THE BEAST ─ five hargreeves

[ 069 ] the very good plan is actually a very bad plan

LXIX.

t h e   v e r y   g o o d
p l a n   i s   a c t u a l l y   a
v e r y   b a d   p l a n

—THE CAROUSEL BURLESQUE was busier than usual tonight. From the bar three steps higher than the main floor, Five could see out over the crowd: dancing girls studded with sparkling cheap rhinestones, pot-bellied men watching them with hungry eyes, the occasional businessmen conducting their deals over a round of martinis.

Tiny gold lights were strung along the wall and the band had the music cranked so loud he could feel the ice vibrate in his glass.

It was November, low season, but the place was filling up, and he leaned back against the bar with an untouched shot glass of scotch and scanned the club for pockets, those dark human spaces in the room where something has just changed.

Above the music a man let out an appreciative whistle when before he was quiet; one of the dancers out on the floor lost the perfect artificial smile and another stepped back too fast; a chair leg scraped the carpet. Things Five couldn't hear, just felt, a shift of objects in space, a change in the air, a pocket of possible human error and amusement. Anything was a distraction if you watched hard enough for it.

And, oh God, Five had never wanted—needed—a distraction more than he did now.

Two of the girls climbed the steps from the stage, their hips swaying. They moved by him to work the men at the bar, wearing sequins and brassieres and the occasional gold Rolex. One was blond—dyed or otherwise. The other had dark hair and dark eyes. He didn't look at her.

He counted them and counted again. Seventeen women in their floor costumes, none of them the same. All similar, with their smiles, their lipstick, their shiny hair and swaying hips.

One of the girls on the stage twirled, her long hair swishing over her bare skin. A man whistled. In her hand was a brilliant orange fan of feathers, which she flicked back and forth across her hips with one wrist. Not regular feathers, Five guessed, and probably not synthetic either. Ostrich—Ostrich feathers. Ostriches . . .

His mind began to wander, and, in its natural progression, made its way back to Zara. He was so exhausted he could not even force the thoughts away. Zara . . . yes, Zara would know all about ostriches. And she would sit there, on the barstool next to him, probably, and start talking about ostriches. Yes, and her face would light up, she would smile, perhaps furrow her brow a little like she did when she was trying very hard to be stoic about something.

Zara . . .

Zara, who lied to him, betrayed him, and left him. Zara, who thought he was a monster.

Where was she? He did not know. He wished she was somewhere far, far away, so he never had to see her again. And he wished she was angry. As angry as he was. At least then he wouldn't feel so stupid about drowning his sorrows in women and liquor. The two worst things ever to happen to mankind.

Drowning his sorrows . . . Funny, wasn't it, how he couldn't remember even one of the prettily made-up faces that had passed by this evening? Or that he hadn't yet touched his glass of scotch?

This was a joke. He was a joke. It was the night before the apocalypse and here he was: a sad, lonely, lovesick joke. A goddamn joke.