Silk by Caitlin R Kiernan

Author:Caitlin R Kiernan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780451459008
Publisher: Roc
Published: 2007-11-15T06:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

Paperweight

1.

T hey went to Keith’s, because Daria was afraid the cops would spot the van if they stayed anywhere on Morris. A single room a few blocks away, three flights up the carcass of an old office building. His uncle owned the place and was letting Keith live there rent-free, dodging zoning ordinances by pretending he only worked there nights as security. When Keith switched the lights on, they buzzed like drunken wasps, halfhearted fluorescence that made them all look like hung-over zombies.

“Oh Keith,” Theo crooned, sarcasm thick as old honey. “I do love what you’ve done with the place!”

They all followed him inside, Niki and Spyder last, stepped into the room, stark and ugly and soulless, almost as cold as the night outside. Nappy gray-green carpet, water-stained ceiling and walls, big holes punched through the Sheetrock in a dozen places, exposing pink insulation and two-by-fours.

Unfurnished, except for a scary-looking mattress in one corner and two metal folding chairs, three bulgy cardboard boxes stuffed with dirty clothes.

“What do you call this, anyway?” Theo asked. “Late Bosnian refugee?”

“Theo, why don’t you just shut the hell up?” and Daria turned around and punched her once, hard, in the shoulder.

Theo flinched and dropped her purse, the flamingo-pink plastic Barbie lunch box, bump to the floor; it popped open and everything inside spilled out onto the sallow carpet.

“Christ, Dar! Fuck you!” and she looked to Mort for defense.

“Just lay off for a little while,” he said, frown deepening, exhaustion and weary annoyance in his eyes and voice. “You know it’s not gonna kill you.”

“Christ,” Theo hissed, “You’re all a bunch of crazy fucking assholes,” rubbing her arm, as she kneeled and began scooping everything back into her purse.

Daria and Niki helped Spyder to one of the chairs. She was limping, still bleeding some from a deep gash above her left eye; dried and congealed blood caked her dreads, crusted and sticky red-brown masking the left side of her face.

“It looks a lot worse than it is, probably,” Keith said again, seventh or eighth time since the parking lot.

And for the seventh or eighth time, Spyder nodded, sluggish agreement.

“Can we at least turn the heat up a little?” Niki asked. Spyder had started to shiver, and Niki wondered if she could be going into shock, wondered if she could have lost that much blood, if maybe she was also bleeding somewhere inside.

“Would gladly,” Keith said, dull and jovial grin, “if there was any.” But he pulled a lemon-yellow sleeping bag off the scary mattress and handed it to Niki; there was a dark smear down one side that she hoped was only motor oil.

“Thanks, man,” Spyder mumbled around her swelling lips.

“Don’t mention it,” and he shrugged once, walked back to the mattress and sat down.

Niki unzipped the sleeping bag, wrapped it around Spyder’s black leather shoulders.

“Thanks,” Spyder mumbled.

“We should have taken her to a hospital,” Niki said, and Keith shrugged again.

“Hey, man, it was her call,” and he pulled a pint of Thunderbird from beneath one corner of the mattress, unscrewed the cap and drank deeply from the green bottle.

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