Dead by Any Other Name by Sebastian Stuart Page A

years younger, Sally pitted us against each other, we were sent away to different boarding schools. I kind of idolized Natasha, I mean she was pretty cool, she used to send me letters from school, funny shit, she called me Sis Kid, and at holidays we would have some fun together.” She plopped down on a sofa and ran her hand over the fabric; I got the feeling she was holding out on me.
    â€œWhat about your dad?”
    â€œWhat about him?” she said, quick, defensive.
    â€œDid he and Natasha get along?”
    She was silent for a moment and then said quietly, “You’d have to ask him. … Were you close with her?”
    â€œI only met her once, the day before she died, but she made an impression, I liked her a lot.”
    â€œOh, I loved her and all that, but, you know …” She leapt up, opened the shop door and flicked her cigarette out into the street. “These boots are Versace, I got them at Housing Works, forty bucks.”
    â€œWhen did you last see her?”
    â€œA few months ago.” She walked over to a display case, “Is this her jewelry?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œIt’s gorgeous, it reminds me of her. Can I have it?”
    â€œI told your folks I’d send them a check for it.”
    â€œFuck them. They shit money.” She looked at me, clenching her jaw. “Send them less. Their checks go right to an accountant. They’ll never notice. What do you think—they’re going to come after you?”
    â€œI think it’s between you and them.”
    â€œWell, I’d call them up except I don’t have their cell numbers.”
    â€œWhat about their land line?”
    â€œThey don’t have a land line. I mean they do, but it’s to their office and their manager’s secretary answers it.” She sat down again, lit a fresh cigarette, and looked like she was about to cry. “I haven’t had an acting gig in awhile, I’m twenty-five fucking years old and living on ether, I could sell this jewelry in the city for decent cash.” She eyeballed me—her need acute, her sadness infinite.
    â€œGo ahead, take the jewelry.”
    She went over to the case and opened it, stuck the cigarette between her lips and shoveled the jewelry into her bag. “Oh man, you don’t know how much I appreciate this.” She came over and gave me a quick hug, I could feel her bones, then she just about ran out of the store, cigarette dangling from her mouth, reaching into her bag, pulling out her cell.
    Sputnik watched her go, then turned and gave me a questioning look.

twenty-three
    Mad John and I drove deep into the Catskills. It’s strange and beautiful up there, towns so small and empty that they almost feel abandoned, a smattering of farms, prefabs with plastic over the windows, gorgeous mountains and streams—there’s something scary about all the openness, beauty tinged with terror, Night of the Living Dead in Brigadoon .
    Mad John had brought a machete and was in high spirits.
    â€œWhere we going?” he asked.
    â€œTo a whorehouse.”
    â€œDo they take checks?”
    We laughed. “No handling the merchandise, young man. I want to scope the place out, get a sense of how it operates, take some pictures. What I’d really like is to get inside and find the little black book.”
    The afternoon was waning, the light growing denser, the air pouring in the car windows drier than down in the valley, with each mile it got more remote and rural; out here there was no one to hear you scream. Men drove into this isolation to get tied up, beaten, humiliated, away from the eyes of their wives and girlfriends, of the world, of themselves. It would be a whole lot healthier if they’d just get their wives to do the beating—I’d worked with clients who’d revealed their secret lusts to their spouses, who were usually happy to oblige. But I guess healthy wasn’t what these men