Her head drooped, and she ran her hand through her hair, pulling at black strands, muttering, “Split ends, cheap shitty shampoo.”
“Five months ago,” said Milo. “How was Lauren doing?”
She looked up. “Her? She was doing great.”
“How much money did she give you?”
“Seven hundred bucks.”
“Generous.”
“Her and me go way back—went way back.” Her eyes flashed, and she stroked the dog faster. “In the beginning, I used to help her—taught her how to dance. In the beginning she used to dance like a white girl. I taught her all kinds of stuff.”
“Like what?”
“How to deal with reality. Developing your attitude. Technique.” Smiling, she ran her finger around the contours of her lips. “She was smart, she learned fast. Smart about money too. Always saved whatever she could. Me, I have money, it just slips away, I’m extremely fucked up—and you won’t hear me blaming the bacteria, even though that really did fuck me up, because even before the bacteria I was pretty fucked up. Personally.”
She lifted the sleeve, let it fall. “Becoming a freak didn’t help my self-image, but I get by. You can always find some guy who digs . . . Like I’m talking to someone who cares.”
Reaching into a pocket of the robe, she pulled out a cigarette. No pack, just a loose cigarette; easier access with one arm. Milo was quick to light it for her.
“A gentleman.” She sucked smoke. “So who offed Lauren?”
“That’s the big question, Michelle.”
The brown eyes narrowed. “You really don’t know?”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“Aw,” she said. “And here I was thinking it was my technique brought you over. Well, I sure can’t tell you. Lauren and I—we went different ways. I thought she was getting it together. Back when we were dancing and working together, I always thought she had a better chance of getting it together.”
“Why’s that?”
“First, like I said, she was smart. Second, she never got into dope in any big way. Had no Jones for men either. She never got attached to anyone, let them get their hooks into her. Tell the truth, she was really kind of a nun—know what I mean?”
“Not a party girl,” said Milo.”Not a party girl,” Michelle repeated. “Even when she was partying, her real head was somewhere else, you know? It’s like no matter what we did, and we did some shit, believe me, she was like . . . doing something but really not doing it, you know?”
“Detached,” I said.
“Yeah. At first it used to bug me. I used to worry some customer would pick up on it and that would screw the whole deal—kill the fantasy, you know? ‘Cause all they want—customers—is to be God for five minutes. And I knew Lauren—no matter what she was doing—thought the customers were pieces of shit. At first I thought she was this snotty bitch with a I’m-too-good-for-it vibe, you know? Then I realized it was just her way of getting through the night, and I came to respect her for that. And I tried it myself.”
She tossed her hair. “Being detached. I could never pull it off. Not without chemical help. That made me admire Lauren—like she had some special talent. Like she was going places. Now, look.”
She studied me. “You’re not a cop.”
I glanced at Milo. He nodded.
“I’m a psychologist. I knew Lauren years ago.”
“Oh,” she said. “You’re the one—what’s your name—Del-something?”
“Delaware.”
“Yeah, she talked about you, said you tried to help her when she was a kid, she was too messed up to work with you. Did she come see you again? She said she was thinking of it.”
“When was this?” I said.
“Last time I saw her—five months ago.”
“No, she didn’t. Her mother called me when she went missing.”
“Missing?”
“She was gone for a week before we found her,” said Milo. “Left her car in the garage, took no luggage, didn’t tell anyone. Looks like she had an appointment with someone who got mean. Any idea who?”
“I thought she got out of the job.”
“She told you that?”
“Yeah, said she was back in school, wanted to be a shrink. I said, ‘Girl, you look like nothing but a yuppie bitch right now, so why bother?’ and she laughed. Then I told her to keep studying, and when she figured out why men are so fucked up, let me know.”