Cherry Bomb_ A Siobhan Quinn Novel - Caitlin R. Kiernan Page 0,57

I knew what it had been, that glimmer. This kid actually gave a shit about B, beyond the drugs and the money and all the other various and unsavory perks of being the bad man’s toy.

“Gotta admit,” he said, “hard to believe you’re the notorious badass bitch people go on about. Well, what the fuck, right? You like dinosaurs?”

“Not especially,” I told him.

“Then you’re sadly SOL, sister dick. Follow me.”

Which I did. We threaded our way through the noisy crowd, the school groups and tourists, and took the elevator up to the fourth floor, where we found Mean Mr. B waiting beneath the Tyrannosaurus. And I thought then, and I still think now, that if I hadn’t been expecting him, I might not have recognized the man sitting there. To roll out a cliché, he was a ghost of his former self. At best. Had I passed him on the street, I might have had no idea whatsoever that he was him. I looked at Charlee, wishing now that I’d taken time to hear him out back on the steps. No, strike that. Wishing I’d ripped the seagull’s head off its neck before it had a chance to utter a single goddamn word.

“What the fuck?” I whispered.

“Please, Quinn. Just don’t make it any worse,” Charlee whispered back. “You just promise me that.”

I didn’t promise him anything.

I can think of a lot of words to describe how B looked that Tuesday morning: wasted, broken, diminished, et cetera. But none of them seem quite up to the task. It was like seeing someone who’d folded in upon himself. I’d never known the man to be anything except fastidious, a seedy sort of dapper, but he appeared not to have shaved for days, and his gray pinstripe suit was wrinkled, like he’d been sleeping in it. On a park bench. His black hair, usually swept back and pomaded, hung limp and stringy. And he seemed to have aged far more than three years since the day I told him I’d had enough and walked away; B looked like an old man. He was slightly hunched over, sort of hugging himself. I looked at Charlee again and shook my head, and then I got it over with.

“She’s here,” Charlee said, clearly trying to sound happy about it. B looked up and squinted at me. His eyes were the color of dirty dishwater.

“Kitten,” he said, “lose the scarf. You look perfectly ridiculous.”

“You don’t look so hot yourself,” I said and sat down on the bench next to him. Charlee remained standing. I left the scarf on.

B smelled like cheap aftershave, sour sweat, whiskey, and stale cigarette smoke.

“How’d you find me?” I asked him.

“Are we trying to be funny now?” he asked me. “Do you read the papers or watch the news? Have you heard of the internet, kitten? You’re a star, after a fashion. Next time you want the whole world to look at you, hold a press conference.”

“The wolf? It was an accident,” I said.

“It usually is, isn’t it?” He managed a weak, unsteady smile and pointed up at the Apatosaurus. “They’ve ruined this place,” he said.

“What?”

“The museum. Used to be like going to church, it did, coming to visit the ol’ Brontosaurus. Now . . .” and he motioned to the shiny, brightly lit displays, the funhouse clutter of glass and chrome. “It was solemn. Put a right sense of awe into a bloke. Don’t know when the arseholes decided to cock it all up, but this, this is so . . . cold, yeah? Sterile, yeah? And the rug rats, they knew how to behave themselves back when. But that was before your time.” He stopped pointing at the dinosaur and waved his hand at a group of kids giggling over a computer terminal.

“Jesus, B. Never knew you to be the sentimental sort,” I said.

“Yeah, precious, well, there’s a lotta me you ain’t ever seen.”

Neither of us spoke for a few moments. There was just the noise of all the rowdy children, echoing about the crowded exhibit hall.

“B, what’s going on?” I asked finally.

He laughed a tired laugh. “Good day to you, too, Quinn. Long time no fucking see, yeah? How is every little thing?” Then he looked up at Charlee and nodded at me. “Didn’t I tell you? This cunt, she’s all fucking business, through and through. Don’t give a tomtit for pleasantries, our Miss Quinn.”

I wanted a smoke. I considered lighting up. Then I’d be thrown out of the museum,