The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [96]
“Huh?”
“I think that was Canada Gold.”
The girl was gone, having disappeared into the windowless back of the van, which was in gear now and inching forward.
“There’s no way.”
“I don’t know. I think so.” Della looked Bobby in the eyes.
“Would you even know what she looked like?” he asked.
Della nodded and then shook her head and then nodded again. “I studied the Gold case before I even went to work for Reggie. And I’ve handled a lot of Solomon Gold crap since, as a favor. Media requests and foundation paperwork and stuff. I’ve never met her, but I’ve seen a lot of pictures. That sure looked like her.”
Bobby bit his lip. “You just got Solomon Gold on the brain.”
“Okay. Probably,” Della agreed. “But what if it was her? What does that mean?”
What did it mean? If he knew why Canada Gold was hanging out with another former patient of Marlena Falcone, the answer would probably connect a lot of his dots.
“It means she’s not dead,” Bobby said, adding quickly, “which is good.”
33
SATURDAY, JULY 31
NADA WOKE the next morning on a strange and damp mattress with a hangover on top of a headache that wouldn’t go away. She frisked herself, hand-checking her blouse and jeans, which seemed attached to her body much the same way they had been the night before. Nada knew she would notice had there been any attempt to re-dress her. Her body felt unmolested except for her brain, which was using the right side of her skull as a gong, and her stomach, which felt at sea.
She hadn’t had that much wine, had she?
It was still hot, and from the dead silence—no televisions or radios or electrical hums of any kind—she determined the power was still out. From the inside, her ears rang an irritating and painful natural C. She closed her eyes and tried to remember where she might be.
The Bat Wing Vortex. I’m at Burning Patrick’s house.
She opened her eyes. The sheets smelled like candles and nicotine, a scent that nearly provoked a rebellion from her gut. She sat up. The walls were painted red and black and yellow. The ceiling was shellacked with a collage of torn pages from magazines and newspapers—refugees in Africa, fires in California, CEOs headed for prison, distant galaxies photographed from space telescopes, topless women. She sat up.
Burning Patrick was watching her from a chair. “Good dawning,” he said, holding a lit cigarette near his face. His words lacked perfect elocution. In fact, they should have been impossible to understand. When her spider replayed the noise that came from his mouth, it sounded more like a creaking door than words. As she had first discovered when he was onstage the previous night, his lips opened and closed in slow, exaggerated motions that were easy to read, if not to make sense of.
Nada wasn’t sure whether to be angry, so she said nothing.
“I slept here,” Burning Patrick said. “In this chair. It’s all right. I do it sometimes even when I don’t have”—he paused—“visitants.”
She didn’t want to thank him for not raping her. “When was the last time you washed your sheets?”
“Never,” he said, then as a polite afterthought, he added, “Brian does. Sometimes. When he cogitates on it.”
“I should go,” Nada said, hoping her shoes were nearby.
“You haven’t yet seen my atelier.”
“What?” Nada wondered if now he was making some crude advance.
He laughed. “My studio.”
She had forgotten that she had come here with a purpose and not just followed a bass player home after a gig, something she had done more than once in her life.
Burning Patrick stood. He was wearing the same bear-like costume he’d worn at the show—oversize and tattered, black and wrinkled. As he struggled to his feet, in pain and out of breath, Nada caught a glimpse of hairy fat between his untucked T-shirt and his unbelted jeans. His backpack was still attached to his shoulders. He walked out the door.
“Wait!” Nada said. She was on her feet, putting down a revolt in her throat. She felt around for her shoes, found one with her hands and then the other, and chased after him barefoot into the hall, which was empty.
The seduction