The Butterfly Clues (14 page)

“I—I didn’t know,” I say, sheepishly, tugging on the silver horse. “I don’t know anything about him. I just started tonight.”

She sighs and puts a hand to her hip. “Look, sweetie. Mr. Jones basically
owns
Cleveland. Real estate, or development, or some shit. Totally loaded. Good tipper, too. And he’s also very, very super particular about his girls,
and
he’s not a creep. Never pulls anything shady in the booth, you know?” She points a finger at me like Mr. Crawson, the sex-ed teacher, does when lecturing the class about all the STDs we stand to get if we so much as kiss another person without a condom on. “Tip for the future: if you ever get another chance with Gordon Jones, don’t blow it. For real.” She shakes her head and walks back toward the tables of men.

I stare momentarily at the curtained booth where Gordon Jones sits: loaded, sweet, handsome, maybe wondering where I went. I can still feel the warm leather on the backs of my knees, his whiskey-pepperminty breath between us in the air, hear the strangest word in the English language forming on his lips and sliding, warm and velvety, into my chest:
beautiful
.

I could go back to him. We could talk—just talk. I think of those six freckles above his left brow: a perfect number. A safe number. Maybe he’d even want to help me if I told him what was going on, what happened to Sapphire, he’d care. He’d definitely care. And then he’d whisper:
You’re safe here. I’m going to make sure of it.
And then he’d kiss me, kiss me as he whispered:
Safe
(left eye)
. Safe
(right cheek)
. Safe
(middle of clavicle).
Safe …

Thunk, thunk, thunk.
A bouncer pounds up the stairs, startling me from my daydream.

Time to go.

As I’m darting to the exit doors, I see something out of the corner of my eye that stops me in my tracks, roots me to the spot.

He’s talking to Marnie, kicking his legs around on a tall stool by the stage, grin big and dimpled as ever. My heart jumps straight up my throat, shorting my breath to a gasp as I croak out:

“Flynt!?”

CHAPTER 11

Flynt swivels around to face me. His face goes instantly pale, his eyes widening. He jumps to his feet and threads his way toward me.

“What are you doing here?” I practically spit.

“I might ask you the same question,” he says. “You headed out?”

I nod, not knowing how to feel or what to say.

“Oh, what lovely happenstance,” he continues. “I’ll follow you.”

I
tap tap tap, banana
quietly, pulling my coat from the hook by the front door and wrapping it around me. Something doesn’t add up. He told me he didn’t hang out at Tens anymore.

We pass onto the street, and I begin walking in the direction of the bus, trying to gather my thoughts as I count and avoid the cracks in the sidewalk.
Twelve, thirt—

“So … you came by here after all. And what’d you find out about your
old friend
? Anything juicy?” He plays with one of his dreadlocks.

I widen the gap between us, start the count over again.
Old friend—
behind his words, he’s saying,
Liar
. He knows. My hands start burning.

“Okay, fine, Flynt.” I stop under a bright streetlight and look into his face. “Sapphire wasn’t an old friend of mine. I didn’t know her at all.”

Flynt snorts a little but he’s still smiling. “Well,
that
much was obvious.”

“But I
—
” I almost tell him about the dead cat and Sapphire’s voice, constantly in my ear. “I can’t stop thinking about her. I don’t care if you understand, and I don’t care if you want to help. But I need to know what happened.”

His face softens, those blue-green-gold eyes shining in the light of the streetlamp. “You didn’t have to lie, Lo.”

“What about you? Didn’t you tell me you hadn’t been to Tens in years?”

“Oh, you know.” He waves a hand. “Years, days. In Neverland, it hardly makes a difference.” He pulls the moth-chewed scarf from his neck and comes toward me, wrapping it around my shoulders. “Bet you wish you had pants on right now.”

I tear the scarf off and throw it back to him. “Stop trying to distract me, Flynt.” I shiver. “Why
were
you at Tens?”

“If you must know,” he says, sighing, “our little chat the other day reminded me that I hadn’t been around in a while, you know, to draw, to take money from those sleazy rich guys.” He puts a triumphant finger into the air. “And I made forty bucks tonight!” He starts walking again.

I hurry to catch up, still careful to avoid the cracks but no longer bothering to count them. “Is that supposed to be a lot?” I fire back, refusing to be baited by his charm.

“Look, Lo. I know what this is all about. You’re pissed I didn’t offer to show you my sketches. Right?” He puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me, and I finally look at him, grinning his sweet, goofy grin, even though it’s the last thing I want to do. He wraps the scarf around my neck again and pats it, three times, which makes me think I should keep it on this time. “Look, I would have. I swear. But they sold like hotcakes. In a flash, I’m telling you.” He taps the pocket of his patched, dusty black pants with his palm, holding it there protectively.

It’s hard not to start smiling, too, standing beside him, even though I still don’t know whether or not to trust him. I can’t forget how weird he looked when he saw me. Almost like he was … frightened.

“Hey
—
can’t hide a smile from me, Queen P. I’ll find it. Always.” He points at my lips, touching the top one softly with his warm pointer finger. I shiver, batting away his hand with my own.

“I’m glad I helped make you so rich,” I say to him, trying to relax, trying to keep my voice neutral. “I should probably take commission.”

“You’re a slippery one, you know that, Lo? Always after my riches. I’m not saying you’re a gold digger, but …” He ticks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “How about this: I’ll pay your percentage in the form of late-night pizza. Deal?”

A quiver runs through my chest. It’s so late. I should be home.

“I know a great place,” he goes on, “not so far from your bus stop, in fact. So, what do you say? Want to sign on it? Or shall a gentleman’s agreement be sufficient?”

“You
do
owe me,” I reply, even though I shouldn’t go. He grins, grabs my hand, lets out a whoop into the thin night air.

And just like that, a good feeling flushes through me. Maybe I’ll run into Keri Ram in the bathroom tomorrow. She’ll be fixing her hair; I’ll be dabbing concealer under my eyes.
I stayed out way too late last night,
I’ll say, shrugging.
I was with my friend, Flynt. Got some pizza at a twenty-four-hour spot in Neverland. Oh, you don’t know Neverland? It can be pretty cool, actually. If you know people, I mean.

I follow him through the cold night down several mostly deserted blocks to what looks like a rusty old shed. He knocks: four times quickly and then another three. I clap my hands softly under my coat seven times to match before I
tap tap tap, banana
. “What did you just say?” Flynt asks as we wait, blowing hot air between his fists.

“I
—
nothing.” My cheeks burn. Thankfully, Flynt lets it slide.

A guy with hair like a dirty-blond mushroom cloud finally opens it. He gives Flynt a short nod of recognition and a clap on the back before pointing us to a table in the corner of the room.

Inside it’s like a cozy little cottage, equipped with a wood-burning pizza oven in one corner and six small tables pressed into the tiny space, the smell of wood smoke and dough and a thousand delicious things wafting through the air. Multicolored Christmas lights hang in clumps from the ceiling and the floor is an old diner–looking pattern of small tiles in black and white.

Flynt puts a hand on the small of my back for a second, inching me forward. My breath catches in my throat feeling his hand there, pressing, his fingers long and firm and warm.

“Pretty cool, right?” he says to me as we sit, hands resting on the warped wooden tabletops. “Not many people know about it, but I come here whenever I’ve got the cash. And then I blow it all on pizza and giant ice-cream sundaes.”

“Good, Moneybags,” I say to him. “Because I’m feeling
very
hungry all of a sudden.”

While we wait for our food to come—
quattro formaggi
, mushrooms, olives, basil—Flynt inches his hand on the table closer to mine. “You know, Lo, you should tell me the next time you plan to wander around Neverland by yourself. It’s not safe around here.”

I take my hand off the table and put it inside my coat pocket, feeling for the butterfly, rubbing it between my fingers as the horse pendent burns against my chest. My suspicions bubble up again. I can’t tell if he is speaking out of concern, or as a warning.

I think again of the blood-spotted note:
Now you know what curiosity did. Be careful, or you’ll end up like the cat.

“I’m fine, Flynt,” I say stiffly. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m just saying. There are some pretty shady people around here. It’s fine for me; people know me. I get a pass.”

Something occurs to me: people know Flynt, and Flynt seems to know everyone, at least around here. “Do you know anyone named Bird?” I blurt out, a shot in the dark.

“Hmmm.” Flynt puts a finger on his chin, the picture of thoughtfulness. “Can’t say that I do. I know a Raven—he’s cool, amazing graffiti artist, you should check out his stuff with me sometime—and a crazy woman who calls herself The Lizard. Of course, lizards are reptiles, although it’s quite possible they share a common ancestor with our feathered friends, just like the dinosaurs.” He has spoken the words in one long, pitter-patter sentence. Now he pauses and sucks in a breath. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I say, and then, when he raises his eyebrows: “Just something to do with Sapphire. Someone who knew her.”

For a second, a look of pain crosses his face. “Look, Lo, just promise me you’ll be careful.” He spreads his hands and leans forward. “I’m only saying this because I worry about you, okay?” The last part comes out in a rush.

My throat squeezes shut. I don’t know what to say.

Thankfully, just then, the snowy-eyed waiter comes toward us with the pizza. “So, what else did you find out about Sapphire?” Flynt says in a normal voice as the pizza is plunked, swirls of steam rising into the air, on the table between us. He grabs a slice and blows on it, sliding it in big bites into his mouth, his eyes on me.

“Well …” I hesitate. “The girls gave me her makeup bag. But they didn’t say much.”

“I told you,” he said.

“They weren’t rude, or anything. Just busy. And I guess they didn’t really know all that much about her life outside the club.”

Flynt is already reaching for a second slice. Our hands collide over the plate, and he laughs, backing off so I can take a slice.

“So, that’s it, huh?” he presses. “That’s all you got?”

“Well, I mean, I talked to the manager … but I was just asking him for an application. You know.” I center the slice of my pizza on my plate, waiting for it to cool. I don’t want to tell him about

my time with Gordon. I don’t exactly know why.

Maybe I don’t want him to know I
enjoyed
it.

“I was thinking,” I continue, returning my gaze to Flynt, focusing on the silky strand of cheese now fastened to his bottom lip, “since you know the lay of the land and all that … I mean, maybe you could help. You could ask around for me. You know everybody, and I don’t.” I lift my slightly-less-scalding slice of pizza to my mouth, taking three small bites.

He drums his fingers on the table for a few seconds, wiping up some sauce with his napkin and balling it into his fist, grabbing a third slice and sliding half of it into his mouth. I haven’t seen anyone eat so ravenously in a long time. “It’s really not my business,” he says finally. “It’s not your business, either. I hate to break it to you, but people die all the time around here.”

I close my eyes, open them again. I grip the sides of the table, willing the anger down. “I know it won’t bring her back,” I say. “I didn’t even know her. Okay? I didn’t know her at all. But … but this is the right thing. And I
need
it. For her, yeah. But mostly for me.”

I watch him, holding my breath, counting to six. “And,” I continue softly, “I guess I kinda need someone around who … cares. When it comes down to it.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says finally, raising his eyes to me slowly before moving them to the center of the table, to the last two slices of pizza, beaded with grease on the silver pie pan. “You gonna eat that?”

An hour later, 3:00
A.M.
, I’m home and unable to sleep.

I study my face in my bedroom mirror and hear Gordon say that word again:
beautiful.
My finger traces the scar above my left eyebrow, like a big dent in my face. I got it the time I fell into the creek at the bottom of the hill near our house in Minnesota (Oren christened it “Butt Creek” the first time we found it). We were looking for pennies. We made finding them a contest, of course. Oren made everything a contest. He spotted one of our flattened pennies on the edge of the bank, gave me the
let’s race
eye, and shouted,
“Go!”
Running too fast, desperate to win for once, I caught my left foot under a branch and tumbled headfirst into Butt Creek.