A Shroud for Aquarius by Max Allan Collins

know I was a thirtyish junkie.”
    I looked close at her, trying not to seem to be, wondering if she was kidding.
    She looked around her, a child taking in her surroundings. “Boy, I haven’t been in the Elks Club since the prom. They remodeled since then, didn’t they?”
    “Appears so. Quite the decorating scheme.”
    “Early Whorehouse,” she smirked, nodding toward the red brocade paper. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Dolly Parton came down those stairs with her personality hanging out.”
    We were in fact at that moment being herded slowly past a wide stairway on which some of our former classmates sat, uncomfortable in their suits and fancy dresses, looking like old kids, but chattering like young ones. The racket in the hallway was less than deafening, but just barely. Faces were overly animated, as current personalities faded and old, younger ones reemerged; the return of youthful personas made the age lines stand out even more.
    “Wishing you’d stayed home, Mal?”
    I found a smile. “No. I’m getting to see you, aren’t I? I don’t see Jim Hoffmann or Mike Bloom anywhere, do you?”
    “No. I doubt they made it back. Hoff’s in Colorado, isn’t he? And Bloom’s in Council Bluffs or something? A lawyer?”
    “Yeah. With a bank, I think. Ron Parker probably won’t be here; he’s still in the service, running an officer’s club in Hawaii.Tough duty, huh? But I wonder if John Leuck’ll make it, and Wheaty, and the rest of the guys.”
    “They were here at the ten-year,” she said. “All except Wheaty—rumor is, he became a circus clown. But that’s probably just a story.”
    Somehow it surprised me she would attend the ten-year reunion—even though here she was at the fifteenth. “So you made the tenth?” I said.
    “Sure,” she said. “It was a great reunion. Just about everybody was there, except you.”
    “I wish I’d gone.”
    “And stayed home tonight.”
    “Not at all. I’m sure I’ll see plenty of the guys.”
    “Not to mention the gals.”
    “You forget, Ginnie—I didn’t date much in high school.”
    “Ah, yes—stuck on Debbie Lee. Will she be here tonight?”
    I shrugged. “Probably not. She moved to Michigan or Wisconsin or someplace. I get those states mixed up.”
    “Yeah,” Ginnie said, smirking again. “I get states with more than one syllable mixed up all the time, myself.”
    I grinned at her. “You never change, do you?”
    Her smirk turned to a smile; on reflection, I think it may have been a sad one.
    “That’s not necessarily a compliment, Mal.”
    “I meant it as such.”
    “I know. At least you didn’t mean it meanly. But some patterns are tough to break out of, when you’ve been locked into ’em since you were a kid.”
    “Such as?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. How’s the writing coming?”
    “Changing the subject on me?”
    “No—just wondering what a girl has to do to get a book dedicated to her. I was there when it all started, kiddo. I always believed in you, you know.”
    I sensed she was apologizing again for her long-ago tactless putdown in the cafeteria, but I didn’t say as much. Not in so many words, at least.
    I just said, “That’s nice to know. Thanks, Gin.”
    “Don’t mention it.” She stood on her tiptoes; the crowd was slowly moving into the dining room. “Is that Brad Faulkner up ahead?”
    I looked, but didn’t know why; I hardly knew Faulkner back in school, and wouldn’t recognize him today if he came up and introduced himself.
    But I said, “I don’t know. Maybe.”
    “I hear he’s divorced.”
    I didn’t know he was married.
    “No kidding,” I said.
    She was still on her tiptoes, presumably looking toward Faulkner.
    “Tell me something, Ginnie.”
    “Anything, my sweet. Or anyway, damn near anything.”
    “How’s life treating you these days? ETC.’s must be making you a bundle.”
    Shrugging, she told me, briefly, about selling out to Caroline Westin.
    “I thought you’d hang onto that place