Free Canary by Nathan Aldyne Page A

Saturday night. There was nothing strange about the fact that I hadn’t seen him.”
    â€œIt never occurred to you to knock on his door, to see if he was all right?”
    â€œNo, he could have been sleeping. Or with a trick. In our little household, the cardinal rule was ‘Open closed bedroom doors only in case of nuclear attack.’ Besides,” Press added after a beat, “Jed and I weren’t getting along too well lately.”
    â€œYou two had been fighting?”
    Press shook his head. “Jed didn’t fight. He was the sullen, silent type. So am I. We left notes.”
    â€œThings were that bad?”
    â€œWe weren’t lovers, for Christ’s sake,” snapped Press. “We were just roommates, but we’d have been a hell of a lot happier living alone. Jed didn’t want a lover. Neither do I particularly.” Press paused again and added, almost bitterly, “Unless he’s rich and hates Italian food.”
    â€œBut in the meantime you’ll have to find another roommate.”
    â€œNo,” Press said, “I won’t.”
    Clarisse looked at him inquisitively.
    â€œI was Jed’s beneficiary. His insurance money comes to me. All of it. Jed set that up a couple of years ago, when we were still speaking.” He looked suddenly at Clarisse and evidently read the dismay in her eyes. “I’m still sorry he’s dead.”
    â€œOh, Press,” said Clarisse with a trace of grimness in her smile, “you’re just a sentimentalist in your heart of hearts.”
    â€œI’m just realistic,” Press said as he slipped off the stool. “I’m also taking off before the brunch starts. It’ll turn into a wake if I don’t. Tell Daniel to call me so we can compare notes on the third degree.”
    Press winked at Clarisse and pointedly ignored Father McKimmon’s farewell wave from the other end of the bar.
    Clarisse stared after him. Her mouth tightened. She grabbed up his empty beer bottle, swiped a bar towel across the mahogany to daub up the rings of dampness, and started down the bar toward her impatient customers. Instead of depositing the bottle in the proper case, she flung it hard into an empty trash container. The green glass shattered loudly against the metal bottom.

PART TWO
    Gay Pride Day

Chapter Seven
    â€œA BLOWJOB?!” Sean exclaimed in shock. “The theme of our float is going to be a blowjob?”
    â€œNo!” Clarisse cried. “A blow- dryer .”
    It was two forty-five in the morning. Boston’s Gay Pride parade would start sharp at noon the following day. Parked in front of Slate was a baby Toyota pickup, lent to the bar for the parade by a friend of Sean’s. On a wooden platform over the truck bed was mounted a chicken-wire frame that nearly engulfed the small vehicle. Valentine had built the platform, and Niobe and Newt had sculpted the chicken-wire frame into the shape of a hand-held hair dryer. Clarisse had volunteered to stuff the wire with the contents of approximately one hundred and twenty boxes of pastel-colored tissues.
    The theme of this year’s parade was “Gay Contributions to Modern Culture,” and the floats entered by various gay bars were to reflect some aspect of this theme. Chaps had chosen dance; Buddies took music; the Eagle, food; the Ramrod, fashion; and Graystone Bar got literature. Because he had been late for the organizational meeting, Valentine was left no choice but personal grooming for Slate.
    Clarisse had wanted to get started earlier but had to wait until after Slate closed because Valentine asked her to take an extra shift.
    Clarisse sat on one of the two barricade sawhorses she’d managed to borrow from District D. She looked over the wire frame, which appeared to have enough holes for all one hundred twenty boxes of tissues, and sighed.
    â€œIt’s a hundred degrees tonight,” said