THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 7

They'd strung ropes from the roof girders of the Climbing Gym and all these preppy babes in lycra were slithering down with lights flashing and the crowd oohing and aahing— not that anyone could hear them.

Krista's high-school pals had made a big banner to hang behind the band, with Feral Sluts in seriously messed-up letters, surrounded by red splatters and various cryptic doodles. The event was a fundraiser for the Vertical Dance Workshop, the latest fad to sweep the Hole: lissome babes striking rhythmic postures while suspended on climbing ropes. As the musical accompaniment, the four girls in the band had decided on instrumental versions of old favorites— Sex Pistols, Dead Kennedys, Runaways— played very slow and very loud. The lycra-ed trustfunders neared the floor, thighs squeaking on the ropes, as the band broke into a dreamy rendition of that western classic: Rawhide.

The performers reached ground level, circled, and took their bows.

The band struck a last chord and fell silent. Appropriate for the next bit: a Silent Auction, with strange artifacts and gift certificates ranked on a long table.

"Break— twenty minutes," the guitarist said. "No more." Was this the same rough girl we met in the woods? This red-and-black mignonette? Leather or latex? Certainly tight, on such legs as the rope-dancers themselves must envy. God's gift.

"Ginger," she said. "Lay off."

The bass player: Ginger Twist, aka Melisse Rozier, difficult daughter of Templeton, god-emperor of the Ski Village. She set her instrument in its stand. "Am I too loud?"

"You know what I mean." Mary tipped her head toward the door, and the cop who slouched there.

"Oh, right." Ginger was tall, with red hair that the lights showed as platinum blond.

"What about me?" Krista Cogwill: very big name in the Hole. Fast company, one thinks, for a low-rent punkette from Rock Springs, Wyoming.

"Don't choke on your carrot juice," said the nasty mignonette, and they laughed like mad things. Wire, the drummer, laughed so hard she started coughing. Her band-name had come from a notebook she was scribbling in when they chose names: Wirebound 6704, which soon dwindled to Wire.

The cop ambled over.

"Slim Tamblin," he said.

"Yeah, right." Ginger.

He blushed. "That's my name."

"No way." Mary. "No human child was ever named Slim."

"True," he said.

He was a skinny little bugger. But in an attractive way. Like a changeling prince who retains a hint of frogginess.

"Just a word to the weird," he said. "There's a bunch out smoking dope by the dumpsters. Smelled it when I came in. If I see 'em I'll have to pop 'em. Maybe you could let 'em know."

Mary nodded and Ginger started out the door.

"She'll go loom over them— very intimidating," Mary said.

"Appreciate it," he said. "We have this new policy: community enforcement."

"Meaning don't bust rich punks for smoking dope?"

His eyes rounded with surprise— really froggy, she thought. Why do I like that?

Then he relaxed. Snickered.

"That's about the size of it," he said, and strolled off.

Spider Schneider approached, blonde bombshell, male version, doing that ski-instructor version of the pimp-roll.

"Why do you guys all walk like that?" Krista said.

"Like what? Hi, Krista—"

"Suction."

"Huh?"

"That's my band-name. Suction."

"Cool! Hey, where's Melisse?

"Ginger. Her band-name's Ginger."

"Hey, wow! Cool! Look, I really need to talk to her about something."

"She went thataway." Mary pointed to the EXIT.

He sloped off, nodding to the deputy at the door.

"You should make nice," Krista said. "He is hosting this thing."

"And we're, like donating our services. That's plenty nice."

"He's not a bad guy, really. Just—"

"Lubricious. Mr. Smarm-and-Charm."

Ginger came back, with the reek of a burning ditchbank.

"Handled it," she said.

"Literally—" Mary snapped. "You shitbrain."

"Buzz off, twit." Ginger was ticked.

"We made a pact: no drinking, no drugs. What you do on your own is your worry. But the Feral Sluts play it straight."

Krista chimed in: "Do I believe this? The sheriff-dude asks you to warn a bunch of hapless loadies and you go out and smoke with them? "

"I don't need this shit." Ginger stomped off, spike heels like gunshots on the board floor.

Mary's face fell. "What's up with Gin?"

"Her dad—" Krista said. "Ever since the Don went missing, he's Captain Whacko. Wants to ship her off to some school overseas."

"What about her mom?"

"Just got back from some spa in Palm Desert, where they dry out and moisturize."

Mary sneaked a glance at the cute cop slouching under the EXIT light. There was a rumble on the far side of the gym. "Look guys— I think we'd better start playing, before there's a fight."

Krista shook a finger. "Okay. You go apologize to Ginger."

"Speaking of—"

The spike heels racketed back across the room: Ginger with a scowl, resigned. She passed the deputy, who took in the rear view and sighed. He saw Mary watching and winked, unashamed.

Mary was intrigued: working class hero, she thought.

"Last call for the Silent Auction," the dance director announced, as the Lycra Ladies scurried to gather the bid sheets.

Mary lifted her guitar from the stand. Between the two pickups she could see Slim's face reflected. An omen.