Page 66 of Fade Out

I also remembered finally starting my soup, only to have it whisked away after a spoonful and a salad replacing it. There was a chicken entrée with a sauce that had chilled to room temperature by the time it reached me. Oh, and a mealy crème brûlée for dessert.

Then I remembered Richard Crisp’s murder. I remembered Garner and Monroe White and Sanchez. And I remembered that my life was a total disaster.

“So, did you wanna fuck or what?” Fitz asked.

“Didn’t we already do that?”

“Sadly, no. You passed out as soon as I got your clothes off.” He squinted at me curiously. “I don’t have my contacts in. How old are you?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Oh. You looked a lot younger last night.”

“Am I supposed to say thank you?”

“I guess it’s just as well we didn’t have sex. My friends and I have a pact. No sex with anyone over thirty.”

“A pact? Really?”

“AIDS. It’s safer to have sex with younger guys.”

“It’s safer to have sex with condoms.”

“Oh God, you’re one of those.”

“I need to go,” I said, looking around the room for my clothes. I noticed a pile of black cloth at the bottom of the bed. Then I remembered I’d spent the night before in a tuxedo. Shit, apparently, I’d be spending the morning in a tuxedo as well.

Picking up the pile, I began to separate it. I found my underwear and pulled them on. Then, I shook out the pants and got a good look at them.

“What’s this on my pants? It’s sticky.”

“Whipped cream. You don’t remember?”

“I thought you said we didn’t—”

“We played. It was really sexy.” Then he said. “You look good in a tuxedo. You look good out of a tuxedo.”

“I’m too old, remember. And you promised.”

“I’m not very good at keeping promises.”

I took a long look at him. He looked really good naked, wrapped in clean white sheets, sunlight coming through the window. It would be so easy to stay for an extra half an hour, to pretend I might not end up back in jail soon, that I might not go to prison, that there wasn’t a dead girl in a box. I could make it all go away for a few minutes.

But then I heard myself saying, “I got arrested for murder a few days ago. They might revoke my bond. I have a few things to take care of.”

I don’t think he heard too much more than “I got arrested for murder…” because he paled and said, “Uh-huh. Um, sure. I get it.” Then he asked, “Did you have something to do with that guy who got stabbed last night?”

I shook my head.

“Oh. Okay. Cool.”

It took a long, uncomfortable minute or two to put on the shirt and jacket—somehow I’d lost a couple studs. When I was done, I wore a half-open shirt and held a cummerbund but no tie in my hand.

“Have you seen the tie?” I asked.

Stevie shrugged. I was going to have to pay for the tie—and the missing studs. The tie probably came in a set with the cummerbund so I dropped it on the bed.

“Something to remember me by.”