"What do you think?" Cat asked after they had gone.
"I'd like to know what she was kicked out of school for," offered Carl.
"So would I," said Annabelle.
"Please, God," sighed Cat, "let it be prostitution."
"It's not the kind of job you can turn down," replied Jack Crow with more than a little exasperation.
They were in the Zoo's main corridor, leaning against opposite walls facing each other. Jack sipped from his drink.
"Why not?" Davette asked.
He thought about a reply, said, "To understand that, you'd first have to buy it."
The young girl glanced briefly away then back to him. "Well, you have to admit it's pretty hard to believe." By God, I think she does believe! Jack thought suddenly.
Or at least she's trying.
"What put you onto us, anyway?" he asked.
She smiled. "An old friend of my family owns the weekly newspaper that covered your last... uh, mission. I got into that little town, what's it called?"
"Bradshaw, Indiana."
"Yes, Bradshaw. Anyway, I got there two days after you'd left." She frowned. "Nobody would talk about it by then. But I got your address."
"Lucky you weren't on time."
"I heard you'd had some trouble." He took a sip.
"Some."
"Anyone hurt?"
"Seven."
"Was it serious?"
"Dead. Seven dead."
She went pale. "You're joking! You can't be serious!"
He just looked at her. "Okay," he said.
They were quiet for several seconds. She could tell he meant it. And he could tell it had gotten to her.
Finally, he said, "Let me give you a little advice."
"What's that?"
"This is real."
And they were quiet again for a while.
At last she said, "I don't know what to say. Or do."
He stepped away from the wall, shrugging off the somber mood.
"I'll tell you what you can do. If you ever get this story printed anywhere - which I frankly doubt - you can put this in it." He drained his glass and set it down on the carpet. "Got your pad with you?"
"Tape recorder," she answered. She dug quickly in her purse, produced it, and held it up.
"Okey doke." He stuck a cigarette in his grinning teeth, lit it. "I'll give you the grand tour."
She smiled back, gestured about her. "It's certainly a big house. How many bedrooms?"
"Seven too many."
"Oh," she said quietly, gazing down the row of empty rooms. Four on one side. Three on the other.
"Don't despair," he said. "It's just eulogy time."
And then he did something she knew she would never, for all the rest of her life, forget. Grinning all the while, chain-smoking like mad, he strode from room to room and in each one told one outrageous, impossible, hopelessly funny and (invariably) obscene story about each of its martyred occupants. Smiling, but unable to really laugh along with him, she padded along behind gazing, transfixed, by his every word and gesture.
Jack Crow cried easily, readily, as he spoke. But without choking or moaning or even allowing it to interfere with his own laughter. His tone went up and down, was pretend-serious or pretend-drunk or pretend - little boy.
She was utterly hypnotized throughout by his blazing pride in his lost team. No. She would never ever forget this. Jack seemed to enjoy it as well. And he seemed to understand her reaction for the compliment it was. He spent an hour and a half being animated and dramatic and hilarious and when he had finished they were both exhausted.
Cat appeared in the hallway and reminded him their plane was ready to fly and then was gone.
He turned to her and told her where they were going.
She said she knew. She said she was from there. From Dallas.
He said he missed Texas.
So did she, she said.
There was a long pause. Downstairs, rock and roll began thumping from somewhere.
Then why don't you come along? was his next question.
She looked up at him, her head tilted to hear the muffled sounds.
"I will," she replied.
And she did.