Someone had rented out the hotel ballroom in this, the ritziest hotel in town. Probably Cathe's agent. Or, whoever handled this sort of stuff. 50's music played smoothly on the smattering of live musical instruments on the narrow stage. Wineburg, and most of the others, were authors, or people in the publishing agency. Stein had never actually been published, so he felt like he stuck out here: a failure. Despite his despair over his technical status, and his frustration at Catherine, he was having an otherwise decent time. He'd always wanted to meet Wineburg. Her latest novella, Idle Eyes, was better than anything he'd pumped out in the last five years. His feelings were mixed about that. He appreciated the work she did, but was at the same time jealous. Something about spending those last years cooped up in a basement, trying to drown out screaming children, avoiding his nagging wife and probing phone calls.. and yet, only producing nine mediocre novellas -- despite all his effort -- pissed him off. It wasn't fair. These people didn't even seem have to try. He wasn't really an author, not the same way these people were. Well, not all of them; waitresses and whatnot...
He looked down at his watch. It was weird that no one was asking where Cathe was. I mean, after all.. it is her party, isn’t it? He thought. Did they know something that he didn't? Did she call ahead and tell everyone else that something came up?
Wineburg drifted past, her light, clean-smelling perfume perking him up out of his thoughts. He stared after her, paused in disrupted flow. He wondered briefly what it would feel like to fuck someone successful like Martha P. Wineburg. His cheek rippled with annoyance. She wasn't exactly great-looking. Probably not all that great in the sack. So, maybe fucking successful people would be as awkward and trying as screwing a virgin. Maybe. He swirled the leftover wine in his long-stem glass. Looking around, Stein sought a server carrying the wines. That shit probably cost more than he made in six months...
Something was bothering him, but he couldn't decide what.
Walking around, Stein saw one of the waitresses ducking in to a service door, carrying with her the platter of wines. Why she was taking them back in was a mystery to him. He waited out by the door for ten minutes, seeing only waiters with fancy bite-sized snacks passing from within.
Giving up, he headed back in to the hubbub of the buzzing standing crowd, over by the dessert table. That's when he saw her: Catherine came in, a doorman ahead of her: his face slack with spent strain and helpless awe. In her ruined hands, she toted some sort of a pistol. She looked like the sole survivor of a hurricane: wild hair, matted clothes, and blood-flecked cheeks.
Catherine's fevered eyes glittered dangerously as she pointed the gun at the ceiling and discharged a round. Anyone who had failed to notice her gun before that moment screamed. People scurried and ducked; some even took refuge under the tables, pulling the long tablecloths back in to formation to "hide" where they were – most failed to recognize the fact that their shoes and hands were visible at the bottom of the cloths. The doorman disappeared during the confusion.
Stein remained one of the few too stunned to move. Behind him, three other standing partygoers lingered haphazardly around the room. Catherine swung the gun at him, her mouth contorting in to a open-mouthed frown of rage. His eyebrows slowly inched their way up his considerable forehead.
Catherine snarled something, but Stein couldn't make it out, it seemed incoherent – her mouth was too full of spittle to let out enough sound for him to comprehend that one. People lying on the ground nearest to her visibly twitched; the people who before gazed up expectantly at her looked away. His brows knitted in an eyes-only gesture of confusion. He felt his cheek twitching.
The gun wavered, pointing drunkenly around at arm-level. Suddenly, Catherine's gaze became vague, and her arm dropped to her side. Her mouth slackened. Stein stepped closer, ignoring hushed gasps from the crowd and his own head ringing with warnings. He got close enough to reach the gun. He stuck his hand out, reaching for it – Catherine slowly warmed back to writhing, loathsome life. Being right in front of her, he could see the change, but didn't have enough time to do more than step back awkwardly before she fired at his feet. The round slammed in to the ground an inch away from his left foot. He squealed; she brayed triumphantly. He hustled backwards, stumbling over arms and legs.
"You stole my story," she rasped, suddenly serious. She looked down, possibly at her shoes, for a moment. Looking back up, she fixed Stein with a gaze that would have caused him to piss his pants, if he hadn't gone to the bathroom here, earlier in the night.
"Cathe.." he breathed. "What are you talking about?"
She cackled madly. "You're stealing my party, you fuck. You tell me."
Stein stared at her, incredulous. "You think I published At the Table, Under the Window?"
Catherine nodded, her eyes seeming to bounce with the jerks of her chin. "Who else, fucker?"
Stein chuckled involuntarily.
"You.. you think that this is all for me..?" Stein asked, opening his arms wide to display the room around him, incredulous.
"What, did you skip your meds this morning, Cathe? This is your fucking party," Stein snorted.
Cathe tilted her head to the side coquettishly. Her mouth opened to say something, but froze in place. The eyes dulled for a second or two before flickering back in to fiery globes of hatred.
THEY WERE GIVING ME CANCER!!"
"The pills..?"
"Yes, motherfucker. The pills."
She started muttering to herself, eyes lowered, lashing left to right, as if focusing on some unseen, speedy being. She brought her free hand up to stroke her chin thoughtfully. Drool trailed over her hand, dripping to the carpet in thick, fat splatters. Her eyes faltered, lids fluttering. Finally, they rested at half-mast, the eyes under them losing their mad gleam. The gun lowered again, this time dropping from her limp hands. The gun bounced within reach of Martin Bear, Cathe's editor. Bear stooped to grasp it, holding it aloft as he surged up. Pointing it at the vacant Catherine, his face bore a gaze of intent fright. He stepped back diagonally, eyes darting around.
"Catherine..?" Bear called out, his old man's voice wavering with a wandering quality.
"Hey," Stein said. He held up a hand to pause Bear's progress. "Hey, Bear…"
But Martin Bear wasn't listening. He kept his focus on Catherine, even though at this moment she wasn't being very interesting.
"Bear!"
Catherine's eyes widened, a sloppy grin spreading across her mouth unevenly. She twisted her head to look over at Bear, her teeth shiny with freshly running rivulets of saliva coursing down to her chin. She took a step toward Bear, holding a hand out before her. Bear didn't give her a chance: fumbling with the little gun, he opened fire on her, hitting her once in the shoulder – which threw her back, tossing the raised arm wild – and once in the neck. The neck wound exploded with a blast of blood, which rained down on the cluster of people at her feet. She collapsed in to her own puddle of fluids, amidst the squawking partygoers she landed around. She gurgled, a flapping hand attached to a pinned-down arm waving uselessly at Stein from under her back.
"Holy shit," Stein whispered, Bear belatedly echoing him.
"Well, fuck…" Stein ejaculated, turning to look around again for the wine.