Bootsy had no idea where Blaze lived, though he suspected it would have to be within easy reach of Dee Dee's beck and call, and because Bootsy didn't know where she lived, that kind of brought him back to square one. Damn it. He walked deeper into the night and thought. The sounds of the city at night swirled around him like smoke, mostly dissipating into the nether before reaching his ears as he strode past every lurking doorway. He thought back to high school, back when “Blaze” was just some little Irish punk named Joseph Dunn who liked to scrap. Who knew him? More importantly, who would share information about him with Bootsy? Dunn never had many friends in high school, and though things change, Bootsy figured Dunn was too socially inept to have grown a large circle of comrades – or even acquaintances – in the years since graduation. His parents were both dead, and his only brother was spending a dime up at Viblis Penitentiary, or “The School” as most inmates -- both past and present -- called it.
Bootsy did know Blaze's sister, however. Once, a long time ago. Before Dee Dee, even; a brief fling Junior Year. Although they had barely ever spoken to each other throughout grade school, Katherine, for reasons known only to her and her diary, sought comfort in Bootsy's arms after her mother had succumbed to breast cancer. Bootsy was a randy seventeen year-old at the time, and had comforted the hell out of her panties. After that, the excitement dwindled immediately, and because they had no common interests or friends, the drift apart was as spontaneous as it was inevitable. Ten years since high school. Huh. That made him feel kinda old.
Not that locating Katherine Dunn would be difficult, there were two billboards featuring her likeness at each end of St. Walburgas – both coming and going. She was a singer of some renown throughout the Theater District: Opera or New Age or something. Bootsy didn't know. Wasn't his thing. But this town was so starved for stardom that it took only a modicum of notoriety these days to force someone to relinquish their privacy. Probably wouldn't take more than a minute's worth of effort on a cell phone; one of the first purchases he'd sworn to make as soon as he got out of the joint so he could keep in touch with old friends.
Damn it. He'd have to buy one in the morning.
Instead he altered his route toward the docks. Now, in most cities in the world, the docks are a seedy and dangerous part of town, where the mere mention of “Down by the docks” brings to mind old fifties-era black & white movies featuring Zoot suit-clad, fedora-topped scoundrels beating up non-compliant shop owners and sending rival gang members into the drink to “Sleep with the fishes.”
Not so in St. Walburgas, where the Art Crowd had inexorably pushed away the criminal element and had taken up residence in every dilapidated old shack along the wharf and gladly paid twice the asking price to do so. So now instead of brutes, thugs, and knuckle-draggers the dock area was rife with androgynous, bourgeois, effete hipsters who liked to pour themselves into skinny jeans and bitch about society.
But Bootsy knew he needed to be on his guard nonetheless; just because the criminal element had changed didn't mean the criminals were gone. Bullets and Crack had been replaced with high-end knock-offs and designer drugs, sold not by the baggie but by the ampere. He knew he was getting close because the Patchouli scent grew more pungent with every step. Small LED lights kept the main areas and walkways well lit, but they were also hidden out of sight to keep the heavily made up Goths cloaked in their self-induced shroud of mystery.
The theater was dark but the building next to it proudly proclaimed the works of Anthony Andelbitti would be shown FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY! And it looked as though every artsy-type had claimed their spot inside the small gallery to fawn and packed themselves well beyond the local fire code allowance. Bootsy was pretty sure he could create a little space for himself if he wanted, but truthfully he wasn't the fawning type, so he carried on with his hands in his pockets while his eyes searched for anything concerning Katherine Dunn.