Lair of Dreams
Page 13

“No class a’tall,” Evie tutted on her way past.
She threw open the door. Two policemen flanked the hotel manager. Evie managed a big smile even though her head ached. “Oh, hello! I hope you’ve brought ice. We’ve run out.”
The manager muscled his way in. “The party is over, Miss O’Neill,” he said with barely suppressed fury. “Everyone out! Now! Or I’ll have you all thrown in jail.”
A boozy exhale escaped Evie’s lips, momentarily lifting a curl that immediately fell into her eyes again. “You heard Papa. Better get a wiggle on, everybody.”
Drunken party guests gathered misshapen hats, loose shoes, bow ties, and stockings, and shuffled through the door after the police. Sam left with the Hungarian circus girl in tow.
“She’s too tall for you,” Evie hissed.
“I’ll bet she can bend,” Sam shot back with a grin.
Evie kicked him in the behind.
The manager handed Evie a folded note.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“An eviction notice, Miss O’Neill. You have until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning to vacate these premises permanently.”
“Eleven o’clock? Gee. But that’s before noon!”
“I weep,” the manager said, turning on his heel. “Sleep tight, Miss O’Neill.”
Theta grabbed her wrap and headed for the door, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, pal, she’s well on her way to being tight.”
At the door, Evie grabbed Theta’s arm. “Say, Theta, what were you telling me before the cops came?”
Theta’s big brown eyes showed worry for just a second. Then she let the tough-girl mask slide back into place. “Nothing, Evil. Just hot air. Get some sleep. I’ll tell Jericho you say hello.”
When the last guest had cleared out, Evie stumbled to the window and opened it, breathing in the cold night air as she stared at the neat window squares of light and thought of all the lives taking place behind them.
Why did Theta have to mention Jericho?
Evie had petted with lots of boys. Her world was good times. It spun like a roulette wheel. Boys were fun. Boys were playtime. Boys were distractions. Jericho was not a boy.
Just now, with the room emptied of revelers and the prospect of the long, hollow night looming, Evie craved the comfort of another human being. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to him, would it? she reasoned as she fumbled the hotel phone from its cradle.
“Good eee-ve-ning,” she said to the operator, the alcohol suddenly thickening her tongue so that she had to work to sober up her speech. “I’d liiike to place a caaall to Bradford… eight-ohhh-five-niiine, pleeease.”
Evie wrapped the telephone cord around her index finger as the operator made the connection. Probably Jericho was sleeping, or perhaps he was out with another girl having the time of his life, not thinking about her at all. What if Uncle Will answered the phone?
What was she doing?
Evie slurred into the receiver, “Nev’r mind, op’rator. Cancel this call, please,” and quickly hung up.
A collection of spent bootleg bottles, half-spilled cups, and overflowing ashtrays covered the top of the bed. Evie was too tired to clean it up. Instead, she grabbed the silk coverlet from the chaise and curled up on the floor like a child. She’d lied to Theta about the dreams. They still came, bewildering, stained in horror. The soldiers. The explosions. The strange eye symbol. And on the worst nights, Evie dreamed she was still trapped in that house of horrors with John Hobbes whistling down the stairs while the wraiths of the Brethren poured from the walls.
“Ghosts. Hate ghosts. They are terrible… terrible people,” Evie mumbled sleepily, her head spinning as it rested on the rug. For a moment, her hand strayed to her neck again, searching for a comfort that was no longer there.
After leaving the Grant, Henry had found a little club, where he played piano until the wee hours. It was inching toward three by the time Henry let himself into the tiny flat he shared with Theta at the Bennington Apartments. He peeked through the crack in Theta’s bedroom door and saw that she was fast asleep with her silk mask over her eyes to block out the haze of city bright that crept through the windows despite the shades. Henry shut her door and made his way to the small card table awash in onionskin sheet music filled with his blotchy notations and unfinished lyrics. In the center of the table was an old coffee can marked HENRY’S PIANO FUND. For well over a year, Theta had been stuffing it with every dollar and bit of change she could spare to pay Henry back for taking care of her when she had needed it most. He stared at the song he’d been trying to get right for the better part of a week, then slumped into his chair.