82 Desire

she’d turned them around—probably it wasn’t her, probably it was that little girl who sang in the choir, but she didn’t care, when she talked with Darryl afterward, when he walked her out, she felt the adrenaline glow she got from a reading.
    “I did okay, didn’t I?”
    He smiled at her, and not for the first time she noticed what perfect teeth he had. “You’re a natural-born teacher. If you ever want to come starve to death, maybe you could get a job like mine.”
    “No, thanks. I already get to starve.”
    “Listen.” He caught her eye. “This really meant a lot to them.”
    “Oh, sure. They’ll think about it while they’re knocking over a gas station; or nodding out, maybe.”
    “They’ll think about it,” he said, evidently not wanting to get into joking with her. When he shook her hand, he touched it with his left one. “Would you… have coffee with me later?”
    She could see that he had asked the question on impulse and felt the power once again of her performance—she knew that she could affect people like that, make them want to know her—want to fuck her, maybe, the way a musician on stage affects his fans. And she liked it. The other thing was, she liked Darryl Boucree. There could be no question he was asking her for a date, and she already had Lamar.
    She made a little face at him. “I guess so,” she said. “Or maybe a beer.”
    And so, when school was out, after she’d raided Magazine Street for the sorts of things a Baroness in reduced circumstances ought to have, they had not one, but two beers, and she found that smile of his infectious and seductive.
    “I was wondering,” he said. “How much does a Baroness make?”
    She laughed. “Well, I didn’t want to mention they might have to get a day job to pursue their art.”
    “Yeah. Let ’em think it’s all limos and limelight.”
    “I know that’s my life.”
    “Are you independently wealthy or something? I notice you were free for this little gig.”
    “I have an extremely interesting little income supplement.”
    “Legal?”
    “Sometimes.”
    They both laughed.
    “Fun?”
    “Really fun.”
    “Can’t be robbing banks. That’s never legal. Now let me think—sometimes legal…You’re a lawyer.”
    “Good guess. But no.”
    “Doctor.”
    “How’s that illegal?”
    “Prescriptions.”
    “Uh-uh. You’d never guess in a million years.”
    “Mayor.”
    “Nope.”
    “Crooked cop.”
    “Uh-uh.”
    “Private detective.”
    “What?” Talba had been in mid-pull on her beer. She actually choked—the game had gone too far.
    He hit her on the back. “I was right? You’re a private dick? Or do they still say that?”
    “Depends on the company. Dickhead’s a little more common.”
    “Really? You mean I got it? How’d you get into, uh, dicking?”
    “You’ve got the wrong idea. I don’t dick, I merely dick around. But how about you? Bet you’ve got a life outside the classroom.”
    “Well, matter of fact. You ever heard of the Boucree Brothers? I play a little music with them now and then.”
    She started to say she was impressed (which she was), but he kept talking: “Also, I do a little mixology a few times a week.”
    “Let me get this straight—schoolteacher, musician, and bartender? You’re a regular Renaissance man.”
    He was smiling, showing those gorgeous teeth. She relaxed a little. She had successfully changed the subject, but she wondered. Had he been pumping her? And why on earth would he do a thing like that?
    But he was too damned attractive to dwell on it for long. She liked the way he bantered, something Lamar wouldn’t do in a thousand years, and the way he really cared about his students, and the way he smiled and touched her hand now and then to make a point.
    Still, when she left, when it was either order another beer—which both knew would mean trouble—or get up and go, she had a funny feeling she’d said too much.

Twelve
    IT’S ALMOST LIKE before , Russell thought. Just me and the boat.
    This time, of course, I am free to leave the boat. But if I leave it, where would I go?
    And I have all my senses, not just hearing. Not only can I see, I am free to see any damn thing I want. The question is, what do I want to see?
    It was odd. He had left home to be free and never had he felt so confined, save that one time when he’d been trapped—the time, ironically, that had led to this time.
    I’m lonesome, he thought. That’s what’s wrong with me. And I happen