“You’re going to pay my dry-cleaning bill, you piece of—”
“Excuse me. I’m going to have to ask you ladies to leave.”
Wendy collapses into her chair. “Why?”
“Well, for your own safety, for one thing.”
Wendy says, “I think I’m gonna throw up, Camille.”
“Oh Jesus,” the waiter says.
I turn to Wendy. “You think you can make it outside?”
“Maybe.”
I lean over, and she puts her arm around me. “I got her,” I tell the bartender. “I’ll give her a ride home.”
The table next to us starts slow-clapping as I pull Wendy to her feet. She’s broad shouldered and strong, with about five inches on me in those cowboy boots. I’m struggling to hold her up.
“I’ll help.” The bartender puts her hand on Wendy’s shoulder, and Wendy flings her other arm around the waist of her glittery gown, the remains of her drink still in her hand, red droplets flying.
As we move past the bar and to the front door, the whole room claps us out.
We have another assignment after this. I’ve yet to know the details—Wendy supposedly has a burner phone that will receive them as texts, one by one, throughout the evening. According to 0001, the assignment is better accomplished with two people, but from the looks of things, I’m going to have to drive Wendy home, take the burner, and do it alone.
“You gonna be okay?” says the bartender as we reach the front door.
“Sure,” I tell her. “She’s just . . . She’s a big Alayah fan.”
“So am I.”
“Yeah?”
She nods. “Those other contestants could give Regina George a run for her money. Who the hell are they to call anybody phony?”
“Right? That’s what I was telling Wendy on our thread.” I clear my throat. “It’s a Reddit thread. We met online.”
“I know.”
I stare at her.
The bartender takes a quick glance behind her, then gives me a wink. “Good luck out there, sister.”
She turns and heads for the bar without looking back at us. Her dress shimmers.
After the door shuts behind us, I lead Wendy to her car. “You got the keys?”
She puts her lips to my ear. “They’re probably watching us through the windows, so I’m gonna let you haul me into the passenger seat.” She presses a set of keys into my palm. Her voice is calm, sober, the slur completely gone. “Once we get out of here, we can switch.”
“We can?”
“She was serving me virgins all night,” Wendy whispers. “We’re everywhere, Camille.”
AS I DRIVE Wendy’s Camry to the Poughkeepsie Galleria, the only sounds are the quiet roar of the engine, the crunch of the wheels on the near-empty road. I keep sneaking looks at her, my partner in crime—the benign smile, the sensible hair, the peaceful gaze, all so removed from the screaming drunk at the Wild Rose. I want to ask her if she’s ever studied acting. I want to ask her a lot of things, really. Her age for one. Back at the bar, I’d figured her for mid-fifties, but during this brief drive she’s looked a few years older or several years younger depending on the light. I want to ask her what she does for a living, whether she’s married, how she stays in shape—anything to break this silence. I want to ask her if she minds keeping quiet as much as I do, but from the looks of her, she doesn’t. I imagine she’s been in the collective longer than I have, so she’s more used to these rules.