THE FERAL STRUT

Chapter 8

"I am not imagining it," said Ginger, taking a gulp from a bottle that looked expensive. "And I'm not drunk."

"Well on the way," Mary said. "I grew up hearing those words. Forgive me."

They'd slipped in after a band practice. Besides drinking, Ginger liked sitting in the dark and looking out at the mountains, under the moon. The Rozier house— the big pile at the Ski Village— was spooky with the lights off, and they talked in low voices. Her dad was in Geneva, on business. Her mom was somewhere in the house, although one way or other—cognac, Valium, and quaaludes— she'd been absent for some time.

The moonlight picked out a photograph of the three of them smiling, in a heavy frame: mother and daughter both lofty beauties, and Templeton between, a half-head shorter, with no other distinguishing feature: Mr. Blank Slate.

"Look— I heard what they were saying, Dad and the Don. I was passed out behind the sectional and they woke me up, arguing. The Don was plotting what he called his exit strategy. Dad was pissed."

"Is he ever un-pissed?"

Ginger snorted. Drunk. She took another gulp.

"Anyhow, the Don had figured out a way to transfer the assets and skip, and Dad was feeling pressured. He likes being Ski-Fuhrer. I know what you're thinking."

"Good. I don't have to say it."

"Thanks. Anyhow, the Don was saying that they could shift the principal to a shell and then collapse it, and keep doing that until it was safe in Switzerland and the Caymans. And we'll be invisible, he said. Free."

"Your Dad likes being— visible."

"That's putting it mildly. So he wasn't going along. Then they stopped talking. I realized that my foot was sticking out past the end of the sofa. I tucked it up."

"But they knew you were there?"

"Maybe. I don't know. They clicked on the TV and started talking about Wimbledon."

"They knew."

"That's what scares me."

"But they didn't do anything."

"The Don disappeared," Ginger said. "That's definitely something."

Upstairs her mother shouted and a man's voice yelled back.

"That's weird," Ginger said.

A door slammed and there were footsteps in the upstairs hall, then on the stairs.

Ginger set down the bottle and went to see who it was, flipping on the entryway light. The man froze, hand on the doorknob. He was all in black, like some kind of overweight ninja. He turned with a snarl to look at her and Mary, then opened the door and bolted out without shutting it.

"My God!" Ginger was panting, as if she'd dashed up a flight of steps. Scared breathless, Mary thought.

"Who was it?"

"The Don. Bullivant."

"The guy who's supposed to be dead?"

"Right. I wonder what— Mom!" Ginger spun and dashed up the stairs. Mary followed her as she flung open the bedroom door. Her mother was sitting on the bed, face in her hands. She didn't look up.

"Mom— are you okay?"

She raised her face, tear streaked and puffy. Her mouth was half-open, slack, and her eyes were empty. Her lips moved, but the sound that came out wasn't quite a word: Wha- wa- wa. Then she slumped to one side.

Ginger grabbed her shoulders. "Mom— what's going on."

On the bedside table was a fifth of vodka and a jumble of brown prescription bottles, most of them tipped and empty.

"Hey Gin— We better call the ambulance."