Club Dead

and Roach. It wasn’t impressive from the outside, but the Mayflower Cafe was as interesting as Alcide had predicted. Some of the people at the tables scattered on the black-and-white tile floor were dressed to the nines, like Alcide and me. Some of them were wearing flannel and denim. Some had brought their own wine or liquor. I was glad we weren’t drinking; Alcide had one beer, and that was it. I had iced tea. The food was really good, but not fancy. Dinner was long, drawn-out, and interesting. Lots of people knew Alcide, and they came by the table to say hello to him and to find out who I was. Some of these visitors were involved in the state government, some were in the building trade like Alcide, and some appeared to be friends of Alcide’s dad’s.
    A few of them were not law-abiding men at all; even though I’ve always lived in Bon Temps, I know hoods when I see the product of their brains. I’m not saying they were thinking about bumping off anyone, or bribing senators, or anything specific like that. Their thoughts were greedy—greedy of money, greedy of me, and in one case, greedy of Alcide (to which he was completely oblivious, I could tell).
    But most of all, these men—all of them—were greedy for power. I guess in a state capital, that lust for power was inevitable, even in as poverty-plagued a state as Mississippi.
    The women with the greediest men were almost all extremely well groomed and very expensively dressed. For this one evening, I could match them, and I held my head up. One of them thought I looked like a high-priced whore, but I decided that was a compliment, at least for tonight. At least she thought I was expensive. One woman, a banker, knew Debbie the-former-girlfriend, and she examined me from head to toe, thinking Debbie would want a detailed description.
    None of these people, of course, knew one thing about me. It was wonderful to be among people who had no idea of my background and upbringing, my occupation or my abilities. Determined to enjoy the feeling, I concentrated on not speaking unless I was spoken to, not spilling any food on my beautiful dress, and minding my manners, both table and social. While I was enjoying myself, I figured it would be a pity if I caused Alcide any embarrassment, since I was entering his life so briefly.
    Alcide snatched the bill before I could reach it, and scowled at me when I opened my mouth to protest. I finally gave a little bob of my head. After that silent struggle, I was glad to observe that Alcide was a generous tipper. That raised him in my estimation. To tell the truth, he was entirely too high in my estimation already. I was on the alert to pick out something negative about the man. When we got back in Alcide’s pickup—this time he gave me even more help when he boosted me up to the seat, and I was pretty confident he enjoyed the procedure—we were both quiet and thoughtful.
    “You didn’t talk much at supper,” he said. “You didn’t have a good time?”
    “Oh, sure, I did. I just didn’t think it was a real good time to start broadcasting any opinions.”
    “What did you think of Jake O’Malley?” O’Malley, a man in his early sixties with thick steel-colored eyebrows, had stood talking to Alcide for at least five minutes, all the while stealing little sideways glances at my boobs.
    “I think he’s planning on screwing you six ways from Sunday.”
    It was lucky we hadn’t pulled away from the curb yet. Alcide switched on the overhead light and looked at me. His face was grim. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
    “He’s going to underbid you on the next job, because he’s bribed one of the women in your office—Thomasina something?—to let him know what you all’s bid is. And then—”
    “What?”
    I was glad the heater was running full blast. When werewolves got mad, you could feel it in the air around you. I had so hoped I wouldn’t have to explain myself to Alcide. It had been so neat, being unknown.
    “You are . . . what?” he asked, to make sure I understood him.
    “Telepath,” I said, kind of mumbling.
    A long silence fell, while Alcide digested this.
    “Did you hear anything good?” he asked, finally.
    “Sure. Mrs. O’Malley wants to jump your bones,” I told him, smiling brightly. I had to remind myself not to pull at my hair.
    “That’s good?”
    “Comparatively,” I said. “Better to be screwed physically than financially.” Mrs. O’Malley was at least twenty years