“Oh, shit! Oh, baby! You cannot be serious!”
“This is gonna be so fucking cool!”
Hudson looked at them, a solemn, almost teacherly expression: “I can’t be serious? I’m always serious.” He turned to the two women. “Ladies, I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine—Spanky the mouse—sadly, recently deceased.”
He held the animal down to their faces. They turned away in revulsion, eyes down, hands to their mouths. The younger one rubbed her nose, sniffling.
“Well, come on,” Hudson said. “Don’t be rude. Say hello to Spanky. You’re gonna be getting a hell of a lot closer to our little pal here, so it’s good that you get to know each other a little better first.”
Steve sat up in his chair, gleaming, gazing at his friend. He said, “Aw, you are the bomb, Hud. You are the fucking bomb. You are it, man.”
Hudson smiled. “Anything for a friend, Stevie boy. Now, girls—you know what to do with little Spanky here.”
The younger girl clutched her friend’s shoulder and mumbled, “I don’t think… I don’t wanna do this…”
The older one drew some fortitude, then, from somewhere. She sat straighter and looked at Hudson directly, her breasts bare, her teeth set, a pulse in the graceful length of her neck.
She said, “Hey, she doesn’t feel too good. My friend is feeling kinda sick, okay? I think we should call it a night here. You can…you know, you can keep some of the money…”
Hudson leaned in close, his lips almost brushing her ear. “Uh-uh. I don’t think we’re gonna call it a night. I think you’re gonna do what you’ve been fucking paid to do. What we tell you to do.” He stood and addressed the assembled masses. “Right, guys?”
A great cheer; then, as if by some spontaneous instinct of the collective, they began to chant, unprompted: “Fuck the mouse…fuck the mouse…” The two women glanced at each other apprehensively. The younger one shook her head, her gaze half-focused on the fuzzy middle-distance. Hudson threw the dead animal onto the rug and glared at them. The chant continued, louder, more playful but also more insistent, the pitch building again. The girls didn’t move. Hudson set his jaw and breathed rapidly through his nose; he was not a patient man.
“Fuck the mouse…fuck the mouse…”
Another 20 or 30 seconds, and he’d had enough of this shit. The money had been paid, time for the action. Hudson leaned forward to grab one of them by the hair, either one, to force the little cunt’s face down to the ground, when one side of the apartment door crashed open. It blew inward, the heavy wood lifting at the bottom, splinters like confetti shooting into the air, and hung unsteadily by its upper hinge. The room felt silent, though the music continued to play; a communal holding of breath, as everyone froze in their tracks, waiting to see what was coming next. Even Hudson didn’t act.
The three men in tuxedoes walked into the apartment, flicking the main light switch on entering. The place flooded with the soft yellow glow of roof spotlights. Two stood with their hands behind their backs; the one in the red bow tie stepped forward, raised a finger to his chin and said, “‘Fuck the mouse, fuck the mouse…’ Hmm. Fuck a mouse? What kinda… Did you ever hear anything like that before, Waters?”
The smaller man replied, “Nah. Sounds pretty strange to me, Wilde.”
The one calling himself Wilde said, “What ’bout you, Whitman?”
The big man shrugged lazily. “Uh-uh. Never heard of that. You?”
Wilde shook his head. “Can’t say I have. But I don’t get out much these days, so, you know…”
Hudson acted then, his pride clicking back on like the light switch. He strode toward them, to the front of the crowd, incandescent with rage.
“What…? Who the fuck do you think you are, coming in here like this!? This is a private party! What is this? Some kind of fucking joke?”
Wilde emitted a short laugh, slightly muffled by his mask.
Hudson spluttered, “So this is a joke, right? Some son of a bitch put you up to this. Right!?”
Wilde said, “No. I realize you can’t tell with these balaclavas, but we’re not joking. Show him how serious we are, Whitman.”
Whitman and Waters brought their hands around the front—each held a gun with a silencer. Whitman looked to Wilde.
“Who?”
“Anyone.”
Whitman stepped forward and shot one guy at random, through the foot. He dropped to the ground, screaming in pain, an almost comical look of surprise on his face. Everyone gasped in shock but didn’t move, didn’t panic. There was a weird air of sedation—paralysis by fear, maybe. Hudson stood there, stunned momentarily, then that cocky belligerence reasserted itself once more.
He yelled, “Wha-? You motherfucker!!” and rushed toward Wilde. But Whitman moved too fast: he was between them, pressing the gun against Hudson’s cheek. The barrel pushed into his skin, creating a pallid ellipse.
Wilde sighed, almost inaudibly, and said, “Don’t. Don’t move, don’t try to knock his hand away, and don’t speak another fucking word. We hadn’t planned to kill anyone tonight, but we’re, ah…flexible. Whitman here already has a thing about yuppies, so don’t tempt him. Now…” He looked around the assembled company. “…which one of you is Steven Ainsworth?”
No response for a moment; then Steve meekly showed himself, shuffling through the mass of men, a terrified expression, glancing from left to right as if seeking encouragement.
He said, “What…what is this? Is this a robbery? Do you want…? Here.” Steve took off his watch. It was a beautiful model: Swiss, virtually nuclear precision in the timekeeping. “Take this. I’ve got money. And they’ve got money. Come on, guys. Give him your money. Give him your fucking money!”
Wilde strolled past Hudson and Whitman, locked in their glacial embrace, and said, “Keep it. We don’t want money. We came here to make a statement, nothing more.”
Steve remained where he was, his watch proffered before him like the alms of a penitent. He looked baffled, and cold somehow, crouched in that ridiculous position; he dared not look to the side as Waters moved past him, flanking Wilde, covering him, waving his gun to clear the crowd. Whitman threw Hudson aside and moved back to cover the door. Hudson took a few steps back, away from the centre, skulking, nursing his bruises.
Wilde bent down to the two women, who flinched slightly. They were very pretty. One was darker, with shortish hair, a strong jaw-line, a plump lower lip and a flash of intelligence in her eyes; the other, the younger one, was fair, pale even, with long hair in a ponytail which had gotten skewed to the side, a slight overbite, ice-gray eyes, and delicate, long lashes. Wilde smiled, in a way he hoped would be reassuring; he realized the peculiarity of his garb. He reached out a hand, slowly.
The older girl recoiled and said, “Don’t…! Please. Don’t…don’t hurt us. Don’t hurt her.”
Wilde withdrew his hand, saying gently to her, “I won’t hurt you. Get dressed.”
She looked at him, unsure.
“Go on,” he said. “It’s okay. Get dressed.”
The older girl began scrabbling around for her clothes, sorting through the scattered detritus of the last half-hour. Wilde reached behind for a brightly colored woolen throw and wrapped it around the younger woman, embracing her shoulders. She was shaking.
He whispered, “Hey. It’s okay. Don’t be frightened. We’re not going to hurt you. Look at me. Look at my eyes.”
Her eyes remained fixed on the floor.
“It’s alright, sweetheart. Are you looking at me? Don’t be frightened. What’s your name?”
The girl looked up then, her gaze at some point on his forehead. She said, “It’s…Dorothy. My name is Dorothy.”
“Dorothy. Okay. What a pretty name. How old are you, Dorothy?”
A tall, extremely skinny man in an ironically garish shirt and yellow suspenders bounded forward, waving his arms around. He said, “Hey, what the fuck, man? Just let us go, alright? If you wanna do whatever you wanna do
with the hookers, man, that’s o…”
Waters smacked him in the nose with the butt of the gun, that horrible bone squelch. He crumpled in a heap, blood pouring through his fingers, legs kicking like an upended insect.
“Anyone else feel like they have a contribution to make? Please, feel free,” Waters said.
Wilde turned back to Dorothy. “It’s alright, now. Hey. Are you looking at me?”
She started to cry. Dry sobs at first, her shoulders shaking, and then the tears rolled down her pale cheeks. The other woman, now dressed, scootched across on her backside to console her friend.
Dorothy said, “I’m…17. I don’t know how… I didn’t mean to end up doing this. I’m not, um… Amy just asked me to come along…”
Wilde said, “Okay. It’s alright, sweetheart. Get dressed.” He turned to Amy. “Do you have money?”
She nodded yes. Wilde stood up, looked around, pointed to a heavyset guy in shiny trousers.
“You. Take off your watch, all your jewelry, and give me your wallet. Now.”
The man did as he was ordered. Wilde held it out to Amy, saying, “Here. Might as well get something, right? Take it.”
Amy took it, holding it gingerly, away from her.
“Help her get dressed and…can you hail a taxi?” Wilde asked.
“Yeah… Hey—thanks.”
Wilde nodded, “Sure”, and turned to the group of men. “Now—Steven Ainsworth. Come here, Steven.”
Steve hesitated, swallowing heavily, forestalling events. Then a realization: there is no slithering out of this. He could practically feel the heavy hands of his relieved friends on his back as he walked toward Wilde, slowly and nervously. He looked around for support again; his friends looked away.
He said, “Hey, look. I’m not sure… What’s going on here, dude? What are you doing in my place?”
Wilde ignored him and moved to the window, the large window with that coveted view of the river by night. It looked like the backdrop to a late-night chat-show: the twinkling lights, the miniature squares of neon, the blue-black mirror of the Hudson. Almost too beautiful.
“Steven Ainsworth,” he said. “Steve to his friends. Futures trader with a blue-chip company. Father an investment banker, mother a lady of leisure. Membership of a country club, a gentleman’s club, an expensive health and racquet club…all the trappings of a gilded life.”
He paused, one gloved finger to his chin. Steve moved to speak and Wilde raised the finger, cutting him off, like a hammy detective explaining the murder.
“Engaged to Christine De Beers; Chris to her friends. Ceremony in two days’ time in a small, beautifully kept uptown church. Guests include several big wheels in finance, industry, the judiciary, and at least one high-profile politician who, if rumor is to be believed, would have fit in quite well at this cozy little soirée.”
He turned back to Steve. “Uh-huh. I know all about you, Steven.”
Steve lost his cool, finally: stress and irritation getting the upper hand on terror. He said, “Look, what is this, you shithead? Whaddyou want!?”
Wilde nodded at Waters who slapped Steve, with his hand, on the side of the head, not too hard.
“Shut your mouth and open your ears. We’re getting to the good part soon.” Wilde returned to that gorgeous, heartbreaking view. “So Steve and all his friends decide to have a little party; something to mark the occasion, as it were. A select group invited round to these elegant surroundings; a few drinks, a little coke, a lot of bullshit, a couple of beautiful girls…what could be finer?”
Waters shrugged and said, “I can’t think of anything, Wilde.”
“But you had to go overboard, Steven. You weren’t satisfied with that. None of you. You weren’t satisfied with taking the drugs and talking the bullshit; you weren’t even satisfied with having sex with the beautiful girls.”
The women had dressed without anybody really noticing it. They looked different now, even in the same clothes: more grave, more inflexible, but also less tethered to now. It seemed like a part of Amy and Dorothy had come loose and floated away. They stood behind Wilde, who gestured to them.
“Look at them! They’re gorgeous. What guy wouldn’t want to be with a woman who looks like that, even if he is paying for it? Hey, I’m a man—I understand these things.”
He nodded at the two women, and they moved to leave. The crowd parted for them. Dorothy looked at her feet; Amy stared at each man, straight on, with contempt.
Wilde continued, “But that wasn’t enough for you pricks. You had to go a little further. You’re so fucking tired and cynical; you’ve had so many good things for so long, so much sex and money and power, that you’re incapable of feeling real pleasure or joy anymore. You’ve become empty inside and need to degrade others to fill that hole.” He leaned forward. “Am I correct, Steven?”
Steve flushed, waved his hands. “Hey, wait. Look, okay? We didn’t… They’re okay. We didn’t hurt them, alright? We… How the fuck did you know about this, anyway?”
“How did we know? We hear things, Steven. Our reach is long and our friends are everywhere… The truth is we didn’t know. We picked you at random. We found out who had hired girls for a party tonight, and we picked you.” Wilde rested his arms on the windowsill, gazed out the window. “But it doesn’t matter, ’cause you’re all the same. Could be you, could be some other asshole across town. You’re a type, Steven: you’re a particular kind of guy with particular tastes. We didn’t even know what shit you’d pull tonight, but we knew what shit you’d pull tonight, you understand me? And you’ll do fine. You’ll make the same statement as anyone else.”
Steve pointed behind him, fright in his eyes, saying, “It wasn’t me, okay? It was Hud. Hud arranged the whole thing. I just… Hud brought them here. I just asked for some hookers for my bachelor party and he…”
Wilde said, “So you’re passing the blame to your friend there?”
Waters laughed, sardonic. “Ah! No honor among thieves anymore, Wilde.”
Hudson took a step forward, squaring himself. He was over that hump of indignity; now he was angry with these cocksuckers.
“Steve, shut your stupid, whiny fucking mouth or I will shut it for you.” He pointed at Wilde. “And fuck you, okay, pal? Fuck…you!! They’re whores, you asshole! What did they expect coming here? Tea and fucking cake!? Look at them! They’re just whores!”
Amy and Dorothy had reached the door. Amy walked back toward Hudson and spat in his face, then turned and left. Hudson fumed, itching to react, to slap her down, to show everyone who was the boss of this situation.
Whitman bowed to the two women as they left, an extravagant stoop, and said, “’Night, ladies. Take care, now.”
Wilde stepped forward and addressed the rest of the crowd: “All the rest of you: get out of here. Take your jackets and get the fuck out. Go straight home. Don’t try to catch up with Amy and Dorothy there—we’ll be watching.”
The men began gathering their things, sheepishly, awkwardly, furtive glances at the three men with the three guns. And at the two who would remain. Wilde turned to Steve.
“Steven and his belligerent pal—you’re staying here. We have big plans for the two of you.”
Hudson shouted, “Hey, look, you sick bastard. I’ve got friends, okay? I know people. You don’t wanna fuck with me…”
Waters laughed again. “Oh, yeah—we’ve seen how your friends act, ‘Hud.’”
“We don’t want to fuck with you?” Wilde asked. “Oh, but we do, Hud. A sweet-looking boy like you? We want to fuck with you very much. Whitman—the door.”
The last partygoer exited, a dissipated shadow stealing away. The door still hung from the hinge. Whitman pushed hard and quick, jamming it into the frame. The wood made a squeak of resistance to set the teeth on edge. He remained there, bulky and soundless, gun resting on one huge bicep. Waters and Wilde faced Steve and Hudson, who had instinctually moved closely together, back to back, their hands out in front, a
motion of warding away. Strength in numbers, but now there were only two. For the first time Hudson could feel his spirit, his intrinsic courage, begin to leak away. He looked at the masked men and felt small.
“Big plans, Hud. Big plans and big statements, and you’re the first,” Wilde said. “But consider yourself fortunate: people will remember you for a long time because of this. You and your friend.”
Chapter 2
Karma TV
JONATHON Bailey was widely known as a pompous ass, which was not something he would necessarily deny. News anchors should have a certain gravitas, he had always felt, a fixedness, an oak-like sturdiness. Viewers didn’t want someone they could “relate to”, someone like them passing on random information. They wanted—they needed—an authoritative figure, who would inform, console, and reassure. Someone who knew more than them. If others chose to misread that as self-importance, that was their problem.
He also looked the part, from lacquered hair to beautifully tailored Italian suit—tanned, late middle-age, a little jowly, a sort of Robert Redford cragginess settling into his face. Bailey fixed the cameras in the Network 4 news studio with the unruffled gaze typical of his species and intoned, in a carefully modulated timbre of voice, “…and the vote is expected to go against the motion to rezone that area. This could spell disaster for Imprimatur, the consortium of developers behind the project. In other financial news…”
Watching from the sidelines were Cathy Morrissey, production manager for the network’s news output, and her research assistant, Patrick Broder. They both rested their weight on one leg, hips cocked slightly out and up, and shook their heads, almost to the same meter, in sardonic dismissal of their charge.
“Jesus. Jonathon’s got that constipated expression again,” Cathy said. “I hate when he gets that. It scares the old folks watching. Makes ’em change the channel.”
“He looks in pain. I wonder if he’s alright? Genuinely.”
“He always gets like that when his wife kicks him out. She caught him cheating. Again.”
Even Flow Page 2
