Music, smoky air and flashing nights gusted out, and Donnell’s immediate impression was that they had pierced the hollow of a black carcass and stumbled onto an infestation of beetles halfway through a transformation into the human. Hundreds of people were dancing, shoving and mauling each other, and they were dressed in what appeared to be the overflow of a flea market: feathered boas, ripped dinner jackets, sequined gowns, high school band uniforms. Orange spotlights swept across them, coils of smoke writhing in the beams. As his eyes adjusted to the alternating brilliance and dimness, he saw that the ceiling had been knocked out and ragged peninsulas of planking left jutting from the walls at the height of about twenty feet; these served as makeshift balconies, each holding half a dozen or more people, and as mounts for the spotlights and speakers, which were angled down beneath them. Ropes trailed off their sides, and at the far end of the room someone was swinging back and forth over the heads of the crowd.
‘… party!’ shouted Otille, as her pets infiltrated the dancers, pushing their way through.
‘What?’ Donnell leaned close.
‘It’s Downey’s party! He just released…’ Otille pointed to her ear and drew him along the hall to where the din was more bearable. Jocundra followed behind.
‘He’s just released his first record,’ said Otille. ‘We have our own label. That’s him playing.’
Donnell cocked an ear to listen. Beneath the distortion, the music was slick and heavily synthesized, and Downey’s lyrics were surprisingly romantic, his voice strong and melodic.
‘It’s one of the benefits of living here,’ said Otille. ‘I enjoy sponsoring creative enterprise.’ She strolled back down to the doorway, beckoning them to follow.
The shining blades of the spotlights skewed wildly across the bobbing heads, stopping to illuminate an island of ecstatic faces, then slicing away. Some of the dancers -both men and women - were naked to the waist, and others wore rags, yet they gave evidence of being well-to-do. Expensive haircuts, jewelry, and many of the rags were of good material, suggesting they had been ripped just for the occasion. Five minutes passed, ten. Jocundra stood with her hand to her mouth, pale, and when he asked her what was wrong, she replied, ‘The smoke,’ and leaned against the wall. Finally Downey and Papa returned, Simpkins behind them.
‘I think I saw him,’ said Downey. ‘But I couldn’t get close. It’s like the goddamn stockyards out there.’
‘Somebody said he was headed this way,’ said Papa; he was huffing and puffing, and it was clear to Donnell that he was exaggerating his winded condition, making sure Otille noticed how diligently he had exerted himself on her behalf.
‘I guess we’ll have to stop the dancing,’ said Otille. ‘I’m sorry, Downey.’
Downey waved it off as inconsequential.
‘Now, hold up,’ said Papa, earnestly addressing the problem. ‘I bet if all of us, maybe Brother Harrison here as well, if we all got out there and kinda formed a chain, you know, about five or six feet apart, and went from one end to the other, well, I bet we could flush him that way.’
Otille glanced shyly up at Donnell. ‘Would you mind?’
What he read from Otille’s face angered Donnell and convinced him that this was to be his induction into petdom, the first move in a petty power play which, if he were nice, would bring him treats, and if he weren’t, would earn him abusive treatment. When he had met Otille, her face had held a depth of understanding, intimations of a vivid character, but now it had changed into a porcelain dish beset with candied lips and painted eyes, the face of a precious little girlwho would hold her breath forever if thwarted. And as for the rest, they would go on happily all night trying to tree their kennelmate, delighting in this crummy game of hide-and-seek, woofing, wagging their tails, licking her hand. Except for Simpkins; his smile in place, Simpkins was unreadable.
‘Christ!’ said Donnell, not hiding his disgust. ‘Let me try.’
