The party continued to swirl as Lou sputtered and I kept my eyes on the trembling floor. Lauren eventually shook her head, a smile tickling the corners of her mouth. “Doesn’t hesitate to speak her mind, does she?” the smile growing to a grin then into peals of genuine laughter. Lou stopped his huffing and tried to join. Me? I managed to nod.

“Don’t let my crazy mother ruin your fun, Matthew. I should have warned you,” Lauren said, wiping tears from her eyes. “If she takes her medicine she’s a shit. If she doesn’t, she loses all track of reality. It’s a tough call, isn’t it?”

“This was the worst I’ve seen,” Lou finally managed.

“Well, she’s been drinking. We’re lucky she didn’t haul out the story about knocking her Navy man on his ass.” Lauren stifled another round of giggles while she grabbed Lou’s arm, “God, did you see her makeup?”

“Now don’t be mean,” Lou said with a smile.

“Speaking of drinks,” I said, “this one zipped right through. Where’s the bathroom?” Vivian’s explosion hadn’t cheered me up, and I needed a little down time. Just me, a fresh beer, and my smokeless dope pipe in a tiled New Jerusalem.

“Take the backstairs,” Lauren said pointing, “then go up and into my bedroom. There’s a bathroom attached and you won’t have to wait.”

I sauntered a couple of feet, glanced back, and saw the two of them huddled close, Lauren fighting to keep a grin off her face. I detoured to the bar, relieved that Vivian had already waddled away. I once again talked myself out of a bourbon and traded my empty for a full. When I dragged my eyes from the beer, the bartender was talking to a jaw dropping, full breasted, tube-topped, tangled-haired blonde. I felt my mouth Sahara as everything and everyone else faded to black.

Though I stood on the far end of the long bar, the woman’s screaming sensuality seemed close enough to touch. Close enough to catch myself stroking the beer bottle. I downed another long swallow desperately hoping to unglue my mouth. It didn’t work nor did it matter. The blonde finished her conversation, momentarily captured my feverish eyes, then disappeared behind a clump of dancers.

It was as if a bright light snapped shut leaving behind a flickering golden afterimage. Which I toted through the crowd, into the house, and all the way to Lauren’s bedroom.

I hit the overhead and was whacked with a Pier One showroom. Wicker bed, dresser, desk and couch. Even a wicker television stand where a flat screen squatted like an electronic Buddha, perhaps a modern variation of Lauren’s spiritual searchings. Unfortunately, the TV reminded me of Boots so I quickly found the bathroom and locked myself inside.

To hack the rest of the night I needed “now,” not “no.” Sucking hard on my smoke-free pipe slowed my anxiety, finally leaving me ready to face more people. But not ready enough when I came out of the bathroom to find two of ‘em hunched over the glass-topped wicker desk in Lauren’s bedroom.

A lanky, olive skinned youngish man with stringy black hair chopped close around the ears and temples, swung quickly around in my direction. A dark Andy Warhol clone. Startled, he maneuvered his narrow linen ass to obscure my view. But his wiggle didn’t hide the tightly rolled dollar in his neatly tapered fingers.

The string-bean, who had been hidden by his shuffle, stepped out, a worried look on her chalk white face. White accented with black. Black long sleeved skirt and black leather knee-high boots. Her hip length hair was bottle black, her mascara heavy and black, lipstick and nail polish pale white. Thick dark eye-shadow covered her round eyes. The young lady gave no truck to the sticky, hot late summer night.

“This is my mother’s bedroom,” the flop-top complained. “It’s off limits during parties, there’s a john downstairs.” He leaned his baggy silk shirt toward the door suggesting I leave.

I ignored the invitation and stared at the rolled bill in his hand. “I was told to use this bathroom.”

“By who?” he asked irritably. “My mother always keeps this floor to herself.”

“If your mother is Lauren Rowe, she made an exception.”

The tall man looked at me with a sudden flash of understanding. “You must be related to Lou. His son?”

“Son-in-law.”

“Geez,” the black and white anorexic said. “I don’t remember hearing anything about a daughter.”

“She’s dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” the girl said.

“Yeah, me too,” I replied, instantly softening. It was tough to work up a mad toward someone floundering between waif attractive and Goth.

“Son-in-law, huh?” the man asked caustically. “You don’t look the part.”

This twit was a different day in the park. “What part is that?”

“I heard you’re a detective.”

“Private.”

“I thought all cops wear thick leather shoes and get haircuts.” He kept trying to palm his homebrew coke tube so I decided to jerk his chain. I walked within reach and stuck out my right. “I like sneakers. Anyhow, I’m Matt Jacob, Lou’s son-in-law. You must be Stephen. Pleased to meet you.”

I watched his face pucker with worry before I dropped my arm. “Don’t worry about the dope, I’m private, not the law.”

If I thought my comment would tone him down I was mistaken.

“That’s a relief,” he said sarcastically. “With Lauren and Lou hanging out, it might be difficult to bust me even if you were.” He did, however, shift his body from its awkward position against the desk.

“Oh, Stephen,” Waif interjected. “Why are you always so hostile?” She turned to me, “Don’t mind his trip. I’m Heather Heywood, and he’s Stephen Brown. But I guess you already know that.” Heather frowned, “Our families are sort of, sort of...”

“Overlapped,” I offered.

“That’s a good word,” Heather said, her face brightening.

“I guess you know all the gory details?” Stephen turned toward the desk to organize his cocaine kit.

“Don’t put it away,” Heather exclaimed. “We were just getting started. Maybe Matt wants some. He looks cool. It’s okay to call you Matt, isn’t it?”

I wondered how young Heather was, asking if it was all right to use my first name. Then I turned it around; it wasn’t her youth, it was my age.

“Both sound fine.” I didn’t want to appear too eager and blow that cool.

Stephen glanced at me then shrugged. “I shouldn’t be surprised, you look freaky enough.”

“Nothing like a detective,” Heather earnestly concurred. “Or even someone related to Lou. You look more like a... a...”

“Dropout,” Stephen supplied, chopping a chunk of ice into snow.

“You got that right, I lied.” The repetitive flick of Stephen’s razor blade made me happy. Looking at the cocaine wet my lips and had me thinking about Hendrix’s Foxy Lady. A blonde foxy lady.

“Terrific, another Lauren,” Stephen muttered. “Maybe she belongs with you instead of your old man.”

“How did you become a cop?” Heather interrupted quickly.

“I’m not a cop,” I repeated patiently, though growing impatient with the time Stephen was taking to prepare the coke. There was some satisfaction watching sweat dampen the armholes of his light green silk.

Stephen finally nudged Heather. “Here, do a couple lines.”

“Let Matt go first, Stephen. He’s the new family member.”

I shelved the second half of her remark as he reluctantly passed me the tightly rolled dollar. When I came up for air I saw a sardonic smile on Stephen’s face. “No virgin.”

“Is it me, or are you always like this?” I asked, feeling the coke drain down the back of my throat.

“Always, always, always,” Heather answered, lifting her head. “Don’t take it personally, Stephen has a big chip on his shoulder.”

Her remark drew a smile from Warhol man. “Spend enough time with my family and you’ll need one too.”

“I’ve known your family my whole life.” Heather carefully placed the tooter next to the mirror and stepped aside to let Stephen take her place. She made a sour face. “Twenty-seven and back living with my mother. Sheesh.”

“Worse,” Stephen lifted his nose. “Living with my father.”

“Lose your job?” I asked Heather sympathetically.

“Not really. I broke up with my boyfriend.”

“Living with him was a job, Heather,” Stephen said supportively, low-riding the desk. “A lousy one.”

Heather smiled. “Well, he was no prize. Trouble is, now I’ll have to get a real one.”

“It’s better than allowing that asshole to shit all over you. And better than hanging around the house having my father hound you. Trust me, Heather, Paul is big on other people’s Protestant Ethic.”

“I’ve lived with him before, Stephen. I’m more worried about a job. Where will I get the time to paint?” Heather smiled at me, “My ex-boyfriend runs a small gallery and I helped out. It left plenty of time for my art.”

I tried polite but Stephen interrupted with a wave of the bill. “Here, chat later. You want any more?”

I nodded gratefully. Fuck my cool. While I lingered over the drugs, the two of them continued on about Stephen’s family and Heather’s money problems, their words melding with the noise outside. I hesitated before taking seconds, fourths, if I was counting nostrils. But a quick review of my night’s raging chemical intake convinced me not to count. Still, I wasn’t above rubbing some flakes onto my gums.

“Stephen, I know what to expect,” Heather said.

“I just hope you haven’t forgotten.”

“Sometimes it’s better to forget,” she retorted. “I think you’re obsessed. You say you hate them but you keep coming around.”

Stephen gathered his paraphernalia. “Him, not them. Anyway, I have as much right to use the Hacienda as anyone else in this damn family. Hell, if he can still come around I can too.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

I’d grown bored. “I’ve been gone from the party for too long,” I interrupted. “Don’t want Lou or Lauren to think I ran off without saying goodbye. Listen, thanks for the sugar, it made my night.”

And woke me up. Whatever misgivings I had about dropping off the wagon were brushed aside in the rush of coke induced, ego boosting energy.

Heather spun in my direction. “Well it’s been a pleasure meeting you, Matt. I hope we see each other again.”

“Let’s see how long the happy couple last before you add him to your Christmas list,” Stephen grunted.

I forced a smile over my numb gums. “Don’t pay him any mind, Heather. You send me a card any time you want.”