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Everything in silence, and then darkness. And then faces over him, up close,
and blood and friends and fear: a war movie that had run in his head so often
the images were faded around the edges, scratched, worn thin.
"You won't do a single thing in life that you couldn't have done better
somehow.
Not one. That's the bitch of life. It ain't a rehearsal, darlin'. You make it
up as you go and you do the best you can. Maybe once in a while, you'll be
good enough that you won't have any regrets. That's what you hope for." He
pulled back from her, lifted her chin, and looked into her eyes. "But most of
the time it
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You did what you did. Now you're doing what you're doing.
We both are. We're giving it the best we have, the best that's in us. We'll
get through this. And we'll make it count. Right?"
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"Yes," she said. She breathed in deep. Gave him a shaky smile. "Yeah. We are
making it count. You and me."
Mostly it was the light. Pale, greasy gray. It made everyone in the department
look like zombies. Jess sat across a battered, institutional desk from a
detective with tired, old eyes. He was missing the first joints of two fingers
on his left hand.
"I'm sympathetic, Miss Brubaker," the detective said. "I am. It's hell to have
a loved one go missing without a word. But you have to understand, we have a
witness who saw her get on that bus. We have no suspect. We have no body. We
have no sign of foul play, and every indication that she had, or at least
believed she had, a movie role waiting for her out in California. We did
investigate, but we cannot continue to expend the resources of the department
on your sister's missing-persons case. I have over thirty murders on my desk
alone right now, and I'm no busier than anybody else." He reached across his
desk and patted her hand. "I
spent a fair amount of personal time tracking down what I could on your
sister.
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But I have to start focusing on other cases now. I'm sorry. I truly am."
Gray on gray on gray the detective who had been so kind, and who was now
kindly sending her on her way; Jess who felt ancient and all used up at
twenty-
two; the air she breathed; everything. Gray sinking into the inescapable
depths of sea-deep black, and her sinking with it. Dead but still moving. A
zombie. All of this was her fault. Ginny would not have gone anywhere had Jess
been here. Jess had always been the sensible one, the planner, the shaper who
turned Ginny's wild flights of fancy into workable realities.
"There has to be something someone can do."
The detective sighed. "A friend of mine left the force a few years ago. Went
private. If you'd like, I'll give you his number, and tell him you're going to
call."
Jess took the scrap of paper he proffered. Snowy white in a sea of gray, crisp
black scrawling out a name. A number.
"I'll call," she said.
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Holly%20Lisle%20-%20Last%20Girl%20Dancing%20(v1.0).html chapter 13
"You're the guy who's thrown up twice in here," the floor manager said.
Hank stood inside the foyer, faced off against the floor manager he'd seen
earlier that day, the greeter, and an extra floor manager who'd sauntered over
when he saw the first glorified bouncer moving fast to head Hank off.
"I have to apologize for that," Hank said. "It wasn't Goldcastle food after
all."
Eyebrows raised.
"My girlfriend found out I was coming here. She's& jealous. She knows I
always add a little bump to my beer." He pulled out a flask in his hip pocket,
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waved it under their noses. "My preferred single-malt whiskey, which you don't
stock. The bitch loaded a beautiful bottle of Talisker with Antabuse she
bought off the Internet, and since lately I've only been drinking it
here because at home I get Talisker with nagging, and here I can have Talisker
and beautiful women I come in, I drink my drink. And then, thanks to that
bitch, I throw up."
Now the floor managers and the greeter were looking at him with odd sympathy.
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"Girlfriend?" one said.
Hank shrugged. "Ex, now. Who needs that?"
"Truly," the other said.
Hank said, "Next few days, while that crap clears out of my system, I'll be in
here buying drinks and not drinking them." He sighed and shrugged. "Is Lenny
still here, by any chance?"
The late-coming floor manager had walked away. The one who helped Hank make a
speedy exit earlier in the day said, "Why?"
"Because I want to talk to him about becoming a member. A friend of mine is a
friend of his. He goes to some of Lenny's Weekenders, and he told me I
have to join."
"The Weekenders are by Lenny's invitation only."
"I know," Hank said. He was wearing a rich man's casual clothes. Docksiders,
elegant tan slacks, an open-at-the throat cotton knit pullover with a
carefully discreet logo. He was wearing the diver's watch, the fine leather
belt. The outfit had set him back more than he would have spent on any ten
other changes of clothes. But it showed off his build and his scars in equal
measure. Suggested not merely money, but old money. He'd decided he was old
money new in town, setting up a branch of his stock brokerage. He knew enough
about stocks to sound coherent discussing them. He'd never considered them an
interest, but a
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