Hell's Half Acre

by Will Christopher Baer

  For god’s sake.

  Miller grins at me. I think you might want to take this seriously.

  He steps between me and the reporter and I feel almost grateful. Don’t get me wrong because part of me wants to turn and run like hell from him. But part of me wants to do this. The idea of shooting a snuff film with a crazy stranger and his beautiful girlfriend is weirdly appealing. It makes sense to me. And maybe I want to find out what happens. I want to know who the victim will be. Miller is right about one thing, sort of. Phineas is an arrogant fool, sometimes. Because I believe that somehow I can control what’s going to happen, that I can protect Jude and Molly and whoever else drifts into his path.

  Miller dispenses with the reporter and turns to me. Are you ready to go, he says.

  Yeah. I’m ready.

  Excellent. I have a car waiting.

  When he says he has a car waiting I foolishly imagine a limousine with somber driver and a fully stocked wet bar with shimmering mirrors. But it’s just a simple yellow cab with a fat bald driver who smells of Old Spice. The radio is tuned to the Giants game and the driver sighs mightily whenever the Giants do something stupid. He sighs frequently. Miller takes a silver flask from his breast pocket and mentions that I have the look of a man who wants a drink.

  No shit.

  I badly want a drink. I need one. I might trade my left foot for a long greedy swallow of whatever is in that flask. But I really want to straighten up, to see clearly for one night at least. I shake my head and he puts the flask away without comment.

  Where are we going?

  To meet Molly and Jude for dinner.

  Bullshit.

  Hardly.

  Where?

  Miller shrugs. A hideous little place in the Mission. Very trendy.

  Good god.

  You will love it, he says.

  An endless red light and pocket of silence. I catch an unexpected whiff of myself and it’s a complex bouquet. Blood and general funk. Essence of urine and something in the vicious chemical family. I remember being dizzy and I wonder if the cops gave me a splash of pepper spray.

  Maybe I should shower. Or something.

  He smiles, or bares his teeth. Actually, I would rather you didn’t.

  I smell like urine. Unless that’s the cab.

  The driver turns around slowly, his eyes raw and poached. What did you say, convict?

  Nothing.

  My cab don’t freaking smell like urine.

  Of course not. I was joking.

  And I don’t like comedians, says the driver.

  Miller smiles. I will give you a twenty-dollar tip if you turn around and shut up.

  The driver stares at him. And if I don’t.

  Miller shrugs. Then I will break your jaw.

  I try to indicate by my blank, universally friendly expression that Miller is not serious but the driver is already fairly pale and now the light is green and he turns to face the front without another word. I glance over at Miller. His hands are carved and white, resting easy on his knees. His eyes are nearly closed and his face is meditative but for a faint movement in his cheek that suggests he is chewing at his tongue and I have the distinct feeling that he wishes the driver had not shut up.

  The remainder of the drive is somewhat uncomfortable.

  But Miller is true to his word. He gives the man a twenty-dollar tip as soon as we are deposited safely in front of the restaurant.

  Exterior, night. The façade of the restaurant is pale with ghostly lights. Twenty or so very beautiful people wait around in little clusters, smoking cigarettes and talking in murmurs. I’m not quite ready to go inside yet. There’s surely no smoking allowed inside. I am learning to hate California. The veneer of humanity is stretched impossibly fine and no one seems to care. I stand on the sidewalk, sucking at a cigarette. I recently went eighteen hours without one and I feel like I owe it to my body to get the nicotine count up. Miller is a few feet away from me. He doesn’t want a cigarette. He wants to taste the air, he says.

  Uh-huh.

  What’s the matter?

  Nothing. Did you really need to threaten the driver?

  Miller smiles. I know a few things about you.

  Yeah?

  Of course. I looked into your past, when Jude suggested I use you for this role.

  And what did you find?

  I found that you tend to be morally ambiguous.

  Again, fuck you.

  Am I wrong?

  I didn’t say that.

  Then what’s your problem?

  No problem. It’s not about morals. But if you walk around randomly fucking with everyone who comes into your peripheral vision, you will eventually be sorry.

  Miller nods. Interesting theory.

  Take it or leave it.

  Relax, he says. You’re right. There was no reason to threaten the driver. But I get irritated sometimes. I get irritated when confronted with stupid, brutish people. I have been trained by society to apologize, to pacify such people. To avoid trouble. And this irritates me.

  I toss my cigarette in the street. And for once, I smile.

  Why are you smiling?

  Because I know exactly what you mean. And because I think you’re fucking dangerous.

  He steps close to me. Are you afraid of me?

  No.

  You will be, I think.

  Maybe.

  I don’t usually like it when people stand so close to me. It makes me think they might want to stab me or kiss me or something. I don’t think I’m paranoid or overly sensitive but I really prefer a little cushion between me and the other mutants. But I don’t want to back away from him because I think this would please him. I breathe through my mouth.

  Jude says you’re going to pay us a half million each to do this film with you.

  That’s right.

  What kind of lawyer are you?

  He waves a hand. I represent a very large, very old and powerful corporation that is responsible for the use of asbestos in hundreds of schools, hospitals, and government buildings. My job is to fend off the class action suits and generally drag things out until the plaintiffs either give up or die.

  How nice.

  Yes. Very Hollywood, isn’t it?

  I shrug. It pays well, yeah.

  Absurdly well. But it’s very, very boring.

  The ghost lights flicker around us and Miller glances at his watch.

  Let’s go inside, he says. I’d hate to keep the girls waiting.

  I follow him inside, a half step behind. Down a long dark tunnel, my thoughts buzzing. Miller is a bored and wealthy sociopath, which makes him the best kind of friend to have. It also makes him the worst kind. He pauses to exchange cool whispers with the hostess, who is typically thin and pale and at first glance rather beautiful but somehow ugly in a fierce ravenous way and wearing a glittering black sheath that grimly reveals every bone in her body, and it occurs to me that the one word I would not use to describe Jude lately is girl.

  seventeen.

  THIS WAY, GENTLEMEN.

  Our waiter is a male model in a perfect white shirt. He leads us through a shadowy dining room to an outdoor grotto where smoking, by God, is allowed. Small miracles keep me afloat. Jude and Molly sit at a table in the back. Two women, dark and fair. They sit across from each other, drinking red wine. Their heads rise and fall at opposing angles like two predatory birds warily feeding on the same kill. Miller moves to greet them. I hesitate, confused because there is a movie playing silently on the brick wall behind them. Unsettling because no one else pays it any mind and so I assume that only I can see it. Cool Hand Luke. Paul Newman is coming out of the box in a white nightgown. He looks like an angel with a hangover. Molly smiles when she see us and stands up to brush Miller’s mouth with her lips. His expression remains neutral. Molly wears dark suede jeans and a white shirt, open at the throat. Behind her, Paul Newman is ten feet tall, as he should be.

  Jude does not stand, but she looks at me in that way that
tugs at my belly. Assimilation, husbandry. Her eyes glitter like wet green glass and her scar is a bright white line across her face. I realize how glad I am that she doesn’t try to hide it. I jerk my head at Molly and mutter hello as I sit down next to Jude, who immediately puts her hand on my thigh. I am very pleased to see her. I tend to be uncomfortable in these social situations and somehow she puts me at ease. Because she is familiar, because she smells like memory. She smells like my own disordered thoughts. Paul Newman is running through the swamp. The dogs are on his ass. Jude wears a slim green dress and a black leather motorcycle jacket, zipped to the throat. Her hair is loose and I remember dimly that the reason I left the hotel room and got so drunk and subsequently was arrested for murder was that I was angry at her.

  They put him in the box because his mother died, because they thought he would run.

  Jude’s breath is a hot whisper in my ear. You did it, baby.

  What?

  Sugar Finch, she says.

  It wasn’t easy.

  Thank you.

  Jude kisses me and I feel like our heads will come screaming off. I feel like every fucked-up thing I’ve ever done has been worth it, worth this kiss. Miller smokes his cigar, meanwhile, and Molly watches us with the unblinking eyes of a cat.

  Cocktails? says the waiter. He speaks to Miller in a dry, civilized voice.

  Miller orders a whiskey sour and nods at me.

  What is this place? I say.

  Foreign Cinema, says Miller.

  What the fuck does that mean?

  It’s the name of the restaurant.

  And they show American movies on the wall, I say.

  Miller glances over his shoulder. Brilliant, isn’t it.

  Indeed.

  Would you like a drink…sir? The waiter is staring at me with pure hatred.

  Yes. I want a glass of water.

  The waiter sighs and turns on his heel.

  Dot com, says Miller. This place is filthy with dot com dollars.

  What?

  Dot com, baby.

  Is that an adjective or a noun? I say.

  He grunts. I believe it’s an obscenity.

  Molly smiles at me. I don’t think the waiter likes you.

  They never do, I say.

  Why not? says Molly.

  Look around, says Miller. This place is thick with the privileged, the chosen. Handsome educated white people with tasteful hair and clothes. Phineas is not one of them.

  I shrug. I went to college.

  But you understand that you are dying, yes?

  Of course, I say.

  Most of these people are not yet thirty, he says. And they believe they will never die. They believe the world is a giant yellow peach waiting to be eaten.

  Jude snorts. Did not Al Pacino teach us that the world is a giant pussy?

  Miller smiles at her. And one should not eat pussy unless invited.

  The two of them should write greeting cards. Then the other psychopaths would have something nice to send their mothers on holidays. Molly turns to watch the movie. Paul Newman is bruised and weary and the man with no eyes stands over him with a rifle. The sun is low and fierce, throwing razor blades off those mirrored shades. Molly twists a strand of hair around and around with the little finger of her left hand. Her ears are small as a child’s. Her throat is long and fine. Jude strokes my thigh and whispers, how pretty she is. I glance at Miller, who is studying the menu.

  Have you fucked him? I say softly.

  Jude hums, studying her menu.

  Miller looks up. Do you know what you want?

  I’m not sure, I say.

  Jude leans close to me, bites my ear. Puritan, she says.

  The lamb is generally good, he says.

  I jerk my head away from Jude, dizzy and irritated.

  And by the way, says Miller. The answer is not yet.

  What? says Molly.

  The waiter returns, scowling. Are you ready to order?

  I will have the lamb, says Jude.

  Miller nods. The same.

  The steak, I say. Medium.

  Molly politely orders the chicken, and the waiter goes away. I take a drink of my water and decide to ask for a big glass of gin as soon as the bastard comes back. Jude has not fucked Miller, yet. I pat my psyche down, wondering if I care. Molly is staring at me.

  How long have you two been together? she says.

  Oh, I say. We’re not really together.

  What does that mean?

  Yes. What does that mean? says Jude.

  Molly leans forward, her elbows on the table. Her mouth is red with wine and falling slightly open and I can just see the tip of her tongue. Her gray eyes are sharp and I wonder if she ever tortures Miller, if she ever fucks with his mind. I wonder if he ever thrashes awake beside her, his arms wild and twisting in the dark because he is unable to breathe and when he tries to pull her small strong hands away from his throat there’s nothing there, if she then kisses him and tells him that he’s only dreaming. I wonder if he ever wakes in the morning to find her naked and crouched beside him, studying him in the first blue breath of light as if he were not her lover but a strange new insect that crawled into her bed.

  We aren’t married, I say.

  Molly shrugs. That hardly matters.

  I wonder if he ever feels like an insect she may or may not impale on a slab of foam.

  And we have been separated for…a while.

  Why’d you split up?

  You ask a lot of questions.

  Does it bother you? says Miller.

  Why did we split up? says Jude. I would like to know.

  I slouch low in my chair. The three of them are like wolves and it occurs to me that evolution is a funny business. I don’t particularly want to tell the kidney story. It never goes over well and anyway it’s not nice dinner conversation. Paul Newman is getting his ass kicked good and proper. The waiter hovers at the edge of my peripheral vision and I turn to face him with what I hope is a friendly smile.

  I would like a large glass of gin, please.

  Excellent choice, he says. Would you like that mixed with something?

  No. Thank you.

  Jude smiles at the waiter, apologetically.

  Anything else? he says.

  Champagne, says Molly.

  The waiter fucks off and I turn to Jude.

  What was that?

  What, she says.

  That look. The look that says my poor stepbrother is retarded.

  You are so paranoid.

  He wants to change the subject, says Miller.

  Paul Newman is digging his own grave in the prison yard and in a minute one of the guards will tell him to fill it again and start over.

  Answer the question, says Jude.

  I smile at her. I despise couples who fight in public, I say. You know that. But in about two minutes I’m going to politely tell you to shut the fuck up.

  I look at Molly and she smiles, as if to encourage me. Molly seems very relaxed and I wonder if she’s not drifting on a private little ocean of prescription tranquilizers. Now the waiter arrives with my gin and I decide he’s not such a bad guy. I have four inches of gin in what looks like an actual jelly jar, a big one. I take a drink and watch as he tries to open the champagne. He looks uneasy, our waiter. His upper lips is damp with sweat. He’s having a spot of trouble with that bottle. The four of us are staring holes through him and I imagine the vibes coming from this table are nasty. After what seems like forever he pops the cork and slithers away and I feel relieved for him.

  I raise my jar.

  To the truth, says Miller.

  Which truth?

  Come on. Tell us how it is to live with Jude.

  I stare at him. It gets weird sometimes. One day she drags me into a public bathroom and hands me a gun. I ask her what the gun is for and she tells me to kill the man in the blue suit and meet her outside in five minutes. Then she asks if I want to get a latte.

  Miller nods, sy
mpathetic.

  And for my birthday one year, she took me to Mexico City for the weekend. What a sick time that was. Our second day in the city, she turned to me on the street and gave me a mask. What is the mask for? I said. Didn’t I tell you? she said. We’re going to rob this bank. And then we’re inside the bank and everybody is freaking out and I don’t know what to do because I never robbed a bank before and I don’t speak Spanish. And then Jude shoots the little blind bank teller because she won’t stop screaming.

  What the hell are you babbling about? says Jude.

  Huh?

  That was a bad dream you had, she says. You were sleeping right next to me. I remember the night you dreamed that.

  Well. That is peculiar.

  You and I never robbed a bank together, says Jude.

  False memory. I got hit in the head a while back.

  Interesting, says Miller. The artificial flashback. A feeble attempt by the subconscious to cover something more painful.

  I wonder would anyone notice if I went ahead and bit off a chunk of my jelly jar and swallowed it whole. On the wall above us, Paul Newman is a wreck. He’s in worse shape than me, anyway. He’s crawling before the guards like a dog, begging them not to hit him anymore and I think, what we have here is a failure to communicate.

  eighteen.

  TWO HOURS LATER WE ARE FLYING ACROSS THE BRIDGE in a silver Mustang and I am glad it’s not a convertible because sometimes the elements are just too much to bear. Not quite midnight and there is very little traffic. Jude is leaning against me, her head on my shoulder. I don’t think she’s sleeping but I have this funny idea that she is happy, or possibly nervous. But surely she is not nervous because this is what she wants. Molly drives with the cold manic fury of a girl who grew up in a household full of boys. I am tempted to ask her about her childhood but I stop myself. I don’t want to talk to her in front of Jude. There is no music in the car, no conversation. Miller is silent in the passenger seat and I imagine he is contemplating the velvet.

  Over the bridge and through the hills. We are going to Miller’s house.

  By the by. The remainder of our dinner party passed without relevant incident. Or nearly so. I knocked over a bottle of champagne around the time Paul Newman was shot in the throat, but Jude managed to make the waiter feel so hot and guilty about it that he gave us another one on the house. None of us got particularly drunk and no one asked me any more difficult questions, and I refrained from demanding another jelly jar of gin. Jude kept trying to talk about the film, but Miller wasn’t having it. He wanted to wait until we got home.