Chapter 35

He stared up at the moon, probably one of the only things that had remained unchanged in all this time, a constant. He squinted into the light. “Lola.”

I grinned. “Was she a showgirl?” I knew as soon as I said it that it was in bad taste, but old habits, like old drag queens, die hard. “My bad.”

He grinned. “Ironically, she was a showgirl. On Broadway. The Shubert Theatre. In fact, Barry Manilow sang her the song on her birthday last . . .”

Again I patted his shoulder. “Sorry, Lester.”

His grin quivered. “Lester is dead, Creature. Long dead. Just like Lola, just like Barry. So you might as well keep calling me Ricky. If anything, it helps me forget that I have a past.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that we never forget, that we can’t forget, that our brain cells stay locked and loaded. And then a lightbulb shown brightly above my head, brighter than the moon even. “I, um, I don’t want to get your hopes up, Ricky, but—”