Cherry Bomb_ A Siobhan Quinn Novel - Caitlin R. Kiernan Page 0,56

eyes? The sun a white-hot hole punched in Heaven? I kept my head down. When I reached the Central Park West entrance of the museum, there was someone waiting on the granite steps to greet me. The constant reader will not have to be reminded of B’s tastes in ass, the parade of pretty young boys and drag queens and transsexuals he wears like cuff links. That day, the pretty young boy who met me couldn’t have been much older than seventeen, and he had hair the color of pomegranate seeds and eyes such a startling shade of green I knew he was wearing colored contacts. His fake fur coat and lime-green patent-leather go-go boots looked like something stolen off a dead Russian hooker.

“You’re early,” he said.

“You’re observant,” I replied. “I’m guessing you’re the welcoming committee?” I glanced back over my shoulder at the park, all the trees gone red, yellow, brown, gold beneath that bleak November sky.

“Barrett figured you might not have the price of admission,” the boy smiled. He was wearing way too much makeup for a cold Tuesday morning.

“Well, he figured right. But I thought Ballard was the nom du jour.”

“That was yesterday,” said the boy. “Gotta stay current, girlbaby.”

“Fuck you,” I said, and he laughed.

“You’re her,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “You are really and truly her.”

I held up my left hand, all four fingers.

“Oh,” the boy said, “you don’t have to prove it to me, girl. I ain’t no blindtard. All that wicked coming off you like thermonuclear fucking radiation, that shit’s cray. I’m the one oughta be wearing the hater blockers, not you.” And he made a V with his right index and middle fingers and aimed it at my face.

“Yeah, but do you speak English?” I asked, and he laughed.

“Charlee,” he said. “That two e’s. The pleasures all mine, undoubtedly.” He offered his hand, but I didn’t shake it. Never been a big fan of shaking hands.

“He’s inside?” I asked, and climbed a couple more steps so I was standing above the boy.

“That he is,” Charlee with two e’s replied, and he pointed at the bundle in my arms. “Is that what I think it is? Is that the Very Unpleasant News the weirdlies got such a hard-on for?”

“The weirdlies?”

“Yeah, you know. Thing One and Thing Two. The diabolical duo. Heckle and fucking Jeckle.”

I looked down at the bundle, then back up at Charlee, trying to decide if the kid was getting on my nerves, or if maybe I’d finally met one of B’s mollies that I liked. Or, hell, both.

“You wanna see?”

He laughed a nervous laugh and shook his head.

“Fuck no,” he said. “Not in a million years.”

“Then how about you lead the way to Mr. Ballard—”

“Barrett,” he corrected.

“Which the fuck ever.”

A mother shepherding her two brats passed us on their way down the steps, and she glared at me, silently admonishing my potty-mouthed ways.

“Hey, listen,” Charlee said, and he reached out and—very gently—laid a hand on my left elbow. Now, I’m not accustomed to being touched by strangers, and I don’t like it. Truth be told, it makes my skin crawl. But this time, well, this time I let it slide. There was something unexpected in Charlee’s unnaturally blue eyes, and whatever it was, it caught me off guard. It sent a bit of a chill up my spine.

“You’re here to help him, right?” Charlee asked.

“Whatever gave you that idea? I’m here because a rat with wings interrupted my bath.”

“But—”

I frowned and pushed his hand away, climbed a couple more steps towards the heavy brass doors leading into the museum.

“But nothing,” I said. “Listen, you seem a lot brighter than most of B’s fuckbunnies, so I’m assuming you know how shit went between me and him.”

“That was almost five years ago, Quinn.”

“I don’t care if it was thirty years ago. As far as I’m concerned, it was fucking yesterday.”

Charlee stared down at the scuffed toes of his lime-green go-go boots.

“He speaks fondly of you, girlbaby,” he sighed. “Just try not to make it any worse for him, okay?”

My patience, never exactly worth bragging about, was a frayed bit of kite string, pulled way too tight.

“What’s the story, Charlee? Are we gonna stand around out here all day? ’Cause if we are, I’m gonna sit down and have a smoke. My feet hurt.”

He looked back at me, and whatever I’d seen in his eyes was gone, replaced by a practiced indifference meant to keep all the world at arm’s length. But