Doug Allyn - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 799 & 800, March/April 2008

“Sounds like you’ve been there.”

“No way,” I said. “It’s not my trip. But bartenders hear things, and some of them aren’t pretty. A pig party’s a rough, sorry-ass spectacle. It’s definitely not a party you want to crash.”

“I’ll pay you an even hundred bucks to get me in,” she said, digging into her purse, carefully counting five tens out on the bar. “Fifty now, fifty more afterward.”

I made no move to pick up the money. “Why? What’s so important?”

“I write for the Westover Wildcat, the college paper.”

“Sara Silver,” I said, nodding slowly. “I thought your name sounded familiar. You did a story last semester on fake IDs. Burned some local bartenders.”

“I hope you weren’t one of them.”

“Nope, I’m always super careful. But why bother with a story on a pig party? It may be sophomoric, but it’s a campus tradition. The Delts hold one every year. Most of the girls who attend know the score and it’s no crime to throw a bash.”

“Isn’t it? There’s a rumor that a girl was gang raped at a pig party. Have you heard anything about that?”

“I’ve picked up the same rumor. As wild as the pig parties get, I suppose it’s possible. Which is one more reason why you shouldn’t go.”

“I’ll be perfectly safe,” she said mildly. “I’ll be with a Marine.”

Touché. Couldn’t help smiling. She was not only pretty, she knew exactly which buttons to push. And I was already more interested in the girl than the money.

“Ex-Marine,” I said, picking up the fifty. “Where do we meet?”

We almost didn’t. Westover is a small suburban college outside Lansing. Enrollment’s twenty thousand, give or take. The main campus dates from the ‘sixties, red brick buildings designed to look older than they are, surrounded by student dorms, which are coed, plus a dozen fraternities and sororities which are not.

Silver lived at the Kappa Rho House, a converted Victorian box with a mansard roof that looked like something out of Jane Eyre. Kappa Rhos are ultra-bright, scholarship chicks, mostly shrill feminists. We don’t see many in Shannon’s and I nearly missed Sara Silver. She was sitting on a bench in the vestibule and I walked right past without giving her a second look.

“Hey, big fella,” she said, standing up. “Wanna go to a party?”

I did a double take. “Holy jeez Louise,” I said.

Most girls fix themselves up for a date. Sara had fixed herself down. Way down. She’d rinsed her fair hair dark, leaving it flat as a cat after a cloudburst, lank and skanky. Her makeup was backwards, too. No lipstick, no rouge. Instead, she’d darkened her brows till they looked like caterpillars perching on her zit-dotted forehead. Purple smudges beneath her eyes gave her a haggard, anorexic look.

Her smile was the finishing touch. Braces by Bela Lugosi, a tangled contraption of wires and rubber bands that gave her everted lips. Not the kissable kind. More like a carp.

“Well, how do I look?” she asked brightly, automatically checking herself in the hall mirror. “Think they’ll let me in?” And in that moment, she looked so vulnerable that I swallowed, hard. Women rely on their looks far more than men. What she’d done to herself took a ton of guts.

“You look... stunning, miss,” I said, offering her my arm. “My Jeep awaits. Shall we go?”

Delta Omega is a rich frat, mostly scholarship jocks and legacy residents. A four-story faux English manor with front and rear decks, it’s the largest house in Westover’s Fraternity Row. And it was pumping. As I pulled into the circular drive, the house and grounds were lit up like a movie set in the autumn dusk, the thump of music pulsing in the air like a party-hearty heartbeat.

The driveway and parking lot were already jammed. No problem. I just drove my CJ-7 up over the curb and parked on the lawn next to a half-dozen other jalopies.

“Come on,” I said, climbing out. “The major action’s around in back.”

Sara’d worn a loud, flowered blouse chosen for shapelessness, cutoff jeans, and garish wedge heels so tall she wobbled when she walked. I was dressed campus casual, golf shirt and slacks. Wore my hair shaggy in those days, a reaction to four years of buzz cuts.

Security for the party consisted of a single campus cop stationed at the gate of the picket fence surrounding the backyard. He knew me from Shannon’s, but he checked Sara’s ID, rolling his eyes at me as he waved us through.

Thunderous jams were thumping from a wall of speakers stretched across one end of the tennis court. Banquet tables on the veranda were stacked with finger food but most of the activity centered around the portable bar, where white-jacketed barmen were doling out beer and mixed drinks in paper cups with slick efficiency. Again, they knew me but checked Sara’s ID before serving us, a wine highball for Sara, a double scotch for me.

We both stood at the rail, nursing our drinks, taking in the scene.

At first glance, the party didn’t seem much wilder than the usual Delta House bash on a rough night. The tennis court was crowded with milling dancers, showing a lot more energy than grace. Most frat boys took the “pig” part literally, plenty of heavy-duty mamas shakin’ their chubby booties.

In the lighted swimming pool, a noisy water-volleyball game was in full splash. Strip volleyball: Muff a point, shuck your shirt, blouse, shoes, something. A few players were already down to their underwear and the game was still in the low teens.

Following Sara through the crowd, I realized she had a mini camera concealed in her palm. She was surreptitiously taking candid photos every time she pretended to sip her wine.

A drunk goosed Sara’s butt as he passed. Annoyed, I reached for him, but she grabbed my arm, pulling me back.

“Cool it, Malloy. No trouble. Yet.”

“We may get it whether we want it or not,” I grumbled. “Most of these clowns are already half smashed.”

“Can you blame them? Check out their dates. No wonder they call it a pig party.”

“No offense, lady, but you’re not exactly primped for prime time yourself.”

“Thanks for noticing,” she said acidly. “The difference is, I worked damned hard to look this bad. These porkers are trying to look their pathetic best. Come on, dance with me.”

Not a request, an order. Taking my arm, she hauled me into the swirling crush of the tennis court without waiting for a reply. I’m no Fred Astaire, but the action on the floor was so frantic I found myself dancing in self-defense. And managed not to embarrass myself, I thought.

Not that Sara noticed. She was dancing strictly on autopilot, her moves totally disconnected from the urban rap raging from the speakers. Seemed much more interested in scanning the crowd than grooving to the rhythm of the music. Fortunately we didn’t suffer for long. The DJ punched up an old B.B. King blues grind, and things got simpler. I usually enjoy slow dancing. I’ve always considered it romantic, even with a stranger. Maybe more so with a stranger.

But not with Sara. When she snuggled against my shoulder, there was nothing seductive about it. She was slyly snapping pictures as we danced, scanning the crowd between shots, steering me around the dance floor like a wheelbarrow to get the photos she wanted.

“Take it easy,” I murmured, “we’ve got all night.”

“Actually, we haven’t,” she said, leading me off the floor before the song ended, still scanning the crowd.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve enjoyed as much of this as I can stand!” she snapped. “You were right, Malloy, this is wretched.”

“Don’t dally on my account. If you want to split, let’s go.”