Free Cobalt by Nathan Aldyne

to do ‘accidentally,’ because I have to stand on a chair to reach them.”
    When their dishes were being cleared away, and they were finishing off the Burgundy, Clarisse said, “Oh, I meant to ask you, did you hear anything more about Jeff King? Did you fill in the gaps of his itinerary?”
    â€œPeople did talk,” replied Valentine. “But by the afternoon the rumors were starting to get wild. I wonder if we ought to believe all the things we heard this morning.”
    â€œProbably not. But still—tell me what you heard at the bar.”
    â€œWell, that Jeff King not only had the bridal suite—there isn’t one—at the Boatslip, that he had a room at the Casablanca, the Pilgrim House, and the Holiday Inn at Truro. He told five people he thought someone was trying to kill him, had sex with seventeen men in the dunes, danced with at least six dozen people at the Boatslip and at the party later, dealt about one ton of drugs including angel dust and heroin, got drunk, threw up, hallucinated himself into a frenzy, and still managed to get himself killed on the beach—all in about sixteen hours. He OD’d on heroin, had a live grenade shoved in his mouth, he was spiked to death by a drag. But of all the people I talked to, no one seemed very sorry—it was odd.”
    â€œWhy, do you suppose?”
    â€œBecause Jeff King had the bad sense to get murdered in a resort. Nobody knew him, nobody knew who he was. If these people were back in Boston or New Haven or wherever and a gay man had been killed a few blocks away, they’d be up in arms. But down here they figure…” Val shrugged.
    â€œFigure what?” demanded Clarisse.
    â€œThey figure: Who cares? They come here and they say: Entertain me. Give me a good time. I’m paying enough for it. Well, entertainment doesn’t include worrying yourself sick over a drug dealer who turned the tide red on Sunday morning.”
    Clarisse was silent a moment. Then she said, “That’s a rotten attitude.”
    â€œâ€˜Who cares?’” repeated Valentine softly.

Chapter Ten

    â€œY OOOOODEEElooooowwwdeeelaaayyyyheeehooooo!!!” rippled majestically from outside the door of the dining room where Valentine and Clarisse sat waiting for the dessert menu.
    â€œThat wasn’t recorded,” said Clarisse darkly, and turned in her chair a little.
    A face like a full glimmering summer moon popped into view at the side of the doorframe. Below it Clarisse could see a great flounce of periwinkle blue material supported by stiff white organdy underslips. At the threshold peeked a round white-stockinged foot in a pink satin slipper.
    â€œQuick, Val,” Clarisse murmured, “pour me the rest of that wine.”
    With a second yodel that was longer than the first and by far louder, the woman backed into the room, hunched over and with mincing little steps, grinning at Valentine and Clarisse over her shoulder. Her face was round and pretty, with wide bright green eyes beneath thick fluttering lashes. Her mouth was bright red and bee-stung, the globes of her cheeks rouged into soft circles of rose. Her hair was honey blond, parted in the center and twined into braids that dangled like mooring ropes below her waist.
    She turned around and cried, “Yah, goot evenink!” She beamed, picking at the puffed sleeves of her white blouse and yanking at the straps of her pinafore.
    Valentine had turned toward the window, leaning an elbow on the table and biting his knuckles to keep from laughing.
    â€œGood evening,” said Clarisse weakly.
    â€œYah, yah!” the woman cried robustly. “You vould like to see de lingunberry tart oder de mousse au chocolat oder the pfeffernüsse oder…” When she moved several steps to the side, Clarisse at last could see the dessert cart that had been hidden behind her. She threw her braids over her shoulders, nearly knocking the breath out