Part 39 (1/2)

The machine isn't dispensing menthol cigarettes either. Maledicta looks for a k.n.o.b or b.u.t.ton that will give her her money back, but instead finds a handwritten note taped above the bill slot: THIS MACHINE DOES NOT GIVE CHANGE; ABSOLUTELY NO REFUNDS. -- MGMT.

”f.u.c.ker. ” Maledicta starts towards the office door with blood in her eye, but Sam catches her by the arm. ”Wait,” Sam says. ”Don't make trouble.”

”Get the f.u.c.k off me!” Maledicta says. ”I'm not going to let this f.u.c.ker rip me off!”

”Please,” says Sam, hanging on. ”If there's trouble I might not be able to stay outside. And if Andrew comes back, he's not going to want to smoke with you.”

Maledicta hesitates, still fuming.

”Please, dear,” Sam says. ”Can't we just drive to a convenience store? I'll pay for your cigarettes, I promise.”

”Yeah?” says Maledicta. ”With whose money?”

”Don't worry about that. I'll just. . . borrow the money from Andrew, and settle with him later.”

”If he even notices, you mean. . . All right,” Maledicta relents, ”we'll go to a f.u.c.king convenience store. But when we get back, I am going to kick somebody's a.s.s.”

They get into the car, where the smell of vodka, faded but still potent, brings Malefica forward for a moment. She checks the glove compartment to see if a new flask has by any chance materialized there, but none has.

”Motherf.u.c.king Duncan,” Maledicta complains. ”Hey Sam, as long as we're going for smokes, what do you say we hit a f.u.c.king liquor store, too?”

”I don't think that would be very wise,” Sam says. ”Considering.”

”f.u.c.k wisdom. We could get ripped, and make a run for New Mexico.”

”Where are we now?”

”Brontosaur c.o.c.k, South Dakota. It's a long f.u.c.king drive from Santa Fe, but. . .”

Sam laughs. ”We'd never make it,” she says, her eyes s.h.i.+ning with the possibility.

”No, but we could f.u.c.king try.”

But Sam shakes her head. ”It's tempting, dear, but I think I'd better content myself with simpler pleasures. Just a cigarette, maybe two if there's time.” She pauses, concentrating. ”We're going to have to hurry, though -- they'll be back soon.”

”No f.u.c.king problem,” Maledicta says, and gets the car moving.

Now of course she wasn't being serious, offering to light out for New Mexico; Maledicta knows they can't really do that, although it would be fun to see Mouse's reaction when she woke up in Georgia O'Keeffe country. But the part about getting s.h.i.+tfaced -- that was for real. Maledicta could use a drink; Malefica could definitely use a drink; and as for Sam, Maledicta kind of likes her -- underneath the ”please”s and the ”dear”s, she senses a kindred spirit -- but thinks she could stand to loosen up a little.

There's a mom-and-pop convenience store just up the road, but right next to it is a bar called The Pink Mammoth. Stupid f.u.c.king name, Maledicta thinks; on the other hand, it does appear to be open for business. She drives into the Mammoth's parking lot. Sam frowns but doesn't otherwise object.

”Come on,” Maledicta coaxes her. ”One f.u.c.king drink What do you say?”

”Do you think they serve tea?”

”The Long Island kind, maybe.”

They go inside. The Mammoth turns out to be a complete dive: Wild West decor, f.u.c.king sawdust on the floor, and an underscent of petrified vomit, like a pack of saber-toothed tigers threw up in here back before the last ice age and it was allowed to just fossilize. On the plus side, the bar's cigarette machine works, and despite the early hour, booze is being served. Sam and Maledicta have the place almost entirely to themselves: the only other customer is an old drunk watching cartoons on the TV above the bar.

They buy cigarettes. While Sam lights up, Maledicta orders a couple of beers. ”Not for me, dear,” Sam says, but Maledicta says, ”Ah, come on,” and repeats the order. The bartender draws them two Budweisers. Maledicta gives one to Sam, who accepts it but won't drink, even when Maledicta proposes a toast. Maledicta starts to get p.i.s.sed, but cools down again when Sam, without being asked, takes out Andrew's wallet and pays for both beers.

Maledicta jerks her thumb towards a pool table at the other end of the barroom. ”Feel like a game?”

Sam smiles. ”That would be lovely.”

They go over to the table and Maledicta grabs a rack off the wall. ”You any f.u.c.king good at this?” she asks.

”I used to be. My old sweetheart taught me to play, years ago. He said I had a knack for it.” Her smile falters. ”Of course he said a lot of things, but I think that one was true.”

”Sweetheart, huh? This was before Andrew got put in charge?”

”Long before. We were still in Seven Lakes then, in the house where we grew up.”

The rack's full. Maledicta slides it back and forth a couple times to get the b.a.l.l.s grouped tightly.

”Can I ask you a f.u.c.king personal question, Sam?”

”All right.”

”Do you have a c.o.c.k, or a c.u.n.t?”

Sam rears her head back, like she's really put out, but she recovers quickly. ”A c.u.n.t,” she says primly, ”if you must know.”

”I f.u.c.king thought so.” Maledicta hangs the rack back on the wall and grabs a cue stick for herself. ”You can't really tell, you know, when Andrew or Aaron are in the f.u.c.king driver's seat, but with you in the body, it's just f.u.c.king obvious. You sure you shouldn't be running the show instead of them?”

Sam shakes her head. ”I might dream about it, but I'm not strong enough to cope with reality full-time. I proved that.”

”Yeah? You seem strong enough to me. Not that I'm the world's best f.u.c.king judge of character.

. . OK if I break?”

Sam nods her a.s.sent. Then, as Maledicta is chalking her cue, Sam says: ”I tried to kill myself.

Twice.”

”Yeah? What for?”

”Jimmy Cahill -- my sweetheart -- joined the army. We were supposed to run away together, but he decided to run away on his own. He sent me a Dear John letter from basic training camp. . . so I tried to kill myself. Pills, the first time. I swallowed a bottle of prescription sleeping pills, and a pint of scotch --”.

”-- and woke up in the f.u.c.king hospital?”

”No, actually; I woke up at home, with a hangover. I've never figured out who, but I'm pretty sure one of the others sabotaged me, emptied out the pill capsules and refilled them with flour. I was constipated for days afterwards, but I didn't die. So next I tried hanging myself, but the knots kept slipping -- and then before I could come up with a third alternative, I went to sleep, for a very long time. I didn't get out again until we were in Seattle, in therapy with Dr. Grey.”

”Hmmph,” Maledicta grunts, not sure what to say. She leans down over the pool table, and breaks; a few b.a.l.l.s bounce around the edge of the pockets, but nothing goes in. ”f.u.c.k.”

”So what about you?” Sam asks. ”Did you ever have a sweetheart?”