Free Yarrow by Charles DeLint Page A

kind Judy in the office called CFMPs, Come-Fuck-Me-Pumps. Smoothing the skirt, she bent as though to pick something up to see how much leg showed through the slit, and smiled as she straightened.
    Rick Kirkby, she thought. You don't stand a chance.
    Tomorrow night she'd see how much of him was innuendo and how much the real thing. She changed into a loose gown and curled up on her couch to read the last few chapters of Ludlum's new book, The Parsifal Mosaic.
    "Hey, Ben," Becki said. "You wanna dance?"
    They were sitting at a table in Barrymore's, facing stage center, the vaulted ceilings loftly above them. The building had been, in its time, a theatre, a movie house, a strip joint, and now a rock 'n' roll club, retaining the garish furnishings of all its previous incarnations.
    It was situated on Bank Street, above another club that was a biker's hangout and a pinball and video-game arcade, and across the street from a chip stand and the Royal Oak— a quasi-British pub. The coloring of Barrymore's was all gilted, velvet red and black, with ornate chandeliers and brass railings separating the various tiers that had once been balconies in its theatre days. The rows of seats had been removed and replaced by tables and chairs which, though the arrangement appeared curious at an initial glance, proved to give every patron an excellent view of the stage.
    Adding a final tackiness to the worn-edged glitter were the costumes of the waitresses— a last nod to the club's days as a strip joint. The women moved between the tables wearing black low-cut bathings suits, top hats and tails, black fishnet stockings and high heels. Ben shook his head as one of them approached their table to ask if they wanted a refill.
    "You want me to dance?" he asked Becki.
    She was decked out in her full gear tonight. Three earrings in one ear, none in the other; the thick raggedly-cut hair uncombed and spiked like a hedgehog's back; a red, white, and blue British flag T-shirt with the arms torn off; tight black jeans with the knees torn. Her deep-blue eyes sparkled mischievously as she grinned.
    "Of course you. Mick's too busy playing Dread at the controls."
    Ben glanced up to where Mick was working the soundboard. He looked like he knew exactly what he was doing as he fiddled with what appeared to be a hundred different sliding knobs, and by the sound that eventually issued from the speakers, he apparently did.
    "Sure," Ben said. "I'll give it a try."
    "Great."
    By the time they reached the small dance floor to the right of the stage, the band had ended one number and were starting another. They were called Too Bad, after the band's lead singer, and consisted of four young men— two white and two black. The music was just as Mick had described it— fast reggae with a touch of R&B. The rhythms were infectious, the harmonies clean.
    Ben started out feeling awkward, then got into the swing of it, much to Becki's approval. She grinned at him in the midst of a dance that was a combination of a very vigorous twist and a hopping motion called pogoing. Ben glanced up at the soundboard again and caught Mick's gaze. His Mohawk-topped head was bobbing in time to the music and he lifted his hand from the board to give Ben a thumbs-up. By the time the song ended— the chorus was a repetition of "Goin' down to de riddem, goin' down, goin' down" with one of the black men, his dreadlocks flying as he shook his head, doing a rap overtop of the harmonies— Ben was thoroughly enjoying himself.
    "You want to stick it out for another?" Becki asked him.
    "Try and stop me."
    "All right."
    Farley and Ron sat in the parking lot across from Barrymore's, huddled behind the chip wagon, finishing off a bottle of wine. Poke had drifted off sometime around noon.
    "You still seeing snakes?" Ron asked.
    Farley blinked. It took him a moment to digest the words, then he slowly shook his head. "Nope," he said very seriously, took a swig of the cheap wine and passed the bottle to