THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 9

"Our seasonal special tonight is fermented vulture thighs braised in recycled motor oil with a garnish of poisonous fungi." Mary smiled in a menacing way.

At the mirror in the staff toilet.

Better get it out of my system, she thought. If I screw up, Krista will reap the grief. She checked the mirror. All holes filled with makeup. Crisp white shirt, black pants, and the trademark ethnically hand-loomed vest of the Park Café. Plus, the vaguely superior yet fawning demeanor of the Jackson Hole wage slave.

The manager was wary, so for the first few hours she got stuck running snacks and starters to the bar. Not a good station: people were cranky, waiting for a table, and not inclined to tip.

The work was sporadic. Between set-ups she folded napkins, with time to think. Or rather, to worry about Ginger, whose Mom had come close to dying, and was still pretty much out of it. When Ginger had asked her about Bullivant, during a lucid interval, she claimed not to have seen the man in months.

The cops had treated Ginger like a head case. What if her Dad shipped her off to who knows where? That would cripple the band, or kill it.

Ginger herself seemed to veer between sullen indifference and terror. When they'd gotten in the car after leaving the Sheriff's office, she laid her bright head on Mary's shoulder.

"I'm so scared," she said.

But then she refused to say anything further about her mother or Bullivant or anything related to them.

The other issue: a place to live. Mary'd been bunking in Jackson, in Cogwill's five-car garage (which even had a bathroom) in the Senior Saab with the seat folded down. Krista invited her to stay in the house— they had about six spare bedrooms— but Mary resisted. Having rich friends was okay, but she didn't want to become their house pet. Still, the garage was getting way old. What if Louisa came in or Gris barked? Krista claimed that her Mom never drove anywhere. Her friends sent a car, or she was fetched in the courtesy buggy from the Café: a scarily decked-out Suburban. Moms hadn't set foot in the garage for centuries. But there was always a chance, and Mary woke at every odd noise.

The good part was that they'd been able to write songs and practice almost every day. We are so effing hot, she whispered to herself. Musically, anyway.

"Table Six, Bar. Are you serving?"

"Got it— thanks."

Table Six was Spider and Christy Thurless. Looking daggers at each other over glasses of wine. They ordered crostini with roasted red pepper and olive dip. She scurried back with the platter and then lurked in the bar, ears pricked.

"Sweetheart— I owe you, big time, but there is just no way." Spider found a wet spot on the table and drew circles.

"So you only pay your debts when it's— convenient?"

"Look. For you, I would. Absolutely. For him? I'd rather die."

"This is for me. Sweetheart."

A yell from the drunks at Table Four, glued to the only TV in place: more nachos. Why did the Park Café serve nachos? Money.

She scurried. By the time she got back, Spider and Christy were gone.