I'd Rather Go Blind

28th May 1958

Well, dear diary, I think that went well! Oh, I cannot wait to tell you, mon bien-aimé.

You see, the day after my half-drink with Alastor, I re-entered Darcy's before it was open, somewhat burglarizing the door. The good proprietor was wiping a sticky table-top as I approached.

"Oh God, not you," he said.

Because we were chummy once, I let that slide. You should understand, dear diary: occasionally, I include a fellow in my circle who talks straight and vulgar. Generally, we can agree that the truth hurts, and therefore, that which hurts is the invaluable truth. The trouble is... how can I put this? My sensibilities can be irrevocably injured, often on the swing of a pendulum. I cannot help it; and when it happens, I grow tired of straight-talking. It must go — immediately.

Anyway, back to Darcy! I smiled and twirled my parasol. "Morning, sweetpea! Apologies for ambushing you at this hour... but you must help me with something!"

At my instruction, he led me to his office, took a key from his shirt pocket and opened a hefty metal locker, one of several. Inside was the alto sax. Crouching to meet it, I told Darcy to help me release the water key, without physical interference on his part. My power is new, and I cannot have contamination! (See previous diary for full discovery.)

"Ain't that kind of sax, kiddo," Darcy said. "Only contrabass and baritone got a spit valve."

Onto plan B, dear diary! Lifting the instrument by the bell, I could now stroke my fingers over the pads, carefully, carefully. Light pressure would activate any errant prints, and the trace would cling to me, like lint to a scrap of tape!

For several minutes, nothing.

Of course. Alastor's gloves! No wonder it wasn't working.

That left plan C: the mouthpiece. My fingertips confirmed the presence of Alastor, which implied a superficial cleaning attempt -- luckily for moi! But I didn't trust it to last on the fingertips, for they are such a promiscuous area of the body, prone to rubbing off on most anything. My mouth, on the other hand, was unlikely to graze anything but itself. Carefully, carefully, I dragged my lips over the mouthpiece, giggling from the thrill of kissing Alastor's musical ghost. The trace was there!

"Gross, lady."

A candle sparked alight in my forehead. My bones were his bones, and his sight was layered over mine. I saw the pages of a book, clear enough to glean the contents; he was reading something of R. L. Stevenson's, bless him!

"Alastor is getting a raise," I told Darcy, with the barest of attention, "from me... but let him think it comes from you! Keep its provenance a secret, and we will stop hounding you!"

"Shit. You promise?"

"Yes, but first, tell me about Alastor. You know him! What's he like?"

Darcy sighed like a burst tyre. "Don't tell me he's the new fave."

"Answer the question!"

"He's an asshole. Fuckin' arrogant, and he cracks bad jokes." I waited, letting the silence prompt Darcy to go on, which he did. "Uhhhh, he's from the South. Said he used to work for radio, which, I dunno, seems unlikely."

"Why? He has the voice for it."

Darcy only shrugged. I was distracted anyway; my love's eyes were drooping. Falling asleep with the book in his hands. He must be someplace familiar. Home! Having borrowed more of the trace on my lips, I nodded my goodbyes and flew out the door.

It was easy to follow my inner compass along a mile of streets, and I arrived just within the bounds of Cannibal Colony. These were the very outskirts, where housing was cheap; in fact, I knew some of the regular quarry lived nearby. As homesteads went, this cul-de-sac was decent, but hardly aspirational. Permit me to be supercilious a moment, dear diary, but I did stick out!