Quink | Page 3

on second thought, I hoped she had. At least that would be better than having it stolen from her -- or extorted -- by some low-life flophouse night clerk.
I reached behind me and grabbed my own guitar, cradled on its tripod stand. "You're not off the hook that easily," I said. "Use my guitar this week."
She smiled. "It's all right."
"No, it's not," I said, thrusting the guitar at her. "You have to practice. Music isn't something you know. It's something you do."
She took the guitar, locking eyes with me. "You're such a good friend. Why are you so good to me?"
"Shut up and play," I said, lighting a cigarette. I was nobody's friend, least of all hers. "This week, it's bar chords."
She went through the motions for about fifteen minutes. But she wasn't concentrating. Finally I just pressed my palm against the strings, muting the botched chord.
She looked up at me, her face inches from mine. I could feel the warmth of her exhalations, smelling of bitter coffee and scorched milk. There really wasn't a word to describe the color of her eyes. "What?" she said. "I'm trying, really."
I pulled the guitar gently from her grasp. "Better to not play at all than to play without concentrating." I set the guitar down. "Better to just talk."
She heaved a sigh. "Talk won't help."
"The pastry business isn't taking off?" I said.
"I've been to every restaurant in the French Quarter," she said. "I've spent a fortune baking up free samples. Everyone eats them, and everyone loves them, but no one will give me a chance."
"You're good," I said. "It just takes time."
"That's not true." She brushed the hair back from her eyes. "It also takes a kitchen."
I glanced at her suitcase in the corner. "You got kicked out."
"I put all my money into the business," she said. "There wasn't enough for rent. I offered Ren�� a piece of the action, but he preferred cash. Hotel clerks are touchy about that kind of thing."
She wouldn't quite meet my eye, so I knew that Ren�� had wanted a piece of a different kind of action. Well, so did I. I set the guitar back in its stand. "Now what? Back home to your mom?"
She scowled. "I couldn't go back there."
"Don't be too sure," I said.
"Even if I could, I wouldn't."
"Well," I said. "What, then?"
She looked at the floor, then looked up at me.
"Oh no," I said.
"Please? It would just be for a while."
"No," I said. "Absolutely not. No no no. Stop crying, dammit."
"I thought you liked me."
"Gastineau was right," I said. "This isn't a nice place."
"Todd is nice," she said. "You're nice."
There is no Todd, I almost said. You're in love with an illusion. When no one is paying for him, Todd lies face down in a vat, eyes rolled back, lungs full of synthetic amniotic fluid. The real Todd, the baseline Todd, was long gone. In theory there were laws protecting the civil liberties of yigs, but thanks to the Count, civil liberties were cheap commodities.
It hadn't always been like this. There had even once been a watchdog organization -- the New Orleans Civil Liberties Union. They'd rescued me when I was a yig. Twice. The second time almost took, too. But the Count had shut down "no-clue" right after his third and final "election." Nowadays, only loners and losers chose to be yigs. If nobody missed you, you didn't really exist.
I almost told Alexia all this. It would've won the argument. It might have even been good for her, in the long run. I wanted to tell her. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. She knew -- or could, if she really wanted to.
Instead, I said, "You wouldn't see Todd any more than you do now. Less, in fact. Todd's time costs money."
"You don't always charge me."
"That would have to change."
"I wouldn't see him too much."
"How would you feel, seeing him when he was someone else? His eyes gliding over you, blank and unrecognizing?"
She stuck out her chin. "You're just trying to scare me."
"Yes, I am," I said. "You should be scared."
"You're so cold."
"I am what I am," I said.
"That's not what I meant, and you know it."
"Look, Alexia," I said. "Even if I thought it was a good idea -- even if I wanted to -- I couldn't let you stay here. Your pal Gastineau is looking for an excuse to shut me down. The only ones who can stay here are the yigs."
"I hate that word. Can't you call them performers?"
"Sure. Fine. Performers." As if the word could change what they were. Yigs. Whores. Slaves.
"Anyway," she said, "it's not just performers that stay here. You stay here. Couldn't I stay with you?"
Yes, she could. And how I yearned for her to. Auditing the experiences of the Todd would never