Silk - Caitlin R. Kiernan [69]
Keith pushed his way to the booth, icebreaker through sweaty flesh and T-shirt shoulders.
“Hey,” he said, barked the word like a stoned pit bull. “I want you guys to meet Tammi, here.” And he stepped to one side so she could stand next to him.
“Tammi with an i,” the blond girl said, voice as perkystiff as her hair, lipstick smeared and obviously very drunk; Niki looked down at her hands, embarrassed flush, feeling the tension like lightning-charged air crackling dry against her skin.
“Well, I’m simply thrilled,” Theo said, bouncing-ball parody of Tammi’s drawl, and offered the girl her hand. “Hows about you, Dar? Ain’t you simply thrilled, too?”
Daria, almost as tall as Keith from where she stood, nodded but kept her eyes on him.
“You guys go on back, Mort,” she said, checking the time by her big ugly wristwatch, her voice filled with deceiving calm. “We’ll be there in a few minutes,” and Mort, always happy to miss the next messy installment in this soap opera, pushed Theo out of the booth.
“Oh damn,” Theo said, mocking eyes doe wide. “Just when I was about to ask Tammi where she finds that simply marvy shade of eye shadow—”
“You just shut up and keep walking,” Mort said, and they were gone, one step toward the stage and swallowed immediately in the press.
“What’s her problem?” Tammi asked, and Niki cringed, wishing Keith wasn’t blocking her escape from the booth, wishing that she could have followed Mort and Theo backstage.
“Do you think you can make it through the fucking set?” Daria asked, completely ignoring Tammi.
Keith rubbed his shabby goatee, looked down at Tammi and grinned, then turned slowly back to Daria.
“You think I’m too fucked up to play, don’t you?”
No reply from Daria, her original question not brushed aside, and Niki felt herself sagging deeper into the Naugahyde, wished she could melt and slip liquid from her seat, pool unnoticed beneath the table.
“I’m cool, Dar,” he said. “I’m fine. So lay off, okay?”
“Yeah,” Daria answered. “Whatever you say, Keith. Just don’t screw this show up,” and then, to Niki, “You gonna stick around?”
“Oh yeah, sure,” Niki said and leaned way back so Daria could step over; her Docs left two deep prints in the shiny red upholstery, scars that would heal themselves as slowly as rising dough. Daria’s ass almost brushed Niki’s face, faded and threadbare denim that smelled of coffee and ancient cigarette smoke.
“Cool,” Daria said. “Save us the booth.” Keith moved aside and she hopped down. “The sound’s good from here.”
And she slipped away. Keith lingered a moment longer, still rubbing at his chin, before he finally released Tammi’s long-nailed hand, nails as pink as bubblegum pearls, and without another word, followed Daria.
“Is it okay if I sit with you?” Tammi asked, and Niki shrugged, wondering what Theo would have said, what Daria wouldn’t have had to say.
“Thanks,” Tammi slurred cheerfully and sat down. “You know, I went to high school with a Japanese girl.”
“Really?” Niki sighed, half-smiling through gritted teeth.
“Yes ma’am,” Tammi replied eagerly. “She said she was born in that city we dropped the nuclear bomb on.”
“Which one?” Niki asked and glanced longingly back, past the girl’s puzzled face, at Spyder’s corner, towards the goths and the boy standing watch over them, but someone had already turned the house lights down, and there was only shadow.
2.
Because she was Spyder, they came to her, to sit near her and breathe in the air she breathed out. They brought her the meager precious offerings of their company, their fragile faces painted like gentle death to hide the real scars and pain. She wasn’t sure what she had to offer them, but accepted that it was something that they needed, something that soothed or at least distracted, and they never seemed to take anything away.
Robin pressed tighter against her and Spyder knew how much she enjoyed the masked envy of the others, these who could come as close as a seat or standing room at her booth on Saturday night, but never any closer.
Walter was sitting