City of the Lost by Stephen Blackmoore

for me to get drunk anymore.
    The bartender comes back, sets a drink in front of me that looks like a refugee from a Cabo resort; bright orange, reeks of tequila. Tall glass with fruit and an umbrella. I look up just to make sure she hasn’t somehow turned into a cabana boy.
    “The fuck is this?”
    She points. “Lady at the table.”
    I look behind me. There’s a girl in a booth raising her glass to me. Same fruity drink. She’s got Veronica Lake hair, stunning eyes. Dressed less for a fetish scene and more for a cocktail party in shimmering blue. She stands out like a da Vinci on a coffee house wall.
    And that screams of a setup.
    I scan the crowd for anyone else who looks out of place. She’s probably with the guy who’s looking for me. Though having somebody who looks like her do the recon work seems a little odd. But I don’t see anyone who doesn’t belong. And certainly no guy with a midget on a leash.
    “Didn’t know this was that kind of place.”
    The bartender rolls her eyes. “It isn’t,” she says and goes to pour a beer for a guy slumped against the bar.
    Well, whoever she is the blonde started this game. I raise my glass to her. She gets up from her booth and slides onto the bar stool next to me. Sticks out her hand. Not knowing what else to do, I shake it.
    “Samantha Morgan.” Her voice is like velvet.
    “Joe Sunday.”
    “Buried yet?”
    “Pardon?”
    “Sorry.” She stirs the ice in her glass with a long finger. I know she can’t be for real, I mean I’ve got a good twenty-five years on her, but for a moment I’m tempted to suck the tequila off her fingertip. “It just reminds me of that poem. How does it go? ‘Solomon Grundy, buried on Sunday?’ Something like that?”
    Oh. “No,” I say. “Not yet, at least.”
    “Good. Above ground and out of jail. Can’t ask for much more than that, can we?”
    She sips at her drink looking at me over the rim of her glass. She’s got gorgeous eyes. Blue, with flecks of slate in them.
    “It’s good to meet you, Joe. You seem so—” She pauses searching the air for a word. “Normal.”
    I can’t help but laugh. “I’m so far from normal, I can’t see it from here. But yeah, in this crowd, I suppose so.” I realize she looks out of place, not because of the dress, but because she’s seventy years too late. She should step out of an RKO picture, some black-and-white with William Powell. She gives off class like it’s coming out her pores. Kind that makes a dozen men want to light her cigarette for her.
    She lifts her glass, toasts the air in front of her. “To the appearance of normal. May it last forever.” She sips her drink.
    “So what brings you out here tonight?” she asks. “Tragedy or comedy?”
    “Does it have to be either?”
    “In my experience it usually is.”
    That one’s easy. “I’d say tragedy.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that. The two aren’t really all that different from each other, you know. All depends on whether the ending’s happy.”
    “You don’t say.” I know she’s linked with the stone somehow and what’s happened to me, but there’s something about her that sets me at ease.
    “I think your problems could probably yield some pretty interesting opportunities,” she says.
    I’m sure you do. “Is this where you try to sell me on Amway?”
    “Unitarianism, actually, but I can see you’re not the cultish type. Besides, they kicked me out.”
    “Funny. I had the same problem with the Methodists.”
    I’d like to say this is the weirdest conversation I’ve had in awhile, but the last twenty-four hours have been a lesson in freakish. Besides, she’s so damn comfortable to talk to. It’s easy, and fun. And for a few minutes, at least, I can forget about immortality and zombies and not breathing.
    “What about you?” I ask. “What brings you out here?”
    “Got bored, decided to check this place out. Nice vibe.” She gives me that dazzling smile again. “Nice people.”
    “So