Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [47]
Puppets, however, didn’t usually sound like they were dying.
“Good God. Is that boy in pain?” Taft yelled.
Sam rolled her eyes. “Only the existential kind.”
The band played on. Taft couldn’t tell one song from the next, but after a few minutes, his ears adjusted to the onslaught. He was able to discern a steady beat, a hint of a structure, and even the barest modicum of melody. What he couldn’t decipher, though, was a single word Rob was screaming.
He turned to ask Kowalczyk for a translation, but the stool was empty. He looked up; Taft could see Kowalczyk’s bald head among the crowd, bobbing in unison with a few other similarly shaved patrons.
“Forgive him,” Taft said to Sam. “He’s not acting his age. He’s had a long few months.”
“Oh, really? What did he do?”
“Well, he shot me, for one.”
“And yet, here he his, drinking with you on New Year’s Eve. That’s quite a friend.”
“He is, isn’t he?”
“How about a lady friend? You got one of those?”
Taft thanked the heavens for the anesthetic effects of alcohol; for the first time since he’d awakened in this new century, the thought of Nellie didn’t send a pang of agony through his soul. “No. None of those.”
She laid a hand on his. Across her knuckles were tattooed the letters f-u-c-k. “You know something?” Her eyes bored into his as the Lousy Kissers reached a crescendo of cacophony. “You’d be damned handsome with some facial hair. You ever thought about growing a mustache?”
TAFT WOKE UP the next morning, the first day of the year 2012, with a magnificent headache, no memory of the previous few hours, and a snoring, nude woman on top of him.
Upon waking a moment later, Sam seemed as startled as he was. Then she kissed him and laid her head back down his chest. “Happy new year, Bill. Way to ring it in, huh?”
Half an hour later, both of them panting and tangled in sheets, she finally relinquished her perch and rolled over on the bed next to him.
“Sam, I don’t know what to—”
“Nothing. That’s exactly what you should say. Just shut up and bask. I know that you know how good that was.”
“Are all women of the twenty-first century as … robust as you?”
She laughed. “Twenty-first century? You really weren’t kidding about that time-machine business last night, were you?”
Taft lifted his head. A wave of nausea washed over him. “Where’s Kowalczyk?” he asked, as concerned about his friend as he was anxious to change the subject.
“Don’t worry. He’s on the couch. It’s funny, no matter how drunk he got last night, he wouldn’t let you out of his sight. When he insisted on coming back here with us, I was afraid he was talking about a threesome.” She grinned mischievously. “Well, not afraid, exactly. But he passed out in the living room as soon as we got here.”
She reached over and ran a finger across his cheek. “It’s funny. He acts less like your buddy and more like your bodyguard. I wonder why that is?”
“He is, ah, very loyal.”
Sam got on her knees in the bed and drew herself up, shoulders back. Scars and a hint of wrinkles were mixed in with the faded tattoos. This was a woman who had clearly seen more than her fair share of hard times. Yet, he had to admit, there was a wild, raw beauty to her. Not to mention an uneven smile that seemed suddenly slightly deranged.
“Oh, come on, Bill. I know who you are. Known all along. You don’t live through all the things I have without being a suspicious bitch. You’re Taft.” With that, she moved over to straddle his legs, effectively pinning him to the mattress. With panic twining around the uneasiness in his gut, he glanced out the slightly ajar door to see Kowalczyk’s stockinged feet sticking up over the arm of a sofa.
“Me? Taft? Nonsense. I mean, who’s Taft?”
Sam licked her lips. “You know, I’ve never slept with a president before. Fuck, I’ve never even voted.” She threw her head back and started cackling madly. Then, as abruptly as she started, she leaned forward and held down his arms. Her dirty blond hair tickled his face; her breath was sweetly, sourly enticing.
“Are you ready