can keep my looks up to the end. I could buy a little time if I gave up drugs like this”—she waved the cigarette, and an ash fell on Wolf’s chest. He brushed it away quickly— “and the white powder, and anything else that makes life worth living. But it wouldn’t buy me enough time to do anything worth doing.” She fell silent. “Hey. What time is it?”
Wolf climbed out of bed, rummaged through his clothing until he found his timepiece. He held it up to the window, squinted. “Um. Twelve . . . fourteen.”
“Oh, nukes.” Cynthia was up and scrabbling for her clothes. “Come on, get dressed. Don’t just stand there.”
Wolf dressed himself slowly. “What’s the problem?”
“I promised Maggie I’d get some people together to walk her back from that damned reunion. It ended hours ago, and I lost track of the time.” She ignored his grin. “Ready? Come on, we’ll check her room first and then the foyer. God, is she going to be mad.”
They found Maggie in the foyer. She stood in the center of the room, haggard and bedraggled, her handbag hanging loosely from one hand. Her face was livid with rage. The sputtering lamp made her face look old and evil.
“Well!” she snarled. “Where have you two been?”
“In my room, balling,” Cynthia said calmly. Wolf stared at her, appalled.
“Well, that’s just beautiful. That’s really beautiful, isn’t it? Do you know where I’ve been while my two best friends were upstairs humping their brains out? Hey? Do you want to know?” Her voice reached hysterical peak. “I was being raped by two jennie-deafs, that’s where!”
She stormed past them, half-cocking her arm as if she were going to assault them with her purse, then thinking better of it. They heard her run down the hall. Her door slammed.
Bewildered, Wolf said, “But I—”
“Don’t let her dance on your head,” Cynthia said. “She’s lying.”
“Are you certain?”
“Look, we’ve lived together, bedded the same men—I know her. She’s all hacked off at not having an escort home. And Little Miss Sunshine has to spread the gloom.”
“We should have been there,” Wolf said dubiously. “She could have been killed, walking home alone.”
“Whether Maggie dies a month early or not doesn’t make a bit of difference to me, pilgrim. I’ve got my own problems.”
“A month—? Is Maggie suffering from a disease too?”
“We’re all suffering, we all—Ah, the hell with you too.” Cynthia spat on the floor, spun on her heel, and disappeared down the hallway. It had the rhythm and inevitability of a witch’s curse.
The half-day trip to New York left the troupe with playtime before the first concert, but Maggie stayed in seclusion, drinking. There was talk about her use of drugs, and this alarmed Wolf, for they were all users of drugs themselves.
There was also gossip about the reunion. Some held that Maggie had dazzled her former friends—who had not treated her well in her younger years—had been glamorous and gracious. The predominant view, however, was that she had been soundly snubbed, that she was still a freak and an oddity in the eyes of her former contemporaries. That she had left the reunion alone.
Rumors flew about the liaison between Wolf and Cynthia too. The fact that she avoided him only fed the speculation.
Despite everything the New York City concerts were a roaring success. All four shows were sold out as soon as tickets went on sale. Scalpers made small fortunes that week, and for the first time the concerts were allowed to run into the evening. Power was diverted from a section of the city to allow for the lighting and amplification. And Maggie sang as she had never sung before. Her voice roused the audience to a frenzy, and her blues were enough to break a hermit’s heart.
They left for Hartford on the tenth, Maggie sequestered in her compartment in the last car. Crew members lounged about idly. Some strummed guitars, never quite breaking into a recognizable tune. Others talked quietly. Hawk flipped tarot cards into a heap, one at a time.
“Hey, this place is fucking dead!” Maggie was suddenly in the car, her expression an odd combination of defiance and guilt. “Let’s party! Hey? Let’s hear some music.” She fell into Hawk’s lap and nibbled on an ear.
“Welcome back, Maggie,” somebody said.
“Janis!” she shouted happily. “The lady’s name is Janis!”
Like a rusty machine starting up, the party came to life. Music jelled. Voices became animated. Bottles of alcohol appeared and were passed around. And for the remainder of