“Get over here, boy!” the senator boomed. He waved Donnie over, spilling ouzo in his drunken gesticulation.

“I didn’t know
you were in town!”
“Just got here yesterday morning,” Donnie said. He took the annoyed waitress’s place by the table but ignored the man’s
offer
of a chair. The woman at the senator’s side looked up at him, and Donnie gave her a brief, distracted smile with no feeling
in it.
Her eyes widened just slightly in nervous appreciation, and color rose in her cheeks. She looked down at her drink.
“Yourself?”
“Last week,” the senator said. “You should’ve told me you were coming. We could catch up. How’s your old man?”
“Still Republican,” Donnie murmured, glancing up at the mirror then over his shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll see you later.”
“Nonsense!” the senator said, banging a palm on the table. The woman with him fl inched. “Have a seat, boy. Let me buy
you a drink! What’re you having?”
“I’m fi ne, thanks,” Donnie murmured. He crushed his cigarette out in the marble tray on the table and looked at the woman
on the senator’s left. She met his eyes warily and smiled like a teenager. “Who’s this?”
The senator looked at the woman like he’d forgotten she was there. “This? This here’s Ellen. My wife.”
“Your wife?” Donnie said with disingenuous delight. This news came as no surprise to him. “Really now?”
“Yep!”
“How long have you been married?”
“Ten years!” the senator hooted.
“Happily?”
Ellen frowned at that, but she missed the look on the senator’s face—a fl ash of guilt with an undertone of something else.
Panic, maybe. It disappeared in a blink, but not before Donnie saw it.
“Yeah,” the senator said. “Of course!”
“That’s great. That’s just fantastic.” Donnie smiled at Ellen like nothing was amiss. “It’s good to see married people sticking
together these days.” Ellen smiled back.
“Hell yeah,” the senator said, slapping the table again. “Oyez!”
Donnie pulled out a chair. “So, you guys have any kids?”
“No,” Ellen said. Her voice barely carried over the ambient noise.
“Not yet, but we keep on trying! Every chance we get!”
“None, huh?” Donnie put on a fake mask of amusement and confusion. Here goes, he thought. He concentrated and gave
the senator’s mind a little push. “So who was that young girl you were with last night while the wife was away?”
“Oh, just some prostitute,” the senator blurted out before he realized what he was saying. “I didn’t get her name.”
“What?” Ellen gasped. The senator turned to stone.
“Ellen, I didn’t mean…”
“You told me you were visiting your great uncle Nikos!”
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Donnie said. He stepped back, swiped a drink from a passing waitress and gave a quick mocking
bow. Then, drink in hand, he made his way to the private balcony at last with a smile on his face.
She came to him eventually as Donnie leaned on the rail watching the door. He set down his drink—his third… whatever it
was—and faced her with narrow eyes and crossed arms.
“Did you really catch my husband cheating last night?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“So how’d you know he was?”
“Lucky guess,” he sneered in disdain. “The distinguished gentleman hasn’t changed much.”
Ellen closed the glass door and came out with a lit cigarette in hand. Nowhere in evidence was the shrinking violet who’d
been sitting at the table. Her body swayed as she strolled across the balcony, her gait rolling like she was walking on water.
Donnie fl icked his last cigarette butt over his shoulder toward the street.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” the lady said. “Weren’t you expecting me to follow you?”
“What are you even doing here?”
4
The laugh Donnie got in response was all feline passive-aggression and malicious bemusement. “I’ve left my two-timing
husband, of course. I came to reward you for saving me from that sad, bitter life.”
“Right,” Donnie said. “Can we cut the crap instead?”
The provocative, sultry expression disappeared from Ellen’s face, and she frowned. “Well, you’re in a mood.”
“It’s getting late, Marie,” Donnie sighed. He looked over Ellen’s shoulder toward the balcony’s glass door. “Just come on
out and tell me what you want.”
Ellen’s face smirked. “As you like it, spoilsport.”
At that, Ellen’s body lurched up onto the tips of her toes, and her mouth opened wide. All the breath inside her blew out at
once, visible in the air despite the night’s muggy heat. The vapors congealed into the lithe form of a beautiful young woman
with
café au lait skin and a cascade of auburn hair in tight curls. She wore a green Mychael Knight dress cut just high and just
low
enough to seem modest without being too serious about it. Her name was Marie Glapion, a daughter of Erzulie. When Marie
emerged, Ellen passed out in a heap in the corner behind her.
“So how’d you know?” she asked again. She squatted, making the hem of her dress rise dangerously up both thighs, and
plucked the cigarette from Ellen’s fi ngers.
Donnie sighed. “I saw you in the mirror when I was talking to the senator.”
“I was afraid you had.”
“So what do you want?”
“You, of course,” she said.
Donnie stepped away from the balcony rail and centered his weight over the balls of his feet. Reluctantly, he kept his
distance. “For your very own?”
Marie didn’t answer.
“I didn’t think so.” Donnie fl exed his fi ngers, sorely missing the comforting weight of Eros and Anteros by his sides. He
probably
could have gotten them past the club’s security if he’d thought he’d need them here. “So how do you want to do this?”