Free Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee by Edward Lee Page A

wanted Vivica's lawyers to drop
a depth-charge into the middle of his life. She'd said it all a
minute ago: it would be a very strange week.
    She walked him to the foyer. "I'd like you to start tomorrow. Is that acceptable to you?"
    "Sure."
    "I'm glad. Then go now, to prepare. Karen will be driving you home. She'll give you some things when she drives
you back, and any cursory questions you can ask her. She'll
be staying at the house, too."
    "What about you?" Westmore asked next and then
wished he hadn't. His reactive flirtation was amateurish,
nothing like hers. "Will you be at the house?"

    "I've never set foot in that house, Mr. Westmore," she
said, then walked away.
    Walking across the street, Westmore remembered what she'd
said earlier, the theme of his job: My husband was preparing for
something he thought could occur in the future. I want to know
what-exactly-it was he ua s preparing for. And I cant to know
when. Remember that above all else.
    "What the hell could this nut have been preparing for?"
he muttered to himself. Then he patted the envelope in his
pocket, the sheaf of money, and lots more to come.
    Who cares? He was not terribly discontent with that acknowledgment. At least I'm being honest when I don't deny
that IT do pretty much anything for money.
    "I'm really in need, brother," a very rough voice said. "I
could use anything you can spare."
    Westmore looked around, didn't see anyone. It was getting dark. Then he looked down and saw a filthy, straggly
man sitting behind the garbage can next to the bus shelter
that Westmore was grateful he wouldn't have to stand in
today.
    Rheumy eyes beseeched him. "Got my leg all shot up in
Iraq."
    Westmore doubted it; the leg jutting from stained shorts
appeared infected from dirty needles. "Sure," he said, and
reached into his pocket. I've got a shitload of money on me, he
reminded himself. Then he gave the bum a $ 100 bill.
    "Is that all ya got?"
    Jesus, Westmore thought and walked on.
    Let's see, she said she'd meet me in the oyster bar, of all places.
He peered through the dark plate glass and saw Karen sitting up at the fine cherry-wood bar. It occurred to him
then that he hadn't walked in here in three years. He'd al ways loved the place because of its posh interior darknessit was harder for him to see his reflection in the mirror behind the liquor shelves.

    A few tables were full but the bar itself stood empty save
for Karen. Oh, that's just great, she's tying one on, he thought.
She tossed back her blonde bangs and took a slug from a
preposterously large martini glass full of glowing-blue ice.
    Westmore winced when he saw what rested just next to
her: two glasses, a Dewar's on the rocks and a ginger ale.
    Now how the hell did she ...
    Karen seemed to be staring at space as she sipped the
massive drink.
    "I'm back," Westmore said.
    "Did I get it right?" She pointed to the two glasses next
to her.
    "Yes, but I don't drink anymore."
    "Oh, I know that. But you always order a scotch and
don't drink it. At your neighborhood bar where you live?
Every night? The Sloppy Heron, the place is called. But
several years ago, you'd skip the ginger ale and drink eight
or ten Dewar's. Same thing here, too, right? This oyster bar
we're sitting in right now? You used to come here a lot,
didn't you?"
    "Yeah. And I used to get tkroum out of here a lot. I'm very
happy that I quit drinking." Westmore sat down with a sigh.
For some reason or other, the meeting with Vivica-however thrilling-left him exhausted now
    "So if you're trying to quit drinking-"
    "Not trying," Westmore corrected her. "I did quit." He
knew what was coming next.
    "Then why do you still go to bars? Why put a drink in
front of you? I'd think the temptation would be overwhelming sometimes."

    "It isn't. And I do it because it helps me think. I'm a
writer. Writers have weird self-rituals." He picked the glass
up, peering into its amber. "I like to look at it. I like to hear
the