Silk

Daria’s face, lip busted and sneering, teeth stained red with her blood and Spyder’s, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you,” from her mouth, and then Theo was hauling Daria off and the toe of Spyder’s right boot had slammed into her unprotected stomach. She gagged, wrestled free of Theo’s grip and vomited on the floor, pure liquid gout of alcohol and bile that spattered them all.

“Christ,” Theo said, and Niki, leaning over Spyder now, shielding Spyder, had said only “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” again and again.

“Just get her the hell out of here, Niki,” Theo said, her arms around Daria’s shoulders as she’d heaved again. “Or I’m go

“She didn’t mean it-” Niki began, but Theo interrupted her: “Now!” she said, and Niki had helped Spyder up off the mattress, stepped in the way when Spyder tried to kick Daria again and caught the boot herself.

“Get her out of here, Niki!”

And Spyder growling, spitting bloodpink foam, and she’d said, “I’m not done with you, bitch,” last word like tearing fabric, and Daria could only cramp and listen and stare into the spreading pool of her puke.

“What the hell was that,” Theo said, and Daria shook her head, like she had no idea. The fury had already left her, left her scraped raw with a little stream of vomit from both her nostrils, her gut aching, throat and acid-burned sinuses on fire. When she could talk, “Make them all leave, Theo. Find Mort and make them all leave.” And Theo had obeyed, reluctant, but doing it anyway; Daria sat back against the wall again, stared out at the confused crowd through watering eyes. They were trying not to stare at her, most of them, a few already being herded out the door by Mort and Theo. Someone had turned off the music. And then she’d closed her eyes and waited to be alone.

4.

Half an hour later, or an hour, outside Keith’s building, locking the door and feeling like crap. Sick and drunk and bruised. Mort and Theo hadn’t wanted to leave her, had offered to give her a lift back over to Morris, demanded finally, but she’d said the walk would do her good, that the air would help clear her head. And they’d gone reluctantly, leaving her to stuff the bottles of booze scattered around the apartment, the cans of beer, into a paper bag, leaving her to turn off the lights one last time and lock the door behind her. She’d stuck a couple of other things in the bag, too full, ready to tear and spill everything, grocery-brown paper, just some guitar picks from the floor, a t-shirt and a couple of his cassette tapes. Random souvenirs.

The key made a sound like ice or a camera click.

And when she’d turned around, he’d been standing across the alley watching her; she’d thought it was Keith for an instant, impossible, dizzy instant, had almost dropped the clinking bag. But it wasn’t him, wasn’t anyone she’d recognized at first.

“What the hell do you want,” she’d said, sounding as drunk as she was, sounding like a drunken old whore, and he’d looked both ways, nervous, up and down the alley, before crossing to stand closer to Daria. Tall, lanky boy with brown hair and a Bauhaus shirt showing under his leather jacket. Someone she’d seen with Spyder from time to time at Dr. Jekyll’s, one of the shrikes.

“Before,” he said. “When I called, I didn’t know,” and then she’d recognized the voice, too, shaky and scared, cartoon scaredy-cat voice from the phone. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” she said.

“I needed to talk to him.”

“Too late for that,” and she’d handed him the bag. “Did Spyder send you around to kick my ass?”

He looked down at the bag, back at Daria, drawing a perfect blank with his eyes. “What?”

“Do you have a name?”

“Walter,” he’d said, shifted the bag in his arms, “Walter Ayers. I used to be a friend of Spyder Baxter’s…”

“‘Used to be’?” and she’d started walking, him following a few steps behind, the bag noisier than their footfalls in the long empty alleyway.

“I think that’s what she’d say, if you asked her,” he said, walking faster to catch up. “I’m pretty sure that’s what she’d say.”

“Spyder seems to have her little heart set on burning bridges these days,” and she’d touched her swollen lip, but the pain couldn’t quite reach through the boozy haze, far-off sensation, like the cold all around.

“She thinks I had something to do with what happened to Robin,” he said.

“Robin? Spyder’s girlfriend?” Daria stopped, and the shrike stopped, too.

“Yeah,” and he’d looked back the way they’d come, anxious eyes, anxious tired face.

“Did you?” but he hadn’t answered, just stared back down the alley like he thought they were being followed.

“Why’d you want to talk to Keith?” and that hurt, his name out loud, from her lips, little cattle-prod jolt of pain right to the fruitbruise soft spot inside her, the place the wine and beer couldn’t numb.

Walter shrugged and hadn’t looked at her.

“I thought maybe he would help, because of that night in the parking lot, when he stuck up for Spyder and Robin. I thought he might know what to do.”

“You’re losin’ me, Walter.”

“Who was the girl that left with Spyder tonight?” he’d asked, changing the subject, starting to piss her off. “The Japanese girl?”

“Her name’s Niki, and she’s not Japanese. She’s Vietnamese and she’s Spyder’s new girl. She moved in with Spyder a couple of weeks ago.”

“Is she a friend of yours?”

Daria had thought about that a second, thought about all the shit that had gone down in the weeks since Niki Ky walked into the Bean, almost a month now, and if she were superstitious…

“Yeah, she’s a friend of mine,” she answered.

“Then you ought to know that she’s in danger.”

And Daria remembered the welts on the back of Niki’s hands, like someone had begun a game of tic-tac-toe on her skin with a branding iron, like the ink in Spyder’s skin.

“Spyder’s not right,” he said.

“Spyder Baxter’s a fucking froot-loop,” Daria said and now she was staring back down the alley, trying to see what he saw, what he was afraid of.

“No. I don’t mean about her being crazy. I mean, she’s not right.”

“Walter, will you please just tell me what the hell you’re talking about and stop with the damn tap dancing?”

And back in the shadows, then, a garbage can had fallen over, bang, and the sound of metal and rolling glass on asphalt, before something dark and fast had streaked across the alley. Walter almost dropped the bag, and she’d taken it from him.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? It was just a cat, or a dog, for Christ’s sake…”

“Spyder’s not right,” he said again, like maybe she’d understand if he repeated it enough times, “and if you care about your friend, you’ll keep her away from that house. Robin knew, and she tried to tell us, and now she’s dead. And Byron believed her, and no one knows where the hell he is.”

“I think I’m way too drunk for this shit,” she’d said. and started walking again. Walter hadn’t moved.

“I’ll wait a day or two,” he’d said as she’d walked away. “Just a day or two, and then I’ve gotta leave. If you want to talk, I’ll be around.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” she’d muttered, not caring if he heard, just wanting to be back in her apartment, just wanting another drink.

And the last thing, before she’d stepped out of the alley and into the cold-comfort glare of streetlights: “I’m not crazy,” he’d said. “I swear to God, Daria. I’m not crazy.”