Thicker Than Water. Lindy Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ turned her attention to their interloper, the possible spy, the dubious-dyke. McThing was full-figured but not overweight, about five-five tall, naturally red-headed if the fair skin and freckles were any clue, and dressed in black jeans, boots, white shirt and green jacket.

      Kit didn't think she'd fessed-up, within Carrie's earshot yesterday, to being a PI but felt sure - given the circumstances - that her profession would've been on Rabbit MacArthur's customary lowdown on all things in the community. Rabbit was a formidable presence: tall, large-breasted, trunk-thighed and loud. She was also a treasure - once you got beyond the somewhat scary spiked hair and demonic tattoos crawling from the sleeves of the tight T-shirts she wore under her trademark black overalls. She had a heart of gold and a mission to make everyone feel welcome; so there was no doubt the questionable queer knew everything there was to know about everyone she'd seen in these parts in the last two days.

      A journo worth her salt, Del had said of McThing not revealing her sources. Well ditto for a journo marching up to a PI and demanding to know what the PI knew about everything. So why hadn't she? Why was she still seemingly searching for whatever it was she needed to gird those young loins? Oh. It dawned on Kit that the PI may have frightened the reporter.

      Yeah sure, O'Malley. You're not that scary. Just because she - well, everyone actually - heard you berating the deluded duo offering the frisbee-ride to redemption, doesn't mean a thing.

      On the other hand, Kit acknowledged, Ms McDermid's attention was ping-ponging between her and the couple who'd relocated with their dodgy sign to the other side of the lawn after Kit had asked them who the fallen were and what would they know if they got up.

      "The women who gather together in this place have fallen from grace," Mr Dogmatist had informed her. "Unless they repent their ways, the lord will forever look on them as the abominations of his gift of life."

      "Why?" Kit had asked.

      "Without the guiding hand of a mortal man, made in god's own image, these women are forever damned and excluded from his light," Mrs Dogmat elaborated.

      "The light of man or the light of god?" Kit had queried.

      "The light of god through man," Mr Doggydoo proclaimed.

      "Really?" Kit frowned. "I don't know about this spooky male light business, but I have been in the dark of true evil, pure and bloody, and I can tell you it was totally man made."

      "Where there's dark there's light," god's-image insisted.

      "I doubt that's scientifically true but if you want to believe it, go right ahead. I'll let you in on a secret, though: there are more goddesses in that place," Kit pointed at the Terpsichore, "than there are genuine reps of any even half-way-decent god out here on this lawn."

      Mr Doodoo recoiled. "This is a house of sin; a faithless den of sex, debauchery, harlotry."

      "Harlotry?" Kit snorted. "Listen mate, it can only be your secret stash of porno magazines that would generate that kind of wishful thinking."

      "This is indeed a den," Mrs Doo had wailed, as if 'den' was the really important word. She crooked an accusing finger before continuing, "It's frequented by fornicating lesbians."

      Ah, den goes with fornicating; that makes it a noun to be reckoned with, Kit thought, amazed at how creatures so chockers with bile could look so much like normal humans.

      How come the church, any church, never burned twisted nutters like these at the stake?

      Mr was still at it: "Nakedness and licentiousness, sex and..."

      "Blimey!" Kit had exclaimed, "you god-fearing breeders are amazing. All you ever think about is sex. Believe me, very little naked fornicating goes on in that piano bar.

      "And where the hell are your priorities anyway, you lunatics? The married man whose dead body was left in there was a known philanderer, a drug dealer and a murderer, yet you two are out here protesting against us. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that is and how petty you are? That's actually a rhetorical question. Please don't answer, because I really don't care to be assaulted by anything else that might be festering in your sad little minds."

      Mr and Mrs had endeavoured to make another sad point but Kit had crossed her wrists in front of her face and backed away, growling: "No, aagh; get away strange people."

      Returning to the here and now, Kit realised that McThing's face was responding questioningly to the stare that she was unconsciously levelling in the reporter's direction. Ooh, we are getting bold, she thought, offering a tiny affirmative raise of her chin.

      Carrie's standing-start to racing-walk response was immediate; as was Kit's negative finger-pointing motion aimed at dissuading the tag-along photographer.

      "Kit O'Malley, right? We met briefly yesterday," McThing said, still on the approach but on her own now. "I'm Carrie McDermid."

      "Carrie," Kit nodded, shaking the offered hand. "You weren't a journalist yesterday."

      She had the gall to look puzzled then the grace to look apologetic. "I was, I just didn't tell the police that."

      "Or me, or Angie."

      "You didn't ask," Carrie shrugged. "And, likewise, you didn't tell me you were a private detective, Ms O'Malley."

      "Everyone knows that about me though," Kit said, playing along.

      "Everyone who knows you, you mean."

      "Yep," Kit nodded. "And now that you do, drop the Ms. It's just O'Malley." Strange, she noted, that habit's having quite a revival.

      "So, were you here undercover yesterday?" Kit asked.

      "No, I was here for lunch."

      "What about Wednesday night?"

      "Wednesday? Oh. Um, I was here to, ah..." Carrie fiddled with her hair.

      "Check us out?"

      Carrie nodded. "I suppose."

      "Are you writing a feature on great eating places, alternate lifestyles or hip venues for the sexually curious?"

      Carrie laughed. "No. Until yesterday, when I couldn't have lunch here, I wasn't writing anything related to this place at all. I was checking it out, as you say, to see what, to see if I'd want to come back, or..."

      "Are you gay?" Kit asked bluntly, but quietly.

      Carrie's face mutated through three expressions - startled, unsure, indignant - before she spoke. "Is that any of your business?"

      Kit sighed. "Given the state of affairs - and by that I mean the whole dead guy thing coinciding with you being here, twice, and you being a reporter and us, as in you and me, technically still being on our premises - then yes, it's my business."

      "And if I choose not to answer?" Carrie queried.

      "You don't have to," Kit smiled. "But you may find it difficult to get worthwhile info from anyone who frequents this bar or has any affiliation with it."

      Carrie looked incredulous. "Are you saying that if I'm not gay, no one will talk СКАЧАТЬ