sing. So, I'm never leaving. When I die, they can bury me under the floor."

Audrey chortled. A little at the delivery, a lot at the messenger. "Sorry," she said.

"Why? I'm very funny. I'm doing stand up at the Laugh Factory next week-my first real gig!" As she spoke, Jayne bounced against the doorframe with her hip like she was made of rubber. Back and forth. Back and forth. Audrey couldn't figure out if it was a nervous habit or a happy one. Maybe both.

"You should come to one of my shows. I've got like, three friends, but they're all married, so they don't count. I hate it when they make their kids call me Auntie Jayne, and what the h.e.l.l do I care if they s.h.i.t green or brown? Anyway, if you come, I'll comp you. That's what it's called: comping, for complimentary. But that's not my real job. The rest of the time I'm in sales at L'Oreal. Westchester office, so it's a backward commute. They laid off half the staff last month. Everybody was wandering out of their cubicles carrying cardboard boxes and crying. I hope I never cry when I get fired from a job I don't even like. I mean, what's the matter with them? You'd think they weren't going to get unemployment. Anyway, if you ever need makeup or whatever, just shout. I'll give you samples and s.h.i.t. Oh, I hope you don't mind that I keep cursing. Do you mind? I've got a real potty mouth."

Audrey shook her head. "No, I don't mind."

"You're awesome!" Jayne declared. In her excitement, she hip-checked herself against the door hard enough to hurt, and her bounce-back wasn't nearly as resilient. She limped a little but kept smiling.

Audrey shook her head. Was this chick for real? Then again, n.o.body else had come knocking, so she decided to play along. "You're awesome, too!" she said, then chuckled, because she hadn't used the word "awesome" since...ever.

Jayne clasped her hand and squeezed, but didn't shake, like they were New Age hippies practicing touch therapy. Her skin was surprisingly cold. "Okay! It's so good to meet you! I'm on my way to a date. It's new, but I think I love him. Will you have dinner with me tomorrow? Let's have dinner! Anyway-oh!" She dropped Audrey's hand and ran back into her apartment across the way before saying more. Audrey fought with a sudden case of giggles. Just barely, she won.

When Jayne returned, she was holding a twelve-ounce minibottle of Moet & Chandon. "I've got, like, ten of these. L'Oreal Christmas parties-they hand them out like cards. Too bad they don't give bonuses. Welcome to the building!"

Before Audrey could say thank you, thank you, Jayne was heading down the hall in beat-up New Balance running shoes. She didn't jog. Instead she walked really fast, like those middle-aged ladies who circled the Central Park Reservoir in the early mornings wearing nylon track suits. Determined as ducks, and just as graceless. Jayne was heading down the hall in beat-up New Balance running shoes. She didn't jog. Instead she walked really fast, like those middle-aged ladies who circled the Central Park Reservoir in the early mornings wearing nylon track suits. Determined as ducks, and just as graceless.

After Audrey closed the door, she opened the bubbly, sipping straight from the bottle to keep the suds from spilling. She was relieved to find that the "Betty Boop!" wireless connection had faded, and when she tried to refresh "Diary of the Dead: Casualties of Chaotic Naturalism," it was gone.

So she did her best to put the article out of her mind and watched as the Night Court Night Court theme song played. As she sipped Jayne's bubbly, she wondered when she'd last made a friend aside from her boyfriend, Saraub, or her drug dealer, Billy Epps. She reached back into her memory as far as she could and realized that the answer was never. theme song played. As she sipped Jayne's bubbly, she wondered when she'd last made a friend aside from her boyfriend, Saraub, or her drug dealer, Billy Epps. She reached back into her memory as far as she could and realized that the answer was never.

5.

The Piano Has Been Drinking ZZZZ!-ZZZZ!.

After a big move and twelve ounces of fizz, Audrey dozed. The story line from Night Court Night Court entered her dream. A smarmy lawyer with short, slicked-back black hair hunkered over her piano. He wore an old-fashioned notch-collared shirt and three-piece suit, and when he winked, he reminded her of all the charmers Betty had dated on the road. She'd always been surprised when they got tired of her bulls.h.i.t, and walked. entered her dream. A smarmy lawyer with short, slicked-back black hair hunkered over her piano. He wore an old-fashioned notch-collared shirt and three-piece suit, and when he winked, he reminded her of all the charmers Betty had dated on the road. She'd always been surprised when they got tired of her bulls.h.i.t, and walked.

"Have you ever built a door, darling?" he asked. His eyes were dilated like he was high, and in her dream, she smiled, because "darling" was a pretty word.

ZZZZ!-ZZZZ!.

"Shouldn't be hard for a bright girl like you," he said, then turned back to the Steinway and began to bang out "Heart and Soul": -I beg to be adored, Heart and Soul!

His voice was low-pitched and strangely plural like that of a locust.

"I tumbled overboard..." His face hollowed as he played, and she saw now that his chin was dark with stubble, and the circles under his eyes were deep.

I fell in love with you madly! he sang, then he leaped up from the piano bench and ran at her with open arms. His voice got louder as he charged: he sang, then he leaped up from the piano bench and ran at her with open arms. His voice got louder as he charged:

"BECAUSE YOU HELD ME TIGHT!"

She woke with a start. A man, in the room with her! A man, coming after her! But then, the television played a courtroom scene. A laugh track crescendoed with John Laroquette humping the blond defense attorney, the bailiff, the judge, then the camera. Equal-opportunity hump.

She rubbed her eyes. A dream. But the man in her dream had been different from the one on television, hadn't he?

ZZZZ!-ZZZZ!.

She spun in all directions and peered down the hall toward the front door. What the h.e.l.l was that? A plague of locusts? Was this her tiny studio in Omaha? Saraub's place on the Upper East Side? Oh, right, The Breviary.

ZZZZ!-ZZZZ!.

She staggered out from the den and down the long, dark hall. Felt her way with her hands. What was making that noise? Still groggy from sleep and champagne, her thinking was murky.

ZZZZ!-ZZZZ!.

She jumped, then sighed, and said aloud, "s.h.i.t-all." The intercom. She'd ordered Tandori Chicken from one of Jayne's menus a half hour ago, before falling asleep. She pressed the TALK b.u.t.ton and got staticky feedback in reply. "h.e.l.lo?" she asked.

The she pressed LISTEN, and heard the Haitian guy with the 1950s uniform: "blah-hiss-blah-guy-blah-up?

Her stomach growled. "Send him up!" she said.

The bell rang a few minutes later. She swung the door wide without looking through the peephole. Saraub blinked at her. She blinked back.

"Hey!" she said. A rush of warmth filled her cheeks: You know, I just had the craziest dream, You know, I just had the craziest dream, she nearly told him. she nearly told him.

He leaned into the door. His breath was bad: whiskey and dog biscuits. He was a big guy; that meant a lot a lot of whiskey and dog biscuits. "Want my piano back," he slurred. of whiskey and dog biscuits. "Want my piano back," he slurred.

"What?" she asked.

He balled his fists into the pockets of his wax rain jacket. "You took my Frank Millers, too, didn't you? I f.u.c.king knew you'd be petty like that!"

She'd been about to step aside and let him in. Let me show you Wolverine's new home! Let me show you Wolverine's new home! She'd planned to say, and then, by implication: She'd planned to say, and then, by implication: Let's both live here! Better yet, Oops, my bad! This place freaks me out. Let's both live someplace else! Let's both live here! Better yet, Oops, my bad! This place freaks me out. Let's both live someplace else!

"Are you tight?" she asked.

"I want my piano...and my Batman. Batman. Just because you don't like something doesn't mean I can't have it. You were always doing that-taking my stuff and moving it when I wasn't around. Bruce Wayne is awesome. You have no idea!" Just because you don't like something doesn't mean I can't have it. You were always doing that-taking my stuff and moving it when I wasn't around. Bruce Wayne is awesome. You have no idea!"

She looked at her bare feet. This was true. She'd thrown away the "Bless This Home" welcome mat he'd carried back from CVS Pharmacy (Come on! Those things are breeding grounds for bacteria!), (Come on! Those things are breeding grounds for bacteria!), and she'd hidden his favorite cutoff sweatshirt, because its red color had faded to pink. When he'd worn it, he'd looked gayer than a Lucky Cheng's drag queen. But how do you tell the man you love something like that? Kinder just to hide the evidence. Well, maybe not kinder. Maybe just easier. and she'd hidden his favorite cutoff sweatshirt, because its red color had faded to pink. When he'd worn it, he'd looked gayer than a Lucky Cheng's drag queen. But how do you tell the man you love something like that? Kinder just to hide the evidence. Well, maybe not kinder. Maybe just easier.

"I don't have your comic books. They're in the crate under the futon. Sober up, you turkey," she said, then closed the door on him. He kicked it back open. The wood shivered as he shoved past her and headed down the hall.

Countless times growing up, men had busted down the front door, looking for rent money or a fight with Betty. She hadn't liked it then, and she didn't like it now. Something squirmed in her stomach (the dust she'd swallowed?). It felt like a worm, writhing in bile. She chased him deeper into the apartment and shoved him from behind. He lurched. She pushed again. Hard. He stumbled but kept walking. She'd never been so angry in her whole life. She didn't know she had that kind of anger inside of her. She wanted to throttle him, just a little, with her hands or a knife, or the water in the tub. "Get out! Don't you ever do that! Not ever!"

He opened doors along the way. Room after room. Not a stick of furniture in sight. Just the new bedroom curtains blowing in the breeze, and metallic white paint. Their emptiness shamed her. Like the apartment was her life, and he was peeking inside it and finding nothing.

"What are you going to do?" she asked as he stumbled into the den.

Saraub kicked the air mattress aside. It slid across the wood and into the turret. The vibrations unbalanced Wolverine, who fell. "Hey!" Audrey cried. "Watch it!"

He was too drunk to notice. "I'm taking my piano," he said, but he stepped too wide, and stumbled into the Steinway's closed lid to keep from falling.

Audrey raced across the room and righted Wolverine. He'd lost some potting soil, but was otherwise unharmed. She held on to him for just a second longer than necessary, then placed him on the floor, so he didn't fall again. "You're the one who had them move it. How do you think you're going to get it out? Are you going to carry a piano on your back?"

Saraub wedged his shoulder against the baby grand. Its wood was polished and black, and its ivories shone. She came to the other side of the behemoth. Thank you. This piano is probably the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me, and I'm grateful, Thank you. This piano is probably the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me, and I'm grateful, she wanted to say. she wanted to say. So stop being such a jerk! So stop being such a jerk!

Then something happened. She felt like she was on a ship. Everything was moving. Even her feet. The piano began to slide. Its legs groaned in protest. The floor groaned, too, as a layer of its varnish peeled back, and the wood began to splinter. Saraub was pushing the piano!

She shoved back, in the opposite direction. "You'll break its legs!" she shouted.

He kept going. Shoulder against its bulk, legs spread, knees bent, she pushed back with all her might. This was crazy. This was petty, like those families at the trailer parks back in Hinton and Sioux City and Yuma, who couldn't be bothered to loan each other a cup of milk or a few extra bucks. They were cheap with each other. She'd always figured that rich people knew better, or could at least afford to pretend they did.

"Stop it!" she shouted. "Just stop it!" He didn't move. She heard him groan, but didn't look up. Didn't want to give him the advantage. She loved this piano. She loved him, too. Had she been wrong in that?

The piano slid away from her and pulled open the hole in the rotten wood floor. She pushed harder. She was winning!

"f.u.c.k!" he shouted.

"Wha-?" She looked up, worried he'd hurt himself, but no. He'd simply let go. Already he was out of the den, staggering down the long hall. He lurched from one side to the other, steadying himself with his hands, like he'd downed a whole bottle in an hour, and the liquor was. .h.i.tting him harder with every second that pa.s.sed. He wasn't just drunk; he was blotto.

She took a few fast breaths to keep from crying, then chased him. Her bare feet slapped against cold, hard wood, but didn't echo. All the doors were open, like the empty rooms were watching.

He was waiting at the end of the hall.

"I didn't take your comics, and if you-huh-huh"-she panted-"if you want the piano so bad, you can have it."

He shook his head but didn't leave. She waited for his apology. It didn't come. She tried to make it easier for him. "You looked gay in that shirt. That's why I hid it. I didn't like people thinking you were gay. It embarra.s.sed me." Then she heard herself, and winced. This was her idea of an olive branch?

He'd drunk so much that his eyes were dilated and black. It reminded her of the man in the three-piece suit from her dream. A chill ran from the tip of her neck to the small of her back. "Not my pro'lem," he slurred.

"What?"

"Tapping yourself-" He imitated her, bending down low enough that they were eye to eye, and slapping his thighs. The sound was a m.u.f.fled whip: "One leg-" Whack! Whack!

"The'other leg-" Whack! Whack!

"One leg-" Whack! Whack!

"The'other-" Whack! Whack!

He stood tall again, holding the wall for balance, and kept talking. "-Moving stuff when I wasn't looking, like a spook..." He glared at her, his jaw set firm and furious, and she knew that whatever was coming next was going to be bad. She squinted, like not looking directly at him might soften the blow.