Chicago, try to keep an eye out for Faxon and Maggio, for whatever good it’ll do.” He got up from the table. “Want help with the dishes?”
Maggie dismissed them with a wave. “Dump them in the sink and let ’em soak. They’ll keep. You won’t.”
They took what was left of the wine back to the living room, and Maggie lit a couple of candles instead of turning on the lights. This time they both sat on the couch. Ho Chi Minh came over and hopped into Maggie’s lap, where he settled himself with a proprietary disdain. She stroked his cream-covered fur as they talked, but he was too proud to purr.
“I’m going on to Chicago from here,” Sandy said. “Maggio lives down in Old Town and plays weekends for some sleazo bar band. Maybe he can tell me something.” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “And I’ve got another idea too, one I wanted to ask you about. When was the last time you heard from Bambi Lassiter?”
Maggie gave him a sharp look and a smile. “Oh,” she said, “maybe a year or so back. I got the letter around here somewhere.” She gave a vague wave toward the bookcase, which was stacked full of ratty paperbacks, and Sandy peered at it and noticed for the first time that she had letters and envelopes and various other random papers stuck in among the books, some lying on the shelves, others doing duty as placemarks. “What do you want with Bambi?” she asked.
“I tried phoning her, but my number is six years old and useless, and I’ve got no leads to track her down,” Sandy said. “Bambi always had contacts with the real underground, and I’m hoping she can put me in touch. I’ve got a hunch.”
“There’s hardly any underground left,” Maggie pointed out. “Why would they be involved?”
Sandy shrugged. “Don’t know. But they found plastic explosive in the Gopher Hole, remember? That’s enough to make me suspicious. It can’t hurt to check it out.”
“I suppose not,” Maggie said. “I’ll hunt around for that letter before you leave.” She carefully evicted Ho Chi Minh from her lap, kicked off her slippers, and stretched out, laying her feet in Sandy’s lap. It was done without a word being exchanged, an old and familiar and comfortable sort of motion that took Sandy right back. He put his hand on her foot. She had never been much of one for wearing shoes. There was a thick ridge of callus on the outside of her big toe, and a pad of it, hard and leathery and starting to crack, all along the underside of the foot itself. He traced it with a finger, took her foot firmly in hand and began to massage it. His fingers remembered. Maggie sighed. “Jesus, I love that,” she said. “You were the best damn foot-rubber I ever had, Sandy.”
He smiled at her and kept up his ministrations. “We all have our talents,” he said. Then they fell quiet. Ho Chi Minh came back and hopped up on the couch and settled in again on Maggie’s stomach. Finally he began to purr as she stroked him. Maggie sipped wine from time to time and stared off at the candle flames with a small crooked smile on her face. And Sandy rubbed her foot and fell to thinking.
“You’re looking pensive,” Maggie observed at last.
“Remembering,” Sandy said. He shifted his attentions to her other foot.
“Remembering what?”
He smiled. “Oh, other days, other apartments, other foot-rubs.” He paused and reached for his wine glass and held it up briefly in front of the flame before he took a sip. “I remember when wine parties at your place meant drinking Boone’s Farm out of Flintstone jelly glasses,” he said. “And sitting on the floor, too. You didn’t have any furniture except that black bean-bag chair that Ho Chi Minh used to spray on all the time.”
“I had cushions,” Maggie said. “Made them myself.”
“Cushions,” Sandy said. “Yeah, right. I was never any damn good at sitting cross-legged. My feet always went to sleep. I was worse at eating off a plate balanced in my lap.
Maggie dismissed them with a wave. “Dump them in the sink and let ’em soak. They’ll keep. You won’t.”
They took what was left of the wine back to the living room, and Maggie lit a couple of candles instead of turning on the lights. This time they both sat on the couch. Ho Chi Minh came over and hopped into Maggie’s lap, where he settled himself with a proprietary disdain. She stroked his cream-covered fur as they talked, but he was too proud to purr.
“I’m going on to Chicago from here,” Sandy said. “Maggio lives down in Old Town and plays weekends for some sleazo bar band. Maybe he can tell me something.” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “And I’ve got another idea too, one I wanted to ask you about. When was the last time you heard from Bambi Lassiter?”
Maggie gave him a sharp look and a smile. “Oh,” she said, “maybe a year or so back. I got the letter around here somewhere.” She gave a vague wave toward the bookcase, which was stacked full of ratty paperbacks, and Sandy peered at it and noticed for the first time that she had letters and envelopes and various other random papers stuck in among the books, some lying on the shelves, others doing duty as placemarks. “What do you want with Bambi?” she asked.
“I tried phoning her, but my number is six years old and useless, and I’ve got no leads to track her down,” Sandy said. “Bambi always had contacts with the real underground, and I’m hoping she can put me in touch. I’ve got a hunch.”
“There’s hardly any underground left,” Maggie pointed out. “Why would they be involved?”
Sandy shrugged. “Don’t know. But they found plastic explosive in the Gopher Hole, remember? That’s enough to make me suspicious. It can’t hurt to check it out.”
“I suppose not,” Maggie said. “I’ll hunt around for that letter before you leave.” She carefully evicted Ho Chi Minh from her lap, kicked off her slippers, and stretched out, laying her feet in Sandy’s lap. It was done without a word being exchanged, an old and familiar and comfortable sort of motion that took Sandy right back. He put his hand on her foot. She had never been much of one for wearing shoes. There was a thick ridge of callus on the outside of her big toe, and a pad of it, hard and leathery and starting to crack, all along the underside of the foot itself. He traced it with a finger, took her foot firmly in hand and began to massage it. His fingers remembered. Maggie sighed. “Jesus, I love that,” she said. “You were the best damn foot-rubber I ever had, Sandy.”
He smiled at her and kept up his ministrations. “We all have our talents,” he said. Then they fell quiet. Ho Chi Minh came back and hopped up on the couch and settled in again on Maggie’s stomach. Finally he began to purr as she stroked him. Maggie sipped wine from time to time and stared off at the candle flames with a small crooked smile on her face. And Sandy rubbed her foot and fell to thinking.
“You’re looking pensive,” Maggie observed at last.
“Remembering,” Sandy said. He shifted his attentions to her other foot.
“Remembering what?”
He smiled. “Oh, other days, other apartments, other foot-rubs.” He paused and reached for his wine glass and held it up briefly in front of the flame before he took a sip. “I remember when wine parties at your place meant drinking Boone’s Farm out of Flintstone jelly glasses,” he said. “And sitting on the floor, too. You didn’t have any furniture except that black bean-bag chair that Ho Chi Minh used to spray on all the time.”
“I had cushions,” Maggie said. “Made them myself.”
“Cushions,” Sandy said. “Yeah, right. I was never any damn good at sitting cross-legged. My feet always went to sleep. I was worse at eating off a plate balanced in my lap.
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