Trish may be the only person pleased to see me. A few of the jocks eye me with derisive smirks. Some cheerleaders do the same, watching me like I’m a frog on its way to a dissection. Trish, as always, is oblivious. She grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen, babbling a mile a minute as she does.
“Come on, let’s get you something cold to drink. I know you’re not used to these kinds of parties, so I thought I’d show you around. You’ve never been to, um, McNeil’s place before, right? His parents are away for weeks at a time, so this is where we usually hang. They’ve got a wide-screen TV and an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The only downer here is that the neighbors are sorta dicks. Every time we turn the stereo up, they start complaining. McNeil’s dad knows the police commissioner, so it’s okay if they threaten to call the cops, but the interruption’s kinda annoying, you know?”
I didn’t know, but I don’t care. As Trish talks, my eyes wander over the rest of the crowd. The usual suspects are there, talking and laughing. Maybe it’s the image of the little girl kneeling beside her father’s corpse that’s still swirling in my head, but I just want to lash out at someone.
“Are you good friends with McNeil?” I ask.
Trish pauses, a sudden edge in her voice. “I—no. Not really. It’s not like I know McNeil well or anything. I’m just here ’cause the other cheerleaders are.”
“What’s he doing here?”
Sondheim isn’t happy to see me. He’s scowling because Trish is still clinging to my hand.
“I invited him.” Trish sounds defensive. “He helped us out last night. Don’t you think we owe him?”
Neither of them notices Okiku stepping out from me and heading off to explore the rest of the house. The McNeils are filthy rich, and this looks more like a mansion, with expensive-looking leather sofas and a home entertainment system that puts Dad’s to shame. Not many breakables in the room, I note—guess McNeil knows his friends better than to leave them lying around. The smell of beer is strong, and I can already see a few couples making out.
“Fine, whatever. Look, it’s Keren’s house, and he gets to invite the people he wants to invite—no offense, pal. He won’t like outsiders barging in, and just ’cause you think we owe—”
quiet little lingering sweet blood
drink up drink up drown
find him—
I interrupt Sondheim; it’s getting harder to smile without looking demented. “You don’t mind if I just hang around? I’m sure McNeil won’t mind one more person. Trish is right, you know. It’s an honor to get invited to these things.”
Sondheim hesitates. “Yeah. Um, I guess. Hey, babe, how about grabbing us a couple of beers?”
Trish blows her boyfriend a kiss and saunters off. A few of the jocks and their girlfriends are watching a college basketball game on a forty-inch wide-screen in the next room, hollering insults. The rest are sprawled on chairs and couches, laughing. McNeil looks up and raises an eyebrow when we approach, his tone curious.
“Who invited him?”
“Trish,” Sondheim says. “He did her a favor for some class, and she wanted to thank him.”
“I know a better way she could thank him,” a guy named Krajnik calls out, and the group howls. Sondheim flushes. I suspect that even among the football superstars, he still ranks on the lower totem pole of jocks.
I look around, half expecting to see someone wander by with incorporeal kids climbing up his back, but no such luck. I can see Matheson’s with the group, still glaring at me, obviously not having forgiven me for lunch. I rack my brain, trying to come up with things to say.
“So. Hanging around and drinking beer while watching the game. Is that all you guys do at these parties?”
The grin freezes on McNeil’s face. “Yeah. Why not?”
“Always thought you got wild at parties. I was pretty sure you guys had more balls than the one you pass around on the field.”
The laughter is louder now. McNeil chuckles. “Brought a smart-ass with you this time, Andy.” But no one complains when we both find empty chairs to sit.
“Wish you’d brought some more girls instead, Sondheim.”
“McNeil, you’re the one with the pool of groupies to choose from,” someone else counters.
There’s not much talk after that; whatever conversation there is gets swallowed by the cheers and hoots directed at the television screen, where a rival college team is getting its ass whooped by their opponents. I take the opportunity to scan the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of a corpse hanging off someone’s back, because the sooner I spot the killer, the sooner Okiku can do what she needs to do and the sooner I can get out of here. My eyes wander back to Kendele, and more than once, I have to force the scowl off my face at seeing she’s still talking to Armstrong.
“Hey, McNeil,” one of the guys says in between half-innings. “You still going out with that girl? That redhead with the pigtails?”
“Not anymore. You have any idea what I need to do to—” McNeil stops, sneaks a look at me, and then grins. “Go ahead, Garcia, but I’m not holding my breath that she’ll say yes to an ugly mug like you.”