Party

Unfortunately, taking matters into my own hands hasn’t worked.

Ted Polmey has vanished.

For a solid week, I’ve chased rumors, bar tabs, whispers, cousins of cousins, and men who always know a guy who knows a guy.

Nothing.

Ted is smoke. Ted is a shadow. Ted is suddenly the kind of man people forget how to describe the second I ask.

That alone worries me.

The Village worries me more.

No one there wants much to do with me. Doors close quicker when I walk up. Curtains move. Conversations end. If I cross a lawn, people suddenly remember somewhere else they need to be.

Patricia hasn’t answered my knocks.

Henry answered once, just long enough to tell me to go to hell. Then he apologized for insulting hell and shut the door.

I deserve most of it.

You’d think I would’ve spent the week with Kristy Lee instead.

I have not.

I haven’t called her home number. I haven’t called the station. I haven’t “accidentally” tuned in to hear her voice on the radio.

I’ve done what many men before me have done when faced with something kind and promising.

I panicked and ignored it.

Maybe I’m protecting her from my life.

Maybe I’m protecting myself from hope.

Maybe I’m an idiot.

Likely a blend of all three.

So when the night of the so-called class reunion arrives, I’m sitting in my kitchen pretending black coffee can solve spiritual collapse when somebody knocks on my front door.

I open it and forget how speech works.

Patricia stands there in a black cocktail dress that looks poured onto her. Hair pinned up. Earrings catching the porch light. Red lipstick sharp enough to cut a man.

She smiles.

“You’ve seen me naked,” she says.

“I don’t remember it being this intimidating.”

She steps inside without waiting to be invited.

Patricia has always believed doors are decorative.

She takes in the kitchen—the refrigerator door hanging crooked from one hinge, the dried milk stain I missed beneath the counter, the bottle behind me.

“I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“Thank you.”

“You look awful. Did you shave with a weed eater?”

“Still figuring out the settings.”

She laughs softly.

Then the laughter fades.

“I came to tell you not to come tonight.”

I lean against the sink. “That wasn’t hard to guess.”

“I mean it, Gene.”

“So do I.”

She crosses her arms. “The Circle wants space after this is over.”

“The Circle.”

She nods.

We retired the word elders. Sounded like a fantasy novel or a church split.

“The Circle thinks you’ve become a hazard,” she says.

“That feels personal.”

“It is.”

I look past her toward the dark street.

“If anybody gets hurt tonight because of me, I’ll never square it.”

“No one’s getting hurt.”

“That confidence seems reckless.”

Patricia leans close and lowers her voice.

“We’re going to drug every rich bastard in that ballroom, photograph them, empty their pockets, and steal their pants.”

I blink.

“That’s the plan?”

“That’s the opening move.”

“You’re serious.”

“Dead serious.”

I laugh despite myself. “You’re going to rob Paradise’s most powerful men of their trousers?”

“Humiliation works wonders on men who mistake power for manhood.”

“That may be the most patriotic thing I’ve ever heard.”

She pats my cheek.

“Stay home, Big Guy. We’ve got this.”

Then she turns for the door.

I catch her wrist gently.

“Patricia.”

She looks back.

“Be careful.”

Something softer passes over her face.

“Always.”

Then she leaves.

I watch three large passenger vans roll through the cul-de-sac like a church caravan headed to war.

I give them five minutes.

Then I change clothes and follow.

I force my left glove over the splint. It gets halfway before refusing to cooperate.

Fine.

I ride without it.

Every pull of the clutch sends a reminder through my hand that shrimp have consequences.

The Marquette Hotel glows like money.

Valets move like dancers. Luxury cars line the curb. Men with expensive hair step out one by one, smoothing jackets and checking watches.

A marquee welcomes the Class of 1993.

Sure it does.

I park my motorcycle across the street and circle around to the service alley.

That’s where I find John.

He leans against the brick wall in a waiter’s jacket, hands in his pockets, watching the alley mouth like he’s been expecting either trouble or me.

It takes me a moment to place him.

“The Backside Lounge,” I say. “You were filling in.”

He nods once.

“The last time I saw you, I got jumped in the parking lot.”

“I’m sure those two things aren’t connected.”

“I’m not big on coincidences.”

“Neither am I.”

John glances up at the night sky.

“Nothing in this world moves by chance.”

I stare at him.

“I miss when bartenders were normal.”

Footsteps slap against the pavement behind us.

I turn.

Two kids stand at the mouth of the alley trying hard to look dangerous.

They can’t be more than nineteen. One has a switchblade he holds like it came with instructions. The other wears a leather jacket three sizes too big and the expression of a man reconsidering his career path.

“Wallets,” Blade says.

I look them over.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. My breakfast weighs more than both of you.”

They do not appreciate humor.

John steps forward before I can.

“No amount of cash in our pockets is worth what you’re doing to your souls,” he says calmly. “Your souls are priceless.”

The boys blink.

John makes the sign of the cross over both of them.

“Go now. Beg forgiveness. Maybe the One who sees all things will show you a better path than these shenanigans.”

Silence.

Then both boys back away like they stumbled into the wrong movie.

They turn and run without a word.

I watch them disappear.

Then I look at John.

“Shenanigans?”

He ignores me completely and holds out a folded waiter’s jacket.

“You are now officially late.”

I take it and slip it on.

“I prefer fashionably late. I am a fashionable guy.”

“You certainly are.”

He opens the service door.

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because you keep trying.”

“That’s a terrible reason.”

“It’s the only one that matters.”

I stop before going inside and look back at him.

“You know, for a second there, I swear you were glowing.”

“Helping lost souls does bring out the best in me.”

Then he shoves me through the doorway and pulls it shut behind me.

The ballroom looks like greed married nostalgia.

Crystal chandeliers. White linen. Brass railings. Big-band music no one from the Class of 1993 has ever requested willingly.

Judges, contractors, politicians, cops, developers, preachers, sharks, and the fish dumb enough to swim near them.

Power doesn’t exist in a vacuum.

It exists here.

Women from the Village are scattered throughout the room in cocktail dresses of every shape and color. Each wears a smile sharp enough to cut glass.

Professional.

Beautiful.

Dangerous.

I feel proud and terrified at the same time.

Then I see Kristy Lee.

She stands behind the DJ booth in silver headphones and a blue dress that nearly causes me to confess crimes I haven’t committed.

She spots me immediately and crooks a finger.

I obey like livestock.

“Well, look at this,” she says. “The man who forgot telephones.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“That excuse usually comes with flowers.”

“I can get carnations.”

“You strike me as gas-station roses.”

“That hurts because it’s accurate.”

She smiles despite herself, then looks around the room.

“Gene, this is not a reunion.”

“No?”

“There is a county judge dancing with a woman young enough to be his tax deduction.”

“Maybe families are close here.”

“And why are three city councilmen drunkenly crooning to Glenn Miller?”

“Civic pride.”

She leans closer.

“What is this?”

I answer honestly.

“Bad people having a bad night, hopefully.”

“This has something to do with you, doesn’t it?”

“It’s other people paying for my mistakes.”

“And you hate that, don’t you?”

She studies me for a moment, then nods once.

“Well, I like to support local events.”

I laugh.

God, I like her.

Then I see Ginger.

Everything inside me stops.

She stands across the ballroom near a side service corridor.

Wild red hair tamed into elegance that somehow makes it more dangerous. A pale smile. Eyes fixed directly on me.

Roses and doves wind down her bare left arm. Long fingers curl around the edge of the doorway, the right pinky slightly crooked.

It’s her.

I watched her convulse on the floor at Portia’s. Watched her eyes roll back. Watched Ted’s men carry her away like spoiled furniture.

Dead women aren’t supposed to attend class reunions.

Kristy Lee follows my stare.

“What?”

“Ginger.”

Her smile disappears.

“The woman from Portia’s?”

“Yeah.”

“You said she died.”

Across the ballroom, Ginger raises one finger.

Come here.

“That’s what I thought.”

Then she slips through the side door.

I’m already stepping away.

“Gene?”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Men always say that.”

I barely hear her.

I cross the ballroom fast enough to bump a banker, spill champagne on somebody who probably deserves it, and shove through the side door before common sense can catch me.

The corridor beyond is dim and empty.

At the far end, a flash of red hair turns the corner.

I take off after her.