Free All the Dead Yale Men by Craig Nova

and I stripped off the shit-stained pants, put on the sweats and a clean shirt she had left out, too, then took the dirty things and put them in a hamper for the dry cleaning that was at the back of the kitchen.
    We had a drink and sat side by side. The warmth rose between us, just from the touch of one thigh against another, and it seemed to me that this was just as good as words, or maybe even better: warmth, touch, understanding.
    Guano was still under my nails, and in the bathroom downstairs, I used the lavender-scented soap, but it didn’t work. The stink lingered like some bad memory. My fingers had little green-white new moons at the tip.
    â€œWe need some Lava soap,” I said.
    We let the warmth build between us.
    â€œCal and I had some good times together,” I said. “We were going to change the world.”
    â€œThat’s the best kind of friend,” she said.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “They get disappointed.”
    â€œSo,” she said. This was the opening for the game. That’s the way we were going to handle this. “He did it because of money?”
    â€œOne,” I said. “That’s a one. The bottom.”
    â€œHe was cross-dressing and got caught,” she said.
    â€œOne,” I said. “Not even close.”
    â€œHis wife was sleeping with someone else,” she said.
    â€œWarmer. Say three.”
    â€œAh, so it’s the wife.”
    â€œSort of,” I said. “Or, at least, that’s where it began. He wanted her to do something with him. She didn’t want to. He was watching a clip at the office . . . ”
    â€œA clip of what?” she said.
    â€œWhat he wanted the wife to do . . . ,” I said.
    â€œHer name is Ginny, right? Pretty uptight if you ask me,” she said. “But what did he want?”
    I whispered in her ear.
    â€œUh-oh,” she said.
    â€œWell, the thing is, he was watching the clip, you know, a woman doing what he wanted, and Blaine came in and saw it, too.”
    â€œOh, Jesus,” she said. “He went to see Martha Bingham. I’d bet anything. Why . . . ”
    â€œCal asked him not to,” I said.
    â€œWell, sure,” said Alexandra. “That probably made it better for Blaine. Don’t you think?”
    â€œThat’s a nine,” I said. “Then Lady Martha, on the advice of the publicity director, to stay ahead of the wave, called the Globe . Next thing you know I was sitting with my best friend in pigeon shit. Then he slipped through my fingers.” I swallowed. Almost. At least I had that first ache, down there beneath the larynx. But it didn’t come to anything.
    I gave her the index card with the drawing of the naked woman on it.
    â€œWhat do you think this is?”
    â€œThis?” she said. “Why you poor mutt. This is a twenty-celon note. The Raver gives them out when he quotes Marcus Aurelius.”
    â€œThat’s ten,” I said.
    I closed my eyes. Cal turned in the air, the birds around him, the scent of the harbor and those layers of smoke.
    â€œBut listen,” she said. “We don’t have to worry about you doing anything like that, do we? I mean for the trouble you’re in. For our troubles?”
    â€œIt’s nice that you think of them as our troubles,” I said.
    â€œWell, let me tell you,” she said. “Those people are going to have to deal with me, too. If they try anything.”
    â€œThey’ll try,” I said.
    â€œThat’s what I’m afraid of. Maybe I’ll buy a gun.”
    â€œWe’ve got a case, right over there,” I said. In the corner of the room sat a small closet of Mannlichers and L.C. Smith shotguns, firearms I had inherited from my father and grandfather.
    â€œI meant a handgun,” she said.
    â€œWell, my father’s .45, his service sidearm, is going to be ours soon.”
    â€œThat’s more what I had in mind,” she