Quink | Page 2

brushing against her ear, and whispered the dump word. Then I whispered another word, the one that triggered another boog -- the Little Victim. Cops always loved the Little Victim. That's why Gastineau hadn't cuffed her. He wanted her to fight. Of course, the Lourdes was fighting too -- but the Lourdes fought to win. Gastineau needed to dominate a woman who wasn't as strong as him, the Little Victim who propped up his manhood by fighting and failing. He needed to believe that's who Jenny really was.
Base personality my ass. Yigs didn't have one, not even retreads. But people believed what they needed. They were all of them blinded by emotion.
Being a quink was much simpler.
She glared at him from under her cascade of hair, lips pouting, breasts sliding up and down beneath the clingy fabric of her blouse as she heaved each breath. She looked really sexy for a retread -- almost catalog. She pursed her lips, then spat at Gastineau. He wiped the spittle away, his lips twisted in a rictus halfway between a snarl and a smile.
Just as Gastineau cocked his fist back, the stairwell door opened again.
It was Alexia, a tan raincoat over one arm and a suitcase in her other hand. She was wearing an ankle-length sundress, yellow with small blue flowers, and canvas sneakers that had once been white. No socks. She had a mosquito bite on her right ankle that she'd scratched raw. When she saw Gastineau, her eyes (eyes too light, too lit from within, to be called merely brown -- more of a burnished bronze or smoked gold) widened.
"Claude," she said. "What are you doing here?"
Gastineau unclenched his fist. His hand dropped to his side. His fingers fumbled at the snap that held his nightstick to his belt. "I'm on duty," he said. "Routine inquiry."
"You know him?" I asked.
Alexia blushed and dropped her eyes. "I went to school with Claude. We .?.?. we dated in high school."
Gastineau scowled at the floor, then shot me a poisonous glare.
"What?" I said, holding my palms up. "I didn't say a word."
"It was a long time ago," Alexia said.
"Not that long," Gastineau said.
She pointed with her chin at Pink Jenny, crouching on all fours before him. "Who's your friend?"
Gastineau blushed furiously, and gave me another dirty look I hadn't earned.
"Jenny's one of my retr--" I stopped myself, then tried again. "I mean she works here. She's one of our performers."
"Oh." She glanced at Gastineau, then at Jenny. Then at the floor.
I turned to Pink Jenny. "Jenny, listen."
Jenny stood up, regarding me.
I leaned in and whispered the dump word again. Her face went slack. "Now go back to your room," I said out loud. She walked to the stairwell, expressionless, heading for her "room" -- which, of course, was really a suspension vat.
Gastineau watched Pink Jenny leave, his jaw working. He glared at me again, then turned back to Alexia. "This isn't a nice place. You shouldn't be here."
She lifted her chin. "I'm visiting a friend."
"Anyone who's here couldn't really be your friend," he said. "Let me take you home."
"I don't want your help, Claude," Alexia said. "I thought I made that clear."
His fist clenched, unclenched, clenched again. Then finally unclenched. "Fine," he hissed. "Don't come crying to me, then."
She averted her gaze. "I won't."
He opened the stairwell door, then scowled at me.
"Thanks for your assistance, officer," I said.
He slammed the door behind him and stomped down the stairs.
"You have the nicest friends," I said.
Alexia rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I don't know what I was thinking when I was dating Claude."
"Thinking never entered into it," I said.
She grimaced and stuck her tongue out at me. "You don't know anything about it."
"Touch��," I said.
She colored. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
I forced a grin. "Are you worried about hurting my feelings?"
She didn't answer for a long time. Then she looked up at me. "What's it like?" she asked. "Not having feelings?"
"I have them," I said. "I just can't feel them."
"If you don't feel them, then they're not feelings. That's what feelings are."
I looked away. So easy to say that. If you don't understand it, it doesn't exist. Never mind about lying awake at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, guts churning, face drenched with cold sweat. "Guess so."
"Anyway, I don't believe you," Alexia said. "How can you play guitar the way you do without feelings?"
Alexia had great talent at believing what suited her. "Where's your guitar?" I asked. "You can play guitar without feelings, maybe, but you sure can't play guitar without a guitar."
She looked away. "I didn't bring it. I guess I'll have to skip my lesson this week."
I looked again -- her bulging suitcase, her worn shoes, her tired eyes. I hoped she hadn't pawned the guitar. Then,