Page 55 of Body Count

I kept my voice steady as I asked, “Did you know Lola Wheeler?”

“No.”

“That’s a lie.You hired dancers from the Beaver Trap.She was one of them.Then you knocked her around and got off on it.”

“What does she look like?”

I frowned.“Forties.Blond—well, it’s a wig.Big chest.”

“Big chest,” he said with a little laugh, and for some reason, I blushed.“I remember her.I didn’t know her name.I certainly wouldn’t say I know her.”

“Did you become physical with her?”

“That can have so many meanings.”

“Did you hurt her?”

“Yes.”

The response left me flat-footed again, and again, I had the sense that some internal system was offline, that I had made a mistake, coming here, that I should come back—or that someone else should come back—and do this another time.

“Are you an only child?”Sunny asked.His tone was polite, interested.Like we were stuck together, and he was passing the time.

I had to fight that same urge to be stubborn.Finally I said, “Yes.So, you admit to injuring Lola Wheeler while she was working for you as a dancer?”

“I told you I hurt her.I wouldn’t say I injured her.I’m a sadist, but I wouldn’t have caused her any lasting harm.Cosmetic, mostly.Bruises.Sometimes, I cut.”

The image swam up to me of Tip, that night at the party: staggering out from between the cars, that little blue jock sliding down one hip, his face a bloody mess where bits of glass glittered like trapped starlight.The memory disoriented me, and when I came back to myself, I felt like it had been a long time, and I caught myself holding my breath.

“Are you all right?”Sunny asked.

I shook my head at the question.“Did you know Tip went to the Beaver Trap to find out who had hurt his mother?”

“No.”And then, “What’s your relationship like with your father?”

“The fuck?”

He burst out laughing.“Not an easy question to answer.All right.Tell me one good memory of your father.”

“My best memories of my dad were when he was so drunk he passed out in front of the TV.How’s that?”

“Trite.And predictable.And boring.A good memory, please.”

“What the fuck do you think this is?”

“What did you call it?An informal interview?”

“Answer the question: did you know Tip went to the Beaver Trap?”

“Answer mine.”

The room seemed impossibly quiet for a house full of people; I couldn’t hear anything but the hiss of white noise.

“He took me to a Chiefs game.”

“How old were you?”

I shook my head, but I said, “Six.Seven.”

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