by Adam Dunn
This plays out in my head while we’re waiting at the light on Fifty-seventh and Tenth. On the southeast corner I notice a woman squatting with her back to the wall of an office building, arms around her knees, crying. This is an all-too-frequent sight around the city these days, men and women whose worlds have suddenly imploded, overwhelmed by the cold, stark enormity of their plight, unable to think their way out. People crying all over town. We were all so happy once, not so long ago. I move my Marathon Cyber SEX into position. Two frames: Lost Soul.
Not me, goddammit, I’ve worked too hard and come too far. Not me.
Prince William grabs me as soon as I clear the velvet at Le Yef.
—We must talk, my son, he says quietly.
I grab a double thyme Verkhoyansk on the fly and he steers me to one of the standing-room-only tables by the boarded-up front windows and says:
—There’s trouble afoot.
This day can’t get any worse, it just can’t.
—What’s going on?
—Reza’s moving on Le Yef. Wants LA’s turf and her operations. It’s on, my son. Full-blown war, and we’re in the middle of it.
I take a big pull of my drink and make a point of slowly smacking my lips. I’m nowhere near calm inside, but in my world appearances are everything.
—Now why would Reza do a thing like that? I ask, focusing on keeping my voice level.
Prince William is giving me a look I haven’t seen before. I sense he’s sizing me up, but I don’t know for what. I continue as carefully and steadily as I can:
—And why now? After all this time? They have an arrangement—LA makes money off the clientele we bring to Le Yef, Reza makes money supplying them. Through our cabbies, I feel compelled to point out. LA has the hottest can’t-miss event in town going, but we supply the party favors. LA doesn’t have Reza’s taxi network.
Prince William looks away, tightening his lips. I want to grab him by the scruff of the neck and shake him. Then a penny drops.
—Is this about Eyad?
Now the Prince’s head comes around. He looks grim.
—There’s been another one. Something Khan, the Prince says, downing a shot of something yellow.
I’m having a hard time putting this all together. Prince William’s words are jarring something loose in my head, something I’m not sure I want to look at.
—Another one? You mean Reza killed Eyad? For Christ’s sake, what for?
The Prince gestures with a swizzle stick.
—Eyad was skimming. The other one, who knows? And it’s not about Reza. It’s the organization behind Reza. They’ve been putting pressure on him to raise more cash in a hurry. The organization wants more money and they want it bloody fast. I trust you’ve noticed the Lollipop Man round Reza’s gaff? He’s meant to speed up operations. Those two dead cabbies are ’is ’andiwork. Muscle. Not just for Reza, but for Reza, savvy?
The amorphous thing in my brain is taking shape. It’s ugly. I try to make some headway.
—What’s the rush? Why would they make Reza kill his own cabbies? And why do they want Le Yef? Reza has an understanding with LA, a business relationship, they’ve had it as long as I’ve been working for him. And Le Yef’s a gold mine. Why stir up trouble and risk the cops getting involved? Our arrangement runs smoothly. Hell, Le Yef’s the only event on the whole damn speak circuit that hasn’t turned into a free-for-all.
Prince William sighs, like he’s dealing with a slower sibling. I’m not feeling as impressed by him as I have been in times past. Right now, I want to strangle the prick.
—You’re right, it’s a gold mine. And the organization wants it. They’re not content with having a finger in the pie, they want the whole pie. New York City, he says.
I’m feeling clumsy and slow, like I’m tripping through a dream.
—This doesn’t make any sense. The city’s always been an open market. It’s too big for one player to corner it. Nobody’s ever done that, here, never.
Prince William looks me in the eye.
—Not until now. Whatever happens, make sure you know which side you’re on.
I try to ask him how the hell he knows all of this, but suddenly I’m hemmed in by a pair of megatheriums. One of them puts a huge paw on my back. It’s hard and heavy and carries the potential for catastrophic damage with it.
—Please come with us, one of them intones.
I’m on my knees on the floor of the former Bryant Park Grill’s men’s room downstairs from the party. At least they won’t be able to drown me in one of the toilets; the water was shut off ages ago. The megatheriums are behind me, and there’s a huge heavy hand on each of my shoulders, pressing bone against bone, though not quite hard enough to make me scream. LA, who stands before me resplendent in skin-tight gym attire, her chiseled abdominals inches from my mouth, must want me for something.
—You know, Renny, I like to think of myself as fair-minded and even-tempered. Your boss Reza is not. That’s upsetting the balance of things, which upsets me.
LA slaps me, lightly, with her right hand, then softly brushes her fingers against my cheek.
—Reza, LA says, is not willing to share.
And she punches me in the same spot she was rubbing. I see it coming, and there’s nothing I can do about it. LA’s workouts are paying dividends; I taste blood in my mouth and the bathroom fades out for a moment. The hands on my shoulders never waver.
She goes back to stroking my face again, and continues.
—Your friend out there showed some shrewd business sense coming to me to parley. He figures with a war on he can play both sides against the middle and still get paid. What do you think, Renny? Would you like to get paid?
My brain is struggling to absorb what she’s telling me while trying to shake off the effects of her punch. I manage to say:
—I’d like to get paid.
LA backhands me hard, the other side of my face this time, but the taste of blood in my mouth is stronger. The goons still don’t budge. (I will not cry. I will not cry.)
—Then I suggest you find another party to peddle your wares at, once you resupply. I’m keeping tonight’s shipment for my trouble.
(Oh shit oh fuck oh FUCK ME. She’s taking the Specials, I’ll have to make up the cost to Reza, on top of what I already owe for the light … )
LA draws back her arm for another blow and I can’t help it, I flinch, and feel the burn of tears starting at the corner of my eyes. LA lowers her arm. Her smile makes my stomach drop like a high-speed elevator.
—Give Reza my regards, she says.
She jerks her head at the twin golems and turns away toward the sinks.
And I’m hauled to my feet so hard my arms feel like they’ll come out of their sockets. The goons half-pull, half-drag me out of the bathroom, out past the clumps and hordes and gaggles of stunned onlookers. I’ve never been thrown out of anywhere, I’ve always known how to play it smooth. I can’t handle this. This is worse than the beating. There’s no fame like infamy. I will not cry. (Not here.)
There’s a momentary pause while one goon gets the door. Just long enough for me to look back toward the men’s room. Just long enough to see another guard ushering a woman inside. Just long enough for me to see that it’s N.
Ngala whatever-the-fuck is his usual surly self, though he’s surprisingly blasé about having just been held up and ripped off by LA’s thugs. When I ask him if they took the stash, he shrugs and points to the partition. He doesn’t care about losing fifty thousand dollars’ worth of coated, easy-to-swallow, lab-grade Ecstasy tablets. His cab isn’t damaged, that’s all he’s worried about. I put him on my list of people I’d like to kill. The list has grown long.
Retch. Tony, who never showed up tonight and still owes me for ten Specials. LA and her whole earpiece-wearing muscle menagerie. Prince William, who’s making a deal with LA behind Reza’s back to hedge his bets about who wins the war. Marcus fucking Chalk, who will never hire me again. Johnette, who mad
e sure of it. And Reza, who’s expecting his money and is accustomed to my prompt deliveries.
So who’s on my side?
Prince William. Phone’s off. L. Phone’s off. N—no, I’m not calling N. I don’t know where I stand with N. I don’t even know where she stands anymore. I am definitely not calling Reza or any of his retinue. Marty. Phone’s off. There’s two dozen numbers in my phone, but there’s nobody I can talk to, nobody I can trust.
I have many contacts, but no friends.
Wait—Joss. I stab the call through the phone, angrily gesturing at Ngala to wait. He wants to go back to work. He will, but for me. Thunder sounds, off in the distance. We’re supposed to get hit with a storm tonight. Perfect.
Joss lives in the penthouse of a brownstone on Sixty-ninth and Second with a fabulous glassed-in living room cantilevered out over the street, doubtless guaranteed by Daddy. After having Ngala drive me home to pick up half the remaining batch of Specials (I leave the other half in my stash as backup), I have him drop me under the cool neon Goldberg’s sign on First, the last indie pharmacy left in town. It’s a five-minute walk to Joss’s place. She buzzes me in downstairs just as it starts to pour.
The girl who opens the apartment door upstairs is jailbait. Small breasts nestled in a man’s blue oxford shirt knotted in front, exposing a midriff not quite free of baby fat, with a silver hoop in her navel and jean shorts cut off just below the crotch. She’s actually wearing pigtails. I put her at seventeen, maybe.
—Rough night? she asks with a wry smile.
—Joss called me, I grunt impatiently.
—Do come in, she says, gesturing with the drink in her hand.
Joss is splayed out on the couch with a pile of fashion magazines, each open to a piece illustrated with my photos. She’s turned the lights down so she can watch the lightning. The wraparound glass is thick, the drumming of the downpour seems faint and far away.
—Renny! Joss squeals, jumping off the couch to embrace me like we’re old friends. There’s been some drinking going on, though not enough to seriously hamper things. Joss is making a lot of body contact, pressing herself against me, her arms locked behind my back. Not long ago I’d hoped for this, and after the day I’ve had, I might even revisit the sentiment, but I wasn’t expecting her to be babysitting. If she’s put off by the condition of my face, she’s not letting on.
—Meghan’s my cousin. She just got back from school. I’ve been telling her all about you, Joss says playfully, with a gleam in her eye.
—Yes, you seem to be quite the man of many talents, Meghan says from the bar that separates the open kitchen, where she’s building a G and T that would drop a horse. Naturally, she brings it to me.
—To business, Joss says, clinking her glass against mine and her cousin’s.
—What exactly did you have in mind? I ask. I want to close the deal, take my money, and get out of here so I can start on Damage Control, not to mention figuring out what the hell is going on. There’s too many wild cards now. Reza. LA. Prince William. N. What kind of hand will I be dealt?
—How much have you got on you? Meghan asks. Joss just sits there wearing a bright smile. I notice for the first time that she’s not wearing much else, gray gym shorts that LA would probably admire, and a tank top that does not indicate the presence of a bra. What’s going on here?
I take a long pull of my drink and survey the two of them, then slowly pull out the disk case. This is crazy, but it’s been a crazy day. And I need this deal. Their eyes light up.
—How much is in there? Meghan says, all business. Quite the budding young entrepreneur. America’s Future.
—Two fifty.
—What’re you asking?
—Fifty large.
—No problem! beams Joss, who’s obviously bankrolling her cousin’s venture.
—How do we know if it’s good? Meghan asks.
I take another belt of my drink, then set it down and pop open the case, extracting two tabs and handing them to Joss, who hands one to Meghan. They neck theirs and chase the pills with gin.
—I’ll be right back, Joss says, hopping off the couch. Renny, make yourself comfortable. Meghan, make Renny feel at home. Out she goes, presumably to get the money.
This is all for show. Meghan’s obviously setting up a franchise at her college, or more likely her boarding school, and she’s talked Joss into putting up the money. Assuming a twenty percent markup once she starts distributing, she and Joss can split ten percent profit each, even keeping a small stash for themselves. With the money they make, the stash would end up paying for itself—free Specials, which they can keep or sell as they choose. Very smooth.
—Very smooth, I say to Meghan, who’s standing behind the couch.
—Funny, Meghan says, coming around the couch to me, that’s what Joss says about you.
There’s a strange glint in her eye, but the drug shouldn’t kick in for a few minutes yet. I figure I’ll watch them lift off, then take my money and go.
But Meghan is standing between me and the door, smiling in a bad-girl way, almost absently untying the knot of her shirt. She shrugs it off, and a wave of nostalgic lust washes over me. Meghan’s newly budding breasts are exactly like those of B, the girl with whom I spent the excruciating summer of my fifteenth year, being carefully tutored in the playing of that most magnificent instrument that is the female body.
Still smiling, Meghan steps close to me. She slowly pulls down my zipper and unsheathes me, her fingers lightly circling the head and top of the shaft with a butterfly’s touch. My cock swells up so hard and fast I can feel the blood draining out of my brain. Behind her Joss appears, naked, and cups Meghan’s left breast with her left hand, fingers lightly tweaking the nipple, while her right hand comes around Meghan’s hip and grips my cock with a seasoned authority I would not dare challenge.
Which is how we all end up on the living room floor beneath the glass roof, Jim Hall’s Concierto de Aranjuez playing out of my phone through Joss’s superb sound system, with me kneeling behind Meghan, thrusting very deeply, very slowly, one thumb gently but firmly in her ass, guiding, Meghan’s head between Joss’s thighs, her mouth expertly working on her cousin’s most precious portion. Meghan has the most terrific vaginal grip I have ever experienced. Rule Number Two goes flying out the window and dies silently on the rain-spattered street four stories below, followed by all the others.
Well, wouldn’t you’ve thrown it out too?
It’s only much, much later, emerging from a cab in front of my house, the eastern sky slowly giving way to gray, drifting in the fugue state of a man who has just had one of the most horrific days and searing nights of his life, while reaching for my keys, that I realize I never got the money.
H A D I T H
Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” Santiago remarked. More, in unusually gabby agreement, nodded.
They were watching roughly three hundred cabdrivers at afternoon prayer, kneeling on rugs in the taxi holding lot at LaGuardia Airport, facing Mecca and the Grand Central Parkway. This was overflown at an obtuse angle by big transatlantic inbounds from Benin, Bahrain, Medina, and Ankara. Desperate to keep foreign money coming into the city, the state assembly (with much public and vocal support from Representative Dick Lamprey, D–New York) had just after the crash pushed through an emergency tax-free revenue bond issue (as was the fashion in fundraising for flat-broke cities) to retrofit the airport for the big 747-300s and A-380s that had international range but needed more room to stop. The issue was rated triple-C with a 10 percent yield, and Albany wrote in a clause forcing New York to buy at least 25 percent of the bonds. When Mayor Baumgarten (I–New York) pointed out that the city couldn’t afford the bonds at face value, let alone the interest payments, he was shouted down by the coterie of legislators around Assemblywoman Janice Anopheles (D–New York) and the coven of City Council members around Speaker Isabella Trichinella (D–New York), as well as being dealt a particularly venal snub by S
enator Theodore Usanius Rickover Davidson III (D–New York), on Baumgarten’s own financial-news cable channel. The bond bubble lasted just long enough for the new runway extensions to be paved. When it burst and the state defaulted on the issue, the city treasury was gutted. Mayor Baumgarten had boxcars full of shit thrown at him daily by the unions while he performed wholesale amputations of the Sanitation, Health, Education, Fire, and (of course) Police departments. He kept the airport construction crews on schedule, though, and the renovation was completed on time and, to the surprise of all but Hizzoner the Mayor, under budget. Now new waves of affluent travelers shopped in the airport’s sterile boutiques hawking must-have NYC curios like T-shirts and coffee mugs, and model NYPD prowl cars and bright yellow toy taxicabs. They bought tons of fattening snacks and splurged on gallons of sugary cocktails at the airport’s new food courts and bars. All in all, the rehabbed airport added a thousand new jobs and hundreds of thousands of dollars to the city’s moth-eaten economy, which would otherwise have been siphoned off completely by those bastards in Newark. This made the Port Authority (which owned the airports) very happy and was considered to be one of the few silver linings in an otherwise pitch-black tapestry of the city’s history.
This new wave of jaunty travelers also lavished tens of thousands of dollars on taxicabs in from the airports; why bother figuring out the buses and trains when your home currency kicks the shit out of the U.S. dollar? Cab rides everywhere, from the airports, from the hotels, to the theaters (those few that were still open), to the high-level executive meetings, and, of course, to all the parties on the illegal club circuit for which the city was now internationally infamous.
All of this was being spelled out to a placid More and a smoldering Santiago by the head of the de facto drivers’ union as they stood in the taxi holding lot.
