Green Eyes Page 0,83

benefits of living here,' said Otille. 'I enjoy sponsoring creative enterprise.' She strolled back down to the doorway, beckoning them to follow.

The shining blades of the spotlights skewed wildly across the bobbing heads, stopping to illuminate an island of ecstatic faces, then slicing away. Some of the dancers -both men and women - were naked to the waist, and others wore rags, yet they gave evidence of being well-to-do. Expensive haircuts, jewelry, and many of the rags were of good material, suggesting they had been ripped just for the occasion. Five minutes passed, ten. Jocundra stood with her hand to her mouth, pale, and when he asked her what was wrong, she replied, 'The smoke,' and leaned against the wall. Finally Downey and Papa returned, Simpkins behind them.

'I think I saw him,' said Downey. 'But I couldn't get close. It's like the goddamn stockyards out there.'

'Somebody said he was headed this way,' said Papa; he was huffing and puffing, and it was clear to Donnell that he was exaggerating his winded condition, making sure Otille noticed how diligently he had exerted himself on her behalf.

'I guess we'll have to stop the dancing,' said Otille. 'I'm sorry, Downey.'

Downey waved it off as inconsequential.

'Now, hold up,' said Papa, earnestly addressing the problem. 'I bet if all of us, maybe Brother Harrison here as well, if we all got out there and kinda formed a chain, you know, about five or six feet apart, and went from one end to the other, well, I bet we could flush him that way.'

Otille glanced shyly up at Donnell. 'Would you mind?'

What he read from Otille's face angered Donnell and convinced him that this was to be his induction into petdom, the first move in a petty power play which, if he were nice, would bring him treats, and if he weren't, would earn him abusive treatment. When he had met Otille, her face had held a depth of understanding, intimations of a vivid character, but now it had changed into a porcelain dish beset with candied lips and painted eyes, the face of a precious little girlwho would hold her breath forever if thwarted. And as for the rest, they would go on happily all night trying to tree their kennelmate, delighting in this crummy game of hide-and-seek, woofing, wagging their tails, licking her hand. Except for Simpkins; his smile in place, Simpkins was unreadable.

'Christ!' said Donnell, not hiding his disgust. 'Let me try.'

The ballroom darkened, and the world of the gros bon ange came into view. It was laughable to see these black, jeweled phantoms flailing their arms, shaking their hips, flaunting their clumsy eroticism to the accompaniment of Downey's song. He scanned the crowd, searching for the complex pattern that would single out Dularde; then Otille could loose her hounds, and he and Jocundra could rest. He wondered what Dularde's punishment would be. Banishment? Gruel and water? Perhaps Otille would have him beaten. That would be well within the capacity for cruelty of the spoiled brat who had batted her lashes at him moments before. He swung his gaze up to the makeshift balconies, and there, at the far end of the room, were two figures holding hands and kicking out their legs in unison on the edge of a silver-trimmed platform. Glittering prisms twined in columns around the legs of the taller figure, delineated the musculature of his chest, and fitted a mask to his face.

'There,' said Donnell, adding with all the nastiness he could muster, 'is that your goddamn stray?'

He pointed.

As he did, his elbow locked sharply into place, and his arm snapped forward with more force than he had intended. The lights inside Dularde's body scattered outward and glowed around him so that he presented the silhouette of a man occulting a rainbow. He wavered, staggered to one side, a misstep, lost his grip on his partner, fought for balance, and then, just as Donnell normalized his sight and drew back his arm, Dularde fell.

Hardly anyone noticed. If there were cries of alarm, they could not be heard. But Otille was screaming, 'Turn off the music! Turn it off!' Papa and Simpkins and Downey echoed her, and several of the dancers, seeing it was Otille who shouted, joined in. The outcry swelled, most people not knowing why they were yelling, but yelling in the spirit of fun, urging others to add their voices, until it became a chant. 'Turn off the music! Turn off the music!' At last it was