feasting on boy virgins - is this the guitar lady's place or not?'
She tapped her foot. Rolled her shoulders. Her left eye ticced. Her features were unremarkable but might've
been pleasant if she'd relaxed. Some of the pallor came from ashy pancake makeup, laid on thick, and set off by kohl-darkened lids. The rest implied unhealthy habits.
Black ink tats - snaky, abstract images - covered what I could see of her left arm. A blue-and-black iron cross marked the right side of her face, where the jawline met the earlobe. Both ears sagged under an assortment of rings and plugs. All that and the eyebrow pierces and the nose studs said Notice Me. Her blue, pinpoint Oxford button-down shirt implied a forage in Daddy's Ivy League closet. The shirt was tucked into a plaid miniskirt - the kind parochial schoolgirls are compelled to wear. Topped off by white knee socks stuffed into high, laced combat boots, the outfit said, Don't even try to figure it out.
"The guitar lady's out back,' I said.
'Where out back? I'm not prancing around without knowing. This place freaks me out.'
'Why?'
'There could be coyotes or some other shit.'
'Coyotes come out at night.'
'So do I - c'mon, man, my eyes hurt, show me.'
I walked her down the terrace steps, around to the side of the house, and through the garden. She had very little stamina and was breathing hard by the time we reached the pond. As we approached the water, she overtook me and raced ahead, swinging the gig bag. Stopped and stared at the koi.
'Big fish,' she said. 'All-you-can-eat sushi orgy?'
'Be an expensive meal,' I said.
A grin turned her crooked mouth straight. 'Hey, Mr Yuppie, no need to reach for the Xanax, I'm not gonna
steal your little babies. I'm a voodgetarian.' She eyed the landscaping, licked her lips. 'All this yummy yuppie greenery - so where is she?'
I pointed to the studio.
She said, 'Okay, dollar-boy, you did your good deed for the day, go back to the stock pages,' and turned her back on me.
Hours later, when Robin came into the house, alone, I said, 'Charming clientele you've got.'
'Oh, her,' she said. 'That's China Maranga. She shrieks in a band.'
"Which one?'
'China Whiteboy.'
'Squirt and Brancusi,' I said, remembering two skinny guys with cheap electrics.
'They're the ones ratted me out to her. We're going to have a little chat.'
She stretched and went into the bedroom to change. I poured myself a Chivas and brought her a glass of wine.
'Thanks, I can use that.'
We sat on the bed and drank. I said, 'Does the young lady shriek well?'
'She's got great range. From nails on chalkboard to nails on chalkboard even harder. She doesn't play, just swings her guitar around, like she wants to hurt someone. Last night, she assaulted a mike stand, and the neck broke off. I kept telling her it wasn't worth fixing, but she began crying.'
'Literally?'
'Real tears - stomping her feet like a spoiled little kid. I should've sent her to talk to you.'
'Outside my expertise.'
She put down her glass and ran her fingers through my hair. 'I'm charging her my max fee to bolt on one of those Fender necks I got at the bulk sale and taking my time about it. Next week, she'll have something even uglier to ruin, and she'd better pay cash. Now enough of this chitchat and let's get down to business.'
'What business is that?'
'Something well within the range of your expertise.'
When China came by to pick up the guitar a week later, I was in the studio having coffee with Robin.
This time she wore a greasy motorcycle jacket over a long lace dress, once white, now soup-bone beige. Pink satin high-heeled pumps. A black tarn o' shanter capped the black spikes.
Robin fetched the hybridized Vox. 'Here you go.'
China held the
She tapped her foot. Rolled her shoulders. Her left eye ticced. Her features were unremarkable but might've
been pleasant if she'd relaxed. Some of the pallor came from ashy pancake makeup, laid on thick, and set off by kohl-darkened lids. The rest implied unhealthy habits.
Black ink tats - snaky, abstract images - covered what I could see of her left arm. A blue-and-black iron cross marked the right side of her face, where the jawline met the earlobe. Both ears sagged under an assortment of rings and plugs. All that and the eyebrow pierces and the nose studs said Notice Me. Her blue, pinpoint Oxford button-down shirt implied a forage in Daddy's Ivy League closet. The shirt was tucked into a plaid miniskirt - the kind parochial schoolgirls are compelled to wear. Topped off by white knee socks stuffed into high, laced combat boots, the outfit said, Don't even try to figure it out.
"The guitar lady's out back,' I said.
'Where out back? I'm not prancing around without knowing. This place freaks me out.'
'Why?'
'There could be coyotes or some other shit.'
'Coyotes come out at night.'
'So do I - c'mon, man, my eyes hurt, show me.'
I walked her down the terrace steps, around to the side of the house, and through the garden. She had very little stamina and was breathing hard by the time we reached the pond. As we approached the water, she overtook me and raced ahead, swinging the gig bag. Stopped and stared at the koi.
'Big fish,' she said. 'All-you-can-eat sushi orgy?'
'Be an expensive meal,' I said.
A grin turned her crooked mouth straight. 'Hey, Mr Yuppie, no need to reach for the Xanax, I'm not gonna
steal your little babies. I'm a voodgetarian.' She eyed the landscaping, licked her lips. 'All this yummy yuppie greenery - so where is she?'
I pointed to the studio.
She said, 'Okay, dollar-boy, you did your good deed for the day, go back to the stock pages,' and turned her back on me.
Hours later, when Robin came into the house, alone, I said, 'Charming clientele you've got.'
'Oh, her,' she said. 'That's China Maranga. She shrieks in a band.'
"Which one?'
'China Whiteboy.'
'Squirt and Brancusi,' I said, remembering two skinny guys with cheap electrics.
'They're the ones ratted me out to her. We're going to have a little chat.'
She stretched and went into the bedroom to change. I poured myself a Chivas and brought her a glass of wine.
'Thanks, I can use that.'
We sat on the bed and drank. I said, 'Does the young lady shriek well?'
'She's got great range. From nails on chalkboard to nails on chalkboard even harder. She doesn't play, just swings her guitar around, like she wants to hurt someone. Last night, she assaulted a mike stand, and the neck broke off. I kept telling her it wasn't worth fixing, but she began crying.'
'Literally?'
'Real tears - stomping her feet like a spoiled little kid. I should've sent her to talk to you.'
'Outside my expertise.'
She put down her glass and ran her fingers through my hair. 'I'm charging her my max fee to bolt on one of those Fender necks I got at the bulk sale and taking my time about it. Next week, she'll have something even uglier to ruin, and she'd better pay cash. Now enough of this chitchat and let's get down to business.'
'What business is that?'
'Something well within the range of your expertise.'
When China came by to pick up the guitar a week later, I was in the studio having coffee with Robin.
This time she wore a greasy motorcycle jacket over a long lace dress, once white, now soup-bone beige. Pink satin high-heeled pumps. A black tarn o' shanter capped the black spikes.
Robin fetched the hybridized Vox. 'Here you go.'
China held the
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