Callous

Kate loved to dance and, due to a nun from Brazil, she’d learned to salsa.

Kate adored that full, loose freedom it gave you.

Dio was a dancer, could do a tango to make you almost forget this guy was a stone psycho.

Almost.

Keegan didn’t dance, ever. You follow Guns N’ Roses, are you gonna dance?

At a Roses concert, you rioted.

Kate was swirling round the floor of the salsa club in Dominic Street

And

Near collided with Dio. He caught her from falling.

This incident had been choreographed by Mason. Took four nights until Dio showed up.

She managed,

“Muchas gracias, señor.”

He gave his wolf smile, asked,

“Habla español, bonita?”

She stood back from him, noticed his sleek black pants and silk shirt, said,

“That was it, well that and puta.”

Dio, in a rare moment of levity, said,

“Probably all you need.”

Kate smiled. The dude had some moves. He extended a hand, invited,

“Come drink some Champagne”

Dio, like most psychopaths, could turn on the charm and he did so then with nigh ferocity. Kate was more accustomed to the Brooklyn form of romance, which involved a six-pack and the backseat of a Corvette — better if the car was stolen to add to the weak vibe.

Dio ordered a second bottle of Dom Pérignon, turned to Kate, said,

“I must apologize for my crass behavior the first time we met.”

Kate was torn between flinging the glass of bubbly in his face or beginning the charade of seducing him, not that she’d have to work that; the guy was well hooked.

She gave him her best smile, said,

“Dancers get forgiven.”

End of the evening, he said,

“My driver will take you home and, if I may, invite you for dinner some evening.”

She was dismayed, her head full of the schemes she’d been ready to roll out. This etiquette threw her.

The driver was a blond guy, wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt.

The car was a sleek gray Mercedes, and the driver held the door for her.

As the car pulled away, Dio blew her a kiss. Keegan, turning the car toward the Spanish Arch, said,

“You made a fine conquest there.”

Kate caught his eyes in the mirror, said,

“Best if the help doesn’t speak.”

Keegan wondered if he was still to procure a cross for Dio to literally nail her but the energy seemed to have altered.

Keegan drove fast and nigh furious to her home, turned off the engine, said to her,

“This is you, right?”

Kate, riding the buzz of the Champagne, still had wit enough to ask,

“How do you know where I live? That’s a little creepy.”

Keegan, without turning to face her, said,

“That’s my gig, knowing shit.”

Kate had no reply to this, ’least nothing that would exclude many expletives. Keegan said,

“I’m sorry to hear your brother was shot.”

His tone was mock contrite, and he still hadn’t turned to face her. She asked,

“What have you heard?”

Keegan rolled a joint, cracked a window, said,

“I heard the shooter wouldn’t fuck up the next time.”

She was stone sober now, pushed,

“Give me a name.”

He laughed, drew long on the spliff, said,

“This is good dope.”

Kate got out of the car, stood at Keegan’s window, said,

“Your boss likes me; bear that in mind.”

Keegan flicked the end of the spliff past her, put the car in gear, said,

“He likes you now and, trust me girlie, that can change in a New York minute.”

He burned rubber, making a turn, and Kate gave him the finger.

It seemed woefully lame.