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Chapter 26

The old Linen Club appears transformed by day. Not that much is truly changed by afternoon light; it's just the way that the sun illuminates every nook and cranny on the large brick building that makes it look more aged than I remember. Display boxes are broken, trash collects around the foundation, and the glass doors, thankfully intact, have been thrust open so the decaying remains of a glitzier era can be dragged to the curb. Jackie has been very industrious.

In the alleyway where we once arrived, a blue Renard Sport Valkyrie sits nose-in. Taking that as a good sign, I lock the car and carefully walk to the two entryways in the front. Not that there's anyway else to approach, as I have to navigate through piles of broken tables, torn-up chairs, and black trash bags full of who knows what.

High above the pavement, a silver and aluminum, mountain-like, triple-sided, art deco marquee hangs from the front of the building, casting an ominous shadow. Jackie has hung a white banner from it, with 'Under New Management' written in sloppy black marker on it. It's covered up a lot of the tarnish and dents in the old sign. The clutter clears as I pass the brass and glass doors and enter the theater's grand foyer.

There's not much in here. Booths to purchase tickets for shows in the center rear, counters to check coats and hats on each side, and empty space to socialize in. What commands the room is a set of ornate stairs that mirror each other as they curve up to the second floor. Not too long ago, they would have deposited suited predators and their wives in their best dresses onto the balcony above. Now it stands, silver railings tarnished and tile steps chipped. And, like the theater itself, graffiti tags soak into anything within arm's reach while the wallpaper is shredded or pulled down.

At least the chandelier, high above in the exact center of the room, is still intact. It's magnificent, the way it catches the light that pours in from the tall, thin windows on what would be the second floor. That evokes a gentle smile as I stride underneath it whilst waving my hand to chase the dust away. My hooves clack and echo with each stride, drawing my eyes around and upwards, the sensation of being watched washing over me.

As I approach the dimly lit main theater, I pause in the doorway and the noise dies off. With all of the chairs and tables removed, the room is more spacious, and much more charming. It's revealed the concealed splendor of how well preserved the wooden floors are, even if they stand juxtaposed to the columns covered in blue, red, and black spray lines, and walls with their sconces severed.

It's been swept, too. Near the back, it looks like it was done carefully, deliberately. But as the sweeping approaches the stage at the front, it becomes more imperfect. Then there are strips that were missed. Next, it looks like an overworked teenager was sweeping, pushing the dirt and dust only so far as to be out of the way. The broom is leaned against the stage.

And atop it sits Jackie. He's at the big, black piano that dominates the stage, positioned to the left of center from where I'm standing. Sunlight cascades through the skylights above, drawing my attention. They're just as pretty as I remember, with blue skies, yellow stars, and a white moon. But it looks like a few of the panels are chipped or have holes in them, something I didn't notice in the twilight. I hope that not only does Jackie decide to keep them, but that they can be restored.

Jackie presses at the keys a few times, playing awkward melodies or one-off bars before promptly stopping and sighing. From where I stand, feeling too afraid to enter, I can observe how he looks. Disheveled is the only word I can think of. He's wearing the same blue shirt and white pants he was two days ago. They're wrinkled and filthy, pulled up from within his pants or rolled up as far as the sleeves can go.

I go to step forward, cycling a calming breath and reassuring myself that I can do this, but he presses at the keys confidently and I pause to not interrupt. He plays ditties and tunes that I'm familiar with, shifting every few seconds with dissatisfaction. Some are unfamiliar, but beautiful, while others summon lyrics from within the deep recesses of my memory. You Never Give Me Your Money, I hear Paul sing in my head, before the song morphs again. Hearing it relaxes me, even makes me smile awkwardly.

But then he stops altogether and sighs again. His right arm fumbles around and grasps something before heaving it upwards and dropping it again. Hoping it isn't what I think it is, I step forward and hear the sharp 'click' of my hoof boom into the rafters. I halt dead in my tracks and perk my ears. Jackie doesn't react, he just exhales again and spreads his fingers out onto the yellowing keys.

And he begins to play, this time more focused. The chords ring out clear and true, his paws working the pedals to sustain them while he plays single notes over them. It isn't until a few bars in that until I recognize the song. At first, I feel my heartbeat rise inside my chest, before I try to relax, allowing my head to dip against the doorframe. Because I swear it's just for me.

It's just like Saturday when he brought me here. Jesus, only two days ago, if even that. It feels like an eternity. That eternity begins to fade away as the lights appear to dim all around. Laughter fills my ears as wispy tables appear, ringed with joyful animals on a night out. Translucent shoulders, heads, and tails glide across the dancefloor, shining from a good wax, as the grand piano fills the room. A couple pushes through me and kisses before taking a seat at an empty table nearby.

On stage, a new, deep azure curtain pulls back to reveal a finely dressed band in regal blue suits. Instruments rise to lips or are pulled into position under chins before their melodies join to create a rhapsody of timeless music that warms the room and prickles my skin. Even with their magnificence, my eyes drift back to Jackie, who is refreshed and redressed in that same white suit. The music softens as he leans towards the microphone.

Yet another Persano song, though this one young enough that I can remember experiencing it as a fawn. Not that I could mistake it, its title is the first line: Strangers in the Night. His voice is still silken, if but shaky, slurring some of the syllables. But the force behind the words is still there, the love and the passion.

His voice shakily stumbles over the word 'love,' but he recovers before sustaining a high note that crescendo above the band behind him. Candles flicker on tables as giddy girls and love-struck guys drag each other to the open floor at the foot of the stage, hand-in-hand, to hold each other tight and sway gracefully. Older adults just smile from their seats, the colors of their clothes muted by the floor or the bright painted walls I can see through them.

Jackie's voice continues on, completing the first verse while the string and brass band usher him forward with resolve and vibrancy. And for a moment, at least in my own head, he's happy. He's in his element again.

A thin fox appears from behind the curtains and seats himself on the black piano stool beside Jackie, flipping both his own tail and the tail of his jacket from beneath the seat of his pants. Then he lifts his hands and prepares to take over at the keyboard. Slowly, Jackie lifts his fingers and shifts down before swinging to a graceful stride towards the center of the stage.

A microphone gently descends from out of sight, high above. His eyes shine confidently as he surveys the crowd before him, pacing towards that shining silver mic. It softly lands in the center of his outstretched palm and he pulls it smoothly to his nose as the band rises beyond him. Like strolling down stairs, he leaps into the third verse and bridge, his voice confident and in control. His hands swipe at the air and his gaze solidifies, aimed in only direction: towards me.

_ _ There's a coy smile at his lips, a clever flicker in the ears and lowering of the brow as his voice pauses playfully, accentuating the 'and' in the song. His tail flicks behind him. Without further ado, he proceeds into the next verse with style and beauty only someone like him, someone out of time, could. And all the while, his eyes pierce the smoke and laughter, pinned on me, that smile never faltering.

The drums pound and the strings sing as the music takes over. He steps tentatively onto the ebony stairs and sinks his free hand into his pocket. I lift my head away from the door casing and watch in stunned silence as the crowd, now more solid than before, begins to part. Dancers and their partners spin back off to the side while misty eyes stare back into the darkness, towards where I'm standing.

Feeling pulled forward, feeling that everything is so familiar, yet somehow so much better, I advance unsurely while the band covers my approach. Jackie reaches the bottom of the widening stairs and withdraws his hand from his pocket. He extends it towards me, palm upwards, and beckons to me with eyes that scream 'come and get me.' He draws a deep breath as the piano concludes its short solo and the band resumes its melody. I lift my hand to grab his, desperate to take it.

When his voice repeats the final line of the previous verse, my heart squeezed between a vice in my chest, his voice wavers. Then, it disappears, and I feel myself falling through the floor with a chorus left unsung.

The music cuts off and the happy people, the elegant tables, this beautiful ballroom fade away. Not like dust taking flight into the air when a rug is tossed. Instead, it's like the image on a television screen after you've turned it off, slowly losing its color and fading away before you're left looking at a blank screen and your own oblong reflection. Jackie's figment is the final to disappear without his smile or eyes ever losing their shine, before I even reach the center of the dancefloor, before I can grasp that hand.

The sound of my hooves on the creaking wood is like dropping books in a library. I halt and wait for the sound to dissipate, listening only to the steady thump of my heart and the short, choppy draw of breath through my trembling lips. I hastily glance about to find I'm in the center of the room. There's no one else here. No tables, no dancers, no bartender, no lights. Looking upwards, onto the stage, Jackie is hunched forward in those dirty clothes.

He sighs and then I hear liquid sloshing followed by the thud of something heavy being placed. Assured that he knows that I'm here now, I stride forward and climb the steps, boards pulling back at the edges, to the stage. Jackie doesn't turn to watch me approach; in fact he doesn't even acknowledge my presence. The stench of two days of unwashed clothing and not bathing mixed with copious amounts of liquor assaults my nose and breaks my approach.

Gingerly, I ask, "Jackie?"

He doesn't immediately respond. His head rises and his ears perk atop his head, one crooked and bent off to the left. Then he sighs again.

"G--go away," he responds softly.

He's drunk. I take a step forward.

I try again, "Jackie, please--"

"I said, go away!" he bellows.

Very drunk. In the polished surface of the piano, I can see the green light on his collar blinking away, despite being enraged. A half empty handle of Jack Russell sits on the lid of the piano, beside the stand. It's the only thing keeping him from being shocked near to death. Enough liquor to expand his blood vessels, mellow his heart, and muddy his head. To not feel anything.

As his shout's echo dwindles into silence, he retrieves the bottle clumsily and undoes the top. It is then tilted up into his muzzle and the syrupy, golden liquid is sucked down his throat, Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp. Once he's done, he hangs his arm onto the piano's keys and twirls the bottle around. Even though I feel hurt, I remain. Because I know what he's saying isn't him.

"I'm just trying to help," I say, my voice squeaking.

"I'm just trying to help," he mockingly parrots and then spits. "That's the problem with fuckers like you. You'll tell us whatever you have to, just to get us to turn our backs long enough to slip the dagger between our ribs. It's for your own safety to live apart from us. It's for your own safety to wear the collars. Spin me another one."

I rock forward on my hooves, shaking my head. I keep telling myself that it isn't him, that it's only because he's drunk. And yet it still hurts. But I can't give up.

"I didn't know what the captain was going to say," I insist to him.

"I don't care," he replies.

"I--I didn't know they were planning a raid, I swear I didn't."

"I don't care," he says through clenched teeth.

"You know I don't believe anything he said, I don't think you're dangerous, I'm not like that," I loudly declare while shaking my head. "You know me, Jackie."

"I don't fucking care!" he shouts and stands up.

As he turns around, the bottle slams onto the floor. It doesn't shatter, but it does have enough force to send it skittering across the floor and into the darkness backstage. Huffing, he stares at me with eyes that scream murder. His collar blinks yellow for a moment and then returns to green beneath his muzzle. Frightened, at least for a moment, I stand still and wait.

"Please--"

"It doesn't matter what you believe," he says and stumbles around the piano stool and takes a few unbalanced steps towards me. "You stood there and let some piece of police shit tell _every_prey citizen in this city that they should be afraid! They should be terrified! Of us! That they should be looking over their shoulders at every toothy citizen walking down the sidewalk, that we could turn on them at the drop of a hat! And in the back of their mind, they're wondering if they should put us back, build the fences and the walls and pretend the last twenty years never happened! And you said nothing. You did nothing. Because your career was more important."

With shoulders bobbing, he stares me down, his rage making him ten feet tall and filled to bursting with resentment. But it isn't him. It's the drink, it's his emotions. This isn't him. And yet I still feel scared. But not that he'll hurt me or kill me, but because maybe he's too far away to reach anymore. That he's lost and nothing I can say will make it better.

"What was I going to say?" I ask him and shake my head. "He's my boss. I've had to work ten times harder than any other cop just to wind up with the scraps. Just to get where I am."

He shakes his head and wobbles on his paws before regaining his balance by swinging his tail. He groans and his breathing becomes shallow. Apparently that's not enough of an excuse. And the moment I'm done saying it, I realize that too. But it's too late to take back now.

"You used me," he then states calmly. "You fucking used me just to get ahead. Because that's all I am, a stupid tool to be used. Just like before. And I thought, I--I thought you were different. I hoped. But when it finally came time to reveal who you were, you did. And you tossed me away. You aren't as good as you think you are, no matter what you tell yourself. Go the fuck home, hero. You got out of me everything you could."

I shake my head and try to step forward to insist that it's not like that, that I'm not like that, but he waves me off with a hand and turns away. He doesn't want to hear anything anymore. I'm losing him. Suddenly he chuckles.

"You know what, after all that work? All that running around and pretending that you're changing the world?" he says without looking back. "It meant nothing."

"What?" I ask him, lost. "Why?"

"Didn't you hear? Sitka had a concert at the SheepBGB. One of her band members went nuts and," he laughs weakly, "jumped her during the set. Took the rest of the band and the bar staff to restrain him. Whole crowd evacuated. All on TV! After all that work, those drugs are still out there, still killing. You accomplished nothing."

His knees bump into the piano stool and he grabs the keys on the piano to steady himself, sending an ugly, cacophonous bang resonating into the theater. Then he lifts his legs over the wooden stool jerkily and sits down. In the silence that follows, notes begin to play, but only one at a time, at random. My chest begins to burn, even with my own reassurances. Because only two types of animals tell the truth: children and drunks. And even though he doesn't mean it, it's still the truth. It still hurts.

My nose turns towards the theater and I stare at the entryways, wide open and allowing the afternoon light to pour in from outside. It beckons to me, telling me that this is a lost cause and I should cut my losses and leave now. But my hooves don't move. My whole life has been based on chasing lost causes. Why the hell should this one be any different?

I slowly advance, crossing the stage at a gentle pace. Jackie pays me no attention as I approach him from the side, but the notes do trail off as I get near. As I'm standing above his shoulder, I look to the matted fur on his face, the dirt caked around his ears and on his neck. I see the chipped nails and oil-soaked fingers that with unparalleled skill can command this instrument like any master, and sigh. Because, I understand what he's doing to himself. He's throwing himself into work to try and forget. I did that, too, and it went about as good as his attempts are.

"I'm sorry," I tell him lightly.

I reach up to touch his shoulder, but he recoils, so I just rub my fingers together and drop my arm.

"And you're right," I then continue. "When I met you, I think I hated you. No, no, not hate. I had already stacked the scales against you, because I didn't trust you, because I had subconsciously bought into all the bullshit my folks told me, because you were different. And you are different."

His eyes close and he turns his nose downwards as if he's been struck.

"But not because you're a predator. And not because you're from a totally different class than me," I say and cock my head to gain his attention. "But because you're smart. You're personable. You're creative in a way that I'll never know. And it took me too long to realize that, even though I told myself that I wasn't like that. But I was. Yeah, that was a hard night for me as I'm sure it was for you, but, I saw something fantastic and special."

His eyes open and his head turns just enough so that both icy pupils can cautiously study me.

"And I don't want to lose that."

For a fleeting moment, his head turns in my direction, confused, before swinging away to hide his face, to hide himself away. Even though he won't look at me, his demeanor has shifted and he acts less angry and betrayed. The sorrow and fear that underlie it begin to peek out. I hear him draw sharp, unsteady breaths.

"I should have said something," I admit. "Or at least, talked to one of the reporters to correct some facts. But I couldn't. I thought things were finally coming together for me. I thought I was finally, I don't know, succeeding. I didn't want to lose that and I thought just smiling and not saying anything was what I supposed to do. I was too scared and worried to do anything else. Because you weren't there and I didn't know why." I shake my head at those words, because they're a lie. "No, no I knew why. I just couldn't see it. That I was losing something else instead."

Then there is silence as I turn my gaze downwards to wait and see if he'll talk to me again. For a moment, I worry that he won't, that this will be the last thing I ever say to him.

"I know," Jackie suddenly says and his voice tapers off, "I know you're not like them, like a lot of society. But you said nothing to defend us, to defend me. And that's just as bad as hating us yourself."

My tongue leaps forth to insist that no, no it isn't. But, those words never leave my mouth. Hell, they never even leave my mind. Because, I suppose he's right. Jackie hunches forward and I glimpse his eyes again. His left arm reaches up from where they were resting on his lap and he squeezes his fingers and groans.

Feeling confident that I've at least mended some of my wrongs, I lift my hand and touch his shoulder. And the moment I do, something wet soaks into my fingers and Jackie gasps, yelps, and then leans forward onto the piano's keys. As the noise it creates subsides, I delicately pull back the collar from his neck and peek at the bandages that warp around his torso.

At the very top, where it covers the injuries that Catwright inflicted on him, the white of his undershirt has been soaked with enough blood to turn it, and no doubt the bandages, crimson red. I sigh and look at Jackie with a bit of disappointment as I let the shirt free. I reach over and touch the back of his head and he doesn't react more than a blink or two. He must be in a lot of pain, but he's drunk enough that it's all but numbed away.

"You've torn your stitches," I tell him tenderly, "Come on, we have to get them fixed."

Jackie puts up no protest, so I take that as a sign that all's forgiven, for the moment, at least. Walking around to the other side of the piano, I lift his limp arm and place it around my shoulder. Then I wrap my left arm around his torso and with some prodding, raise him up onto his paws. He's a lot heavier than I suspected, but he's conscious enough to help support himself.

Turning, I lead him back across the stage to the steps. He's good most of the way, but stumbles near the end and forces me to catch him. Without saying a word, I ease him down the steps. It takes all of the strength in me to lead him through the desolate theater and into the bright sun outside, which he, of course, winces at. As I'm putting him in my car, he grabs my hand before I can close the door.

"Jane?" he asks weakly.

"Yeah?" I respond as I look to him.

His eyes reach out to me, bright and blue. I can't tell what he's feeling or even what he's thinking. It's a symphony of anger, sorrow, fear, and longing with no chair gaining any more attention than the others. And for the longest time, he just stares at me, brow quivering and lips hanging open to display his pink tongue.

"I'm sorry," he then says as his eyelids close and his head rolls back.

That elicits a weak smile from me and I squeeze his hand to let him know that I know and that I'm not angry with him. Then I let his hand go and close the door. Taking my own seat behind the wheel, I observe him silently. He's asleep, his head resting back against the pillar beside the seat. Cold relief flushes through me and I turn the key.