Free Cobalt by Nathan Aldyne Page B

about.”
    â€œI’ve had my head in the oven all day.”
    Valentine provided Angel with a brief account of the death of the man whom Clarisse had met getting off the ferry.
    â€œSo,” said Angel, turning to Clarisse at the last, “ you found him! That calls for another dessert!” She hauled the Mont Blanc from the cart and placed it before Clarisse, who hadn’t managed even to finish her strawberry tart.
    Clarisse smiled and pushed the Mont Blanc toward Angel, who shrugged and dug in. “Did you try to revive him?” she asked after half a dozen quick bites.
    â€œIt was too late for that,” said Clarisse.
    â€œAre you sure? Honey, if it had been me finding a man alone on the beach at that hour, I would at least have tried a little mouth-to-crotch resuscitation.”
    â€œMr. King was cute,” said Clarisse, “but he was a goner.”
    Angel put down her spoon. “His name was King? And his first name was Jeff?”
    â€œYou knew him?” asked Valentine.
    â€œOnce upon a time,” said Angel, plucking Heidi from off the mountain, “I knew a Jeff King. Describe the corpse, please,” she said to Clarisse.
    â€œClone. Cute, but still a clone. Short dark hair, well-trimmed mustache, standard-issue body. Except for his eyes—his eyes were different. They were cobalt blue.”
    Angel shook her head ruefully, but didn’t put down her spoon. “Same one.”
    â€œYou used to know him,” prompted Valentine.
    â€œHadn’t seen him in seven years. Not since I lived on Queensbury Street. That was a bad time for me,” she said seriously. “I had no money, no prospects, and a boyfriend whose favorite colors were black and blue. I’d go down to the Haymarket late every Saturday afternoon when they were throwing away all the stuff that they hadn’t sold—and that was my weekly shopping. It was,” she said delicately, “the worst two years of my life.”
    Valentine and Clarisse were silent.
    â€œAnyway,” Angel went on, “right under me”—she paused a moment, then began again—“this nice man lived in the apartment right below mine. Gay, handsome, about forty—but he had this kid living with him. And that kid was Jeff King. He didn’t look like a clone then, of course—he had long hair and a beard, your basic student hippie. Also your basic thief. I’d come in in the afternoon—I was working part-time at the Burger King around the corner—and I’d find him hanging around the mailboxes. One month this old lady upstairs didn’t get her Social Security check. I had to steal from Burger King for the entire month just to keep her alive. And then the next month, my welfare check didn’t come. I reported it, of course, but they didn’t believe me, not even when I showed them that the signature on the canceled check wasn’t mine.”
    â€œAnd you’re saying it was Jeff King who stole those checks?” asked Clarisse. “How did you know for sure?”
    â€œI just knew . After that I’d always glare at him in the hall, but he’d never look at me. Sometime after that he skipped out on the man downstairs, stole an emerald ring and eight place settings of Rosenthal china. All that was seven years ago, and I’m doing fine right now, but I’ll tell you something—I’m not sorry he got his. In fact, I wish it had been me who found him. Do you know what it’s like to go without money for a month, I mean to have no money for an entire month? And all the little bastard wanted that money for was to buy drugs! He stole my welfare check and bought a gram and a half of cocaine! I hope he suffered when he died.” She plunged her fork into the middle of Mont Blanc, splitting it open like an earthquake.
    Valentine said nothing. Clarisse fumbled a cigarette out of her bag and lighted it.
    Angel heaved a great sigh and