Part 9 (1/2)

”Dammit!” Stacy held up one finger and hustled back through the apartment. Alison seized the moment to stare at the exotic straps and harnesses.

”Got 'em!” Stacy clicked back in all too soon, waving her key chain. Alison turned to go. At the last minute, just before they opened the door, Stacy seized Alison's hand and pressed it up beneath her skirt. Alison caught her breath. The satin under her fingers was soaked. Before she could so much as run her fingers over the hot mound Stacy slipped away.

”Why don't you come over tomorrow?” she invited before pus.h.i.+ng Alison out the door.

Alison stood for a moment on the landing. Had she just received another quilting invitation or.. .something else?

But as she made her way down the back stairs she was not wondering about this, but whether being with Dominique had been as safe for Tamara Garrity as Stacy had a.s.sumed it was.

When Alison got home there was a message from Robert on her answering machine, just saying 'hi' and asking if she had found out anything new on the case from her...here he hesitated, not quite sure of the appropriate phrase to use and settled finally for 'inside sources.' Returning the call while she heated a chunk of bean soup she had made the week before, she asked about the baby and they exchanged shop gossip, but hedged around her progress. She had nothing that she wanted to share, yet. Robert advised her to get out of town for at least the weekend, and she knew that it was not entirely because of the reason he gave-that he did not want her to return to work crabby and tired. He was frightened for her, and that meant the word around the station was that they still thought it was a slasher striking d.y.k.es at random.

As she finished her dinner Alison went through her mail, such as it was. The only thing of interest, unless she wanted to get her carpets cleaned, was a flier headlined Women Against Violence Against Women. It had been hand delivered. The graphic was a line of women walking arm in arm silhouetted against a street light. Alison had just started in on the text when there was a knock on the kitchen door.

”Hi.” Tammyfaye, Janka's cat, shot past Janka and began sniffing around the bookshelves, which were one of KP's favorite hiding places. ”We heard you come in, then we didn't hear you moving around...well?”

Alison waved the flier at her. ”Yeah, I got one of these, too.” That Janka had come alone could only mean that Mich.e.l.le was stewing again about Alison entering the leather kingdom.

”Makes you feel kind of paranoid, doesn't it?” Janka said.

”I'll say.”

”We were here when they delivered the fliers, so we got one of these, as well.” She showed Alison a larger poster printed on yellow paper. The women marched across it in black.

”What is it?”

”They're trying to put together a safe house/safe ride program. If you've got a car you can get a sticker for it. The poster goes in a lighted window-it makes you kind of a block parent for d.y.k.es on the street.”

”Did you get one for me?”

”No, they wanted to talk to the women they gave them to, in person. They're trying to be really careful about giving them out. It's not like a ma.s.s mailing or anything. They want to be sure they're going to d.y.k.e houses. You can call, though.” She indicated the two numbers that were listed for rides and information, ”And they'll deliver one.”

”This is a pretty big job they're taking on.”

”Yeah. Well, you're probably busy, but we wanted to be sure you were okay. Oh, and don't forget your whistle.” Janka tugged at a piece of yarn tied around her neck and brought up a ceramic whistle.

”Yeah, I've got one on my key chain.”

Janka turned to go and then swung back. ”If you go out,” she said, ”take your gun, okay?” She paused, and then laughed humorlessly. ”Wow, I never thought I'd hear myself say that. Just be really careful, okay?”

”Yeah.”

The Rubyfruit was not crowded, but there were enough women so Alison did not feel as if she stood out. She saw Liz with a group of women but did not go over. Janka's last comment had put the idea of visiting the bar into her head. She had showered and put on a bulky red cotton cardigan that disguised the outline of her holster.

She asked for a c.o.ke at the bar. As the very young bartender turned away she studied her hair, short and dark like her own but without touches of grey. Alison wondered if she could get away with spiking hers up in the front like that. The bartender turned back to her. Alison said casually, ”I couldn't get away for the contest last week. How did it go?”

The bartender leaned on the bar with both arms, not at all averse to a little chit-chat. ”Too bad. Were you going to be a contestant?”

Alison stammered, startled by the very idea. ”Uh...um...no, I just wanted to watch, I...urn....”

”Oh, you should consider it next year. You'd look hot in a leather jacket, you know, instead of a sweater, one of those really tailored chic-chic ones. Asymmetrical.” The woman leaned across the bar, pus.h.i.+ng the cardigan open to trace the lines of the imagined jacket a quarter of an inch above Alison's chest. The nights were getting chilly, but she was wearing only a green tank top, and the move pushed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s together so that the double women's symbol she wore on a chain around her neck was totally lost in her cleavage. ”Black would look so good with your hair.”

Though she had not touched her, Alison felt as if the lines had been not unpleasantly burned on her chest, bisecting each nipple. It took her a moment to realize that the woman was flirting with her. She was fl.u.s.tered by the image that she suggested-herself on a makes.h.i.+ft: stage, all eyes on her approvingly, applause, encouraging calls. (Get real, girl, insisted the voice of reality, Mich.e.l.le would be picketing.) For a moment she knew what Tamara Garrity had meant when she had confided that she liked to be the center of attention, knew the hot flash of excitement that had sent her, if Alison's theory was right, to arrange a tryst with Dominique.

”And some nice big earrings. Silver, to bring this out.” The bartender made a motion above Alison's head, and again it was as if she actually felt it, as if a warm wind had ruffled the strands of grey. The bartender formed a big loop on each side of Alison's head, and at the end of the second her fingers brushed her skin for the first time. Just a whisper on the neck that made Alison s.h.i.+ver.

”Hey, Carla!” The other bartender was motioning towards a small crowd that had built up at the other end of the bar.

Carla straightened slowly, obviously more interested in describing the rest of Alison's outfit than mixing drinks. ”The contest went fine,” she said as she turned. ”Take a look at the pictures over there.”

The photographs were nothing professional, just a bunch of snapshots mounted on a big piece of butcher paper and stuck to the bulletin board that usually advertised dance lessons and free kittens. There was a small crowd around them, laughing and pointing, and pa.s.sing a pen from hand to hand to write comments on the paper. Vickie bribes the judge, one printed beneath a picture of a woman with long blonde hair kissing another. Someone else s.n.a.t.c.hed the pen to write, Dommie takes a little time off. Dominique hadn't mentioned being in the contest, but the photo showed her standing on a table and posing. The photographer had cut off the top of her head.

”Hey, who is this?” asked one of the women, leaning forward and slos.h.i.+ng a little beer. ”Give me the pen-I want to write down my phone number. She's hot!” There was an instant of uncomfortable silence. The woman was not so drunk that she couldn't tell she had said something wrong. ”What? Who is she?” She tried to make a joke. ”One of your exes?”

”Shut up, Roxanne,” said someone in a soft voice.

Another woman said, ”They shouldn't have put that up.” They drifted back to their table, whispering.

Alison looked at the photograph of Tamara Garrity. She looked very different than she did in the one which the morgue had provided. She was, as everyone had told Alison, very handsome. The photographer had used a zoom lens to capture her head and shoulders. She was parodying the pose of a fas.h.i.+on model, one hand up to brush back her thick black hair, hair long enough so that she could pa.s.s easily at the straight bank job. She had turned her head towards that bare arm so she had been caught in profile, pouting, her eyelids lowered seductively. Alison was not sure what all the contest entailed, but if it was looks alone, Tamara should have walked away with first place.

Alison reached up and pulled the photograph off the wall. Who would care?

”Excuse me. Have you heard the scoop on these?” The stranger speaking to her was holding a stack of leaflets. Alison took one, thinking it was just an ad for another dance or concert, then realized that it was the same flier that had been left in her mailbox.

”I got one at home.”

”Well, then you know about the two d.y.k.es who were murdered last week?”

”Yeah.”

”Well, the police aren't really making much of an effort to do anything about them. d.y.k.es getting killed are a low priority.” Here Alison had to shut her own mouth, insulted, but not sure how to argue since she knew the police hadn't made much progress. ”We need to be sure we're taking care of ourselves and of one another. We need to make sure we're not alone at night, especially at the bars, since that's where we're being stalked. There're women here who will walk you to your car and make sure it's safe before you her in, or who will give you a ride home if you need it. We're urging women not to go home alone.” She smiled. ”That has been popular, at least. We're also handing out these.” She pulled out a handful of referee's whistles, each with a shoelace threaded through the ring. ”It would help us out a lot if you could give us a dollar, but it's fine if you can't. We want everyone to have one. Keep it in your hand or your mouth when you're out on the street.”

Alison took her keys out of her pocket and showed her the whistle already on the chain. ”What are we supposed to do if we hear one of these things?” she asked, curious to hear their strategy.

”Whatever makes sense. n.o.body expects you to run out in the street and stop a slasher by yourself. Unless you're in a large group the best thing to do is make lots of noise, try to scare him away. Scream, blow your own whistle.” Alison thought of the loaded gun beneath her sweater.

They talked a moment longer, and before moving on, the woman gave her one of the larger posters for her window.

It was getting late. The young bartender to whom Alison had first spoken was slipping out from behind the bar. Alison hurried to catch up with her.

”Hi again.” Her voice came out sultry to her surprise.

”Hi.” The woman smiled a slow smile that took several seconds to reach her eyes.

”Could I talk to you a minute?”

”You bet. I need to go downstairs, and I'm not supposed to go alone anyway. Why don't you escort me?” She made it sound suggestive.