Dark in Death (In Death 46)

“The Stoner?” Yola let out a hard laugh. “I haven’t bumped uglies with him since I got busted. He’s the reason I did, the asshole. And now that I’m clean, I got the big fuck-off from him. How about I tell this whack job she can have him. Not that she’ll get the chance. He can’t lay off the Zeus, can’t lay off the tits and ass.” She gestured to the bat painting.

“I did that one to remind me. He’s a fucking vampire.”

“In her mind you’re preventing him from reaching his potential as a musician, as a man.”

“Bogus.”

“It won’t matter. The character in the book poisons the victim in a club. She puts cyanide in a martini—a pomtini.”

Yola made gagging noises. “I wouldn’t drink that shit if I was still using and stoned stupid. You’re running the wrong way. I want to get back to work.”

“She won’t look like she does in the picture,” Eve put in. “When she moves on the person she’s chosen to represent the character, she’ll blend into the club scene. She’s white, about five-six. She’ll have red hair with blue side dreads. She’ll have an orange dragon on the inside of her right wrist.”

“I don’t care how she looks, she won’t be looking at me.”

Yola started to drink again, stopped, slowly lowered the glass. “Orange dragon?”

“That’s right. You’ve seen her.”

“Orange dragon. It was fierce. I did some sketches.”

She hopped up, grabbed a couple of sketchbooks, pawed through. “Yeah, yeah. Fierce. See?”

Eve looked down at the sketch of a dragon, keen teeth bared, lethal tail coiled to strike.

“Where did you see her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Hellfire, maybe Screw U. It could’ve been Dive Down. Look, I hit the clubs now and then. I don’t use, and I’ve been keeping it to a couple brews. I go for inspiration, take my sketchbook. Yeah, I connect with people, and I’ve gotten a ram-bam. Nobody said I couldn’t have sex, right? I hit one of the clubs two, three times a week, maybe bounce between. I’m going to say I saw Orange Dragon a couple weeks back, maybe.”

“Did you talk to her, go up to her?”

“No, I just sketched the tat. Only got a quick look, it seems to me. Any hot club’s going to be jammed and canned. It could’ve been Styx. I mostly stick with those four, unless I hear there’s going to be action somewhere else.”

“You’re an artist,” Eve began.

“An Op-X-Artist.”

“Whatever, you notice details, faces, body types.”

“I look at the overview, see? Maybe you zoom in on something—like the tat—but mostly it’s the blur and whirl, and you fill in the details from your mind, your guts.”

“Maybe you zoomed in on her around here, in the neighborhood, on the street.”

“The neighborhood’s a false front.” Dismissing it, Yola flicked a hand at the window. “I need something, I get it delivered. I got no reason to go out there until the sun’s down. That’s when the real world starts to live. I saw the tat. Orange tat, white skin. That’s it.”

“Stay out of the clubs for a few weeks.”

“I tell you, I wouldn’t drink her sick-ass pomtini.”

“She could find another way. Stay clean, stay away from the clubs, stay alive.”

Eve turned toward the door, stopped. “You got a mother?”

“Sure I’ve got a mother. What the fuck?”

“Where’s she stand with you?”

“My mom? Well, she was smart enough to tell me the Stoner was wrong, but hell, why would I listen? We’ve gone at it plenty, but she’s proud I’ve got my four months in. Tags me every damn day. She doesn’t give up.”