The Girls With Games of Blood
| THE |
BOOKS BY ALEX BLEDSOE
Blood Groove
The Girls with Games of Blood
The Sword-Edged Blonde
Burn Me Deadly
G
IRLS
WITH
G
AMES
OF
B
LOOD
Alex Bledsoe
TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NEW YORK
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE GIRLS WITH GAMES OF BLOOD
Copyright © 2010 by Alex Bledsoe
All rights reserved.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
Tor
®
is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 978-0-7653-2384-2
First Edition: July 2010
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To the memory of
Laura Nyro (1947–1997).
Without her, this novel would have no Patience.
SPECIAL THANKS
Teresa R. Simpson
Marlene Stringer
Paul Stevens
Dr. Elizabeth Miller
Amy, Roy, and the rest of the staff at Oliva’s
Caroline Aumann
Valette, Jake, and Charlie
And in memory of Barbara Bova
Everybody’s got a little light under the sun.
—“Flashlight,” Parliament
| THE |
|
Memphis, Tennessee
Late summer 1975
“S
HIT
,”
THE MAN
said as he leaned his chin on his hand. He looked at the girl behind the bar and said doubtfully, “Are you
sure
you’re old enough to be serving alcohol?”
She smiled as she dried a beer mug and placed it on the shelf in line with the others. Her canine teeth protruded ever so slightly over her lower lip. “Oh, I’m a lot older than I look, I promise.”
“Ah, these days,
everyone
looks young to me,” he said sadly. He wore his long hair feathered back in the current style, and a wide-lapelled, powder-blue jacket. He was about ten years too old for the look, though, and it seemed more like a costume on him than real clothes. He radiated weary discomfort with his very skin. “I feel positively ancient.”
“I know the feeling,” the girl agreed as she tossed the rag into the sink. In the empty, almost silent bar the
plop
echoed off the wood paneling. The girl’s shiny metal name tag read
FAUVETTE
; soft, shoulder-length brown hair framed a face unlined and untroubled. Only her eyes convinced the man that she was indeed over the legal age of twenty-one. They had the haunted air of someone who’d seen awful things and would never fully forget them.
The man fluttered the front of his paisley-spotted polyester shirt. “This heat’s murder, too. I guess a summer drought is normal around here, but you wouldn’t think it’d be so humid without actually raining.”
“There’s the big river right down the road,” she pointed out. “And it
is
the South.”
“Yes,” he said dourly. “The cradle of soul, and rock and roll. And if my luck is any indication, also their grave.”
“So what do you do for a living that’s got you so morbid this afternoon?” she said.
“I’m in the record business. I travel the country to find new talent, then sign them to contracts that suck the life right out of them. Can you believe that?”
“You don’t sound like you enjoy it very much.”
“That’s because I never find what I’m looking for. The song. The face. The voice.”
“Always a new one, eh?”
“Oh, no. I found it once, eight years ago, out in California. Heard the song, saw the face, felt the voice. But I let it slip away.” He paused for a sip of his drink. “I know people always dump on bartenders, sweetheart. But beauty like yours deserves deference, don’t you think? So I’ll shut up if you want.”
She made a face. “I think I heard a compliment in there somewhere. Thanks.” She looked around the otherwise empty bar. It was too late for the lunch crowd, too early for dinner, and she had nothing better to do. Besides, since taking this job she’d found that she enjoyed hearing people’s stories. It gave her a sense of being connected to the world again. “And you can tell me anything. Just don’t think I’m rude if we get another customer and I have to step away.”
“I admire your work ethic,” he said. “Well, this was in San Francisco, back during the days of Haight-Ashbury and the Summer of Love. Does that mean anything to you?”
“I’ve heard of San Francisco.”
He laughed. Pretty girls with wry senses of humor were always his weakness. “The whole world felt like it was changing . . .”
. . . and if there was an epicenter, it was there. I had contacts everywhere, in all the clubs and bars and radio stations. I was always on the lookout for the Next Big Thing. But I only truly found it once. It started with a Polaroid snapshot that I held so the marquee’s neon light fell on it. “I don’t know,” I said skeptically. “She looks like a chunky Morticia Addams.”