Silk - Caitlin R. Kiernan [64]
“I’d be a shit,” she’d said, “if I just walked out on them like that.”
Keith frowned, sighed and slumped back into the booth. Mort was busy shredding a napkin.
They’d been talking for an hour, talking in tight little circles, figure eights, Möbius-strip conversations, and Mort was almost no help at all. Keith knew that he wanted it just as much, wanted to play again, to plug himself into Daria Parker’s wild energy.
“They’re not the ones you should be worrying about,” he said and lit another cigarette.
“They’re my friends….”
“Sure, they’re your friends. But you know that they’re nowhere near as good as you are, right? You’ve admitted that much already.”
And then Daria Parker had looked at him, had nailed him to that moment and the back of the booth with her green eyes like flawed emeralds, and she’d said, “Yeah, I said that. But I also know that your arm’s got a habit.”
“Whoopee-shit,” he’d said, feeling the old anger start to rise, not wanting to see its face. “I guess that makes you Sherlock-fucking-Holmes.”
“That sort of thing doesn’t stay secret in a town like this. All I’m sayin’ is, I want to know if it’s something you got a handle on, or if it’s got you. You’re asking me to ditch some really good guys. I think I have a right to ask.”
“You some kinda saint?” And Keith knew how close he was to blowing it, blowing it like a cheap hustler, but the words were too close to the surface to push back down. “I had a lot of nasty shit the last few months…”
“Just answer her, Keith,” and that was only the half of what Mort was saying; the rest was there in his face, coiled like twine and baling wire.
Keith took a long drag off his Lucky and let the smoke out slowly through his nostrils; the haze made it easier for him to match her cut-glass scrutiny. Blink, fucker, and she’s got your number.
“Yeah,” he’d said, cool and calm as well water. “It’s under control, okay? I just need to get back to work. It’s not a problem.”
And she’d nodded, a slow and wary nod, and finished her beer.
“I’m gonna think about this for a couple of days,” and the beer bottle had thunked back down onto the table in front of her, glass the color of honey from wildflowers and amber beads of sweat.
“Hey, that’s fair. I’m not asking you to make a decision right this minute.”
“I just gotta think about it, that’s all.”
“You got my number at the shop,” Mort had said and offered her his hand as she slipped out of the booth. “Thanks, Daria,” he said when she shook it.
“You won’t be sorry,” Keith said, as if the deal was as good as done, adding the smoldering butt of his cigarette to the overflowing ashtray.
“We’ll see,” she’d said, quick half smile, and walked away into the night outside the Cave.
Mort caught up with him three days later, found him in front of Liggotti’s Pawn and Fine Jewelry, staring in at his guitar like a child looking in at candy he’ll never taste or toys he’ll never have the chance to break.
“She said yes,” and Keith had put one hand against the storefront glass, leaning closer. “She called me this afternoon and said yes. Just give her a few days to break the news to her band. They have a gig next Wednesday, and she doesn’t want to leave them hanging.”
“I knew she’d say yes,” Keith whispered, smiling, feeling something warm spreading through his soul that wasn’t junk, and he’d said, “So, you gonna lend me the money to get her out of there?”
He’d waited almost a minute for Mort’s reply, sixty seconds full of traffic and dry wind between buildings.
“No, man. I’m just gonna let you get up there and play with dick.”
Keith had grinned and stepped back, away from the window filled with musical instruments and typewriters and portable televisions, all indentured for a few bucks and a yellow hock slip. He’d been standing watch over the Gibson for days, had been threatened with the cops twice by old man Liggotti and the Korean woman who worked for him, threats of jail if he didn’t stop standing around staring through their window all day.
“I’ll have to go by