The Laughing Corpse - Laurell K. Hamilton [74]
“We were pretending, right? Being tough, right?”
Truth. “I don’t know.”
“Anita!”
“I don’t know, that’s the truth.”
“I couldn’t have shot him to pieces just to keep him from talking.”
“Good thing you didn’t have to then,” I said.
“Would you really have pulled the trigger on that man?”
There was a cardinal singing somewhere off in the distance. The song filled the stale heat and made it seem cooler.
“Answer me, Anita. Would you really have pulled the trigger?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” There was a lilt of surprise in her voice.
“Yes.”
“Shit.” We walked on in silence for a minute or two, then she asked, “What ammo is in the gun today?”
“Thirty-eights.”
“It would have killed him.”
“Probably,” I said.
I saw her look at me sideways as we walked back. There was a look I’d seen before. A mixture of horror and admiration. I’d just never seen it on a friend’s face before. That part hurt. But we went out to dinner that night at The Miller’s Daughter in Old St. Charles. The atmosphere was pleasant. The food wonderful. As always.
We talked and laughed and had a very good time. Neither of us mentioned what had happened this afternoon. Pretend hard enough and maybe it will go away.
20
AT 10:30 THAT night I was down in the vampire district. Dark blue polo shirt, jeans, red windbreaker. The windbreaker hid the shoulder holster and the Browning Hi-Power. Sweat was pooling in the bends of my arms but it beat the hell out of not having it.
The afternoon fun and games had turned out all right, but that was partly luck. And Seymour losing his temper. And me being able to take a beating and keep on ticking. Ice had kept the swelling down, but the left side of my face was puffy and red, as if some sort of fruit was about to burst out of it. No bruise—yet.
The Laughing Corpse was one of the newest clubs in the District. Vampires are sexy. I’ll admit that. But funny? I don’t think so. Apparently, I was in the minority. A line stretched away from the club, curling round the block.
It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d need a ticket or reservations or whatever just to get in. But, hey, I knew the boss. I walked along the line of people towards the ticket booth. The people were mostly young. The women in dresses, the men in dressy sports wear, with an occasional suit. They were chatting together in excited voices, a lot of casual hand and arm touching. Dates. I remember dates. It’s just been a while. Maybe if I wasn’t always ass deep in alligators, I’d date more. Maybe.
I cut ahead of a double-date foursome. “Hey,” one man said.
“Sorry,” I said.
The woman in the ticket booth frowned at me. “You can’t just cut in line like that, ma’am.”
Ma’am? “I don’t want a ticket. I don’t want to see the show. I am supposed to meet Jean-Claude here. That’s it.”
“Well, I don’t know. How do I know you’re not some reporter?”
Reporter? I took a deep breath. “Just call Jean-Claude and tell him Anita is here. Okay?”
She was still frowning at me.
“Look, just call Jean-Claude. If I’m a nosy reporter, he’ll deal with me. If I’m who I say I am, he’ll be happy that you called him. You can’t lose.”
“I don’t know.”
I fought an urge to scream at her. It probably wouldn’t help. Probably. “Just call Jean-Claude, pretty please,” I said.
Maybe it was the pretty please. She swiveled on her stool and opened the upper half of a door in the back of the booth. Small booth. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she swiveled back around. “Okay, manager says you can go in.”
“Great, thanks.” I walked up the steps. The entire line of waiting people glared at me. I could feel their hot stares on my back. But I’ve been stared at by experts, so I was careful not to flinch. No one likes a line jumper.
The club was dim inside, as most clubs are. A guy just inside the door said, “Ticket, please?”
I stared up at him. He wore a white T-shirt that said, “The Laughing Corpse, it’s a scream.” A caricature of an open-mouthed vampire was drawn very large across his chest. He was large and muscled and had bouncer tattooed across his forehead. “Ticket, please,” he repeated.