The Entropy of Bones

by Ayize Jama-everett

  “I want to reach in my jacket pocket,” he let me know.

  If I wanted, I could’ve ripped any weapons you had off of you two minutes ago.

  His lightweight anger faded before it flew. Matt passed over an envelope fat with hundreds before he said, “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

  I allowed him on board. Even gave him a chair and offered him orange juice, the sole contents of my fridge. Then I sat back and waited for him to speak. I don’t think he could help sounding like he was bragging all the time.

  “Roderick found some high-class buyers. International jet-setters into overseas distribution.”

  Congrats.

  “There are rumors.” They must have been major rumors because Shotgun had never been the cautious one before. “Everything from cannibalism to a demonic cult. So we’re limiting our exposure to them. I’m the face. Roderick was wondering if you’ll be the muscle.”

  I stare at him.

  “His word was backup.”

  I smiled.

  “He did make one request.” It was his turn to smile. “He wants you to dress up.”

  Chapter Six: Naga Suites

  I found my music by accident. The Little Kid had latched on to me. His signature on his email was his website. He was the first person I knew who only used numbers for his website address. Something about hacking. On his Hobbies and Interests page, next to the geekiest Botany and Biology fan page, I found his “Jungle” tab. It was music . . . of a sort. Obviously derived from the same musical tree as hip-hop, the vocals were more dancehall influenced, the beats faster, more repetitive. Two of the mp3s I downloaded from him had chaotic breaks filled with sirens and horns that would make Public Enemy jealous. The controlled chaos of it put me in mind of a car wreck, though I had no idea why. I put it through my speakers one night and felt the difference between headphones and speakers for the first time in my life. Some music needed to be played out loud.

  “It’s not my music,” Mom said, standing in my doorway listening, “but I could see how you’d like it.” I think she was just happy I was doing something that resembled a typical teenager. When I played a Congo Natty track for Narayana that night, he smiled.

  “I like Wu-Tang better.”

  That’s Method Man on the mic, Raj, I said, pointing to his paltry speakers. It’s a remix or something. You said find my sound. I think this is it.

  “Dance,” he commanded.

  With you?

  “No. Alone. Your sound knows your body. Show me.”

  Back then, aside from salsa, which I treated like combat training, I did not dance. In that one order I remembered Narayana’s genius. In dance, there was no combat, no attraction, just creative union. I couldn’t begin to fathom how dancing could be turned into bone-shattering blows, but Narayana could.

  I let my knees bob to the beat, felt my hips slide to the synths, switched my head to the bass, skanked my legs to the snares, and flexed my arms whenever they felt the need, all to Tenor Fly’s “Born in the Ghetto.” Anyone watching it from the other decks probably saw the most subdued dance a body could perform. But I felt freer that night rocking out than I ever had before.

  “Attack,” Narayana said softly. I hadn’t realized I’d closed my eyes. When I opened them, a skeleton was directly in front of me. My peace and joy was shattered. In as few seconds as possible, the bones of the skeleton from pelvis upward were shattered as well.

  “Good start.” Raj smiled, examining my handiwork. “But you strike with fear, not intention. Big difference.”

  I don’t know how I did that, I said, trying desperately to control my breathing.

  “That’s why it’s only a start. Learn your music. Watch how others move to it. Find joy and peace in the breaking of bone. Then you’re ready for the next level.”

  It took the rest of the year. I became a Junglist, eating, sleeping, scrapping, and studying with a constant diet of Shy FX, Congo Natty, General Degree, and the like. Saturdays I woke up, rode the damn fixed-gear fifty miles, did my homework, cleaned my house and the Mansai and practiced the eighty-nine katas all while listening to Jungle and dubstep tunes. At night I’d find my way into 330 Ritch, the Mezzanine, or any other club in San Francisco that spun the tunes I liked. I’d usually watch for an hour then throw myself on the dance floor in part-emulation, part-innovation mode. Breakdowns of the low bass parts were my pornography. Everything else was lost, my voice, my mom, my training, my ever-worsening grades; everything went away on the dance floor. Any guy who tried to dance with me risked his life, a fact most came to recognize rather quickly. It was usually the gay boys, who just wanted to dance because they appreciated my moves and not my breasts, who survived the interaction.

  I keep thinking of people as meat skeletons, I told Narayana one night after he prepared a stewed chicken dinner for both of us. We sat in his cabin listening to GZA’s Liquid Swords album. He sighed and scratched his head.

  “Human body is perfection and fragile. Yin and yang. They have to work together. This is youth; think anything is all one way or other. It is meat skeleton, but skeleton is also meat transportation. What, I train you to find skeletons to break? It’s only where it starts.”

  The next morning I woke up at five, put my headphones on and stared at that first skeleton all day. I studied every fracture and splintered bone as I listened to every jungle tune I could find online for free.

  By eight p.m. I was ready. I went over to the Mansai and silently presented myself. Only when he brought up another skeleton did I take my headphones off. I still heard the clicks and synths of the beat. For the first time that day, I let myself dance. This time with no restraint. I wasn’t even thinking about the skeleton; the ethereal jungle beat in my head held me in its trance. It was only when I found myself eye to eye socket with the skeleton did I remember the fractured bones I’d been studying all day. Rather than strike, I breathed in slowly. With my exhale I reached out with my fingers and found places where that universal beat and my pulse couldn’t find a counter pulse. In these places I struck in time with my pulse, the pulse of the world. And bones splintered. With each one more vulnerabilities of the skeleton became clear. It was like massaging in reverse. I wasn’t as fast as Raj, but by the time it was done, the final massacre looked the same.

  It took me a while to find something to wear to meet the cannibals. Shotgun gave me a week to get it together. I tagged the Little Kid for fashion advice. College and age had done well for his fashion sense when he wasn’t playing at being the poor man’s Diplo. Plus he couldn’t even imagine how to lie to me, so flattery wouldn’t be an issue.

  I settled on a charcoal-colored two-button single-breasted business suit and, at the Little kid’s insistence, had it tailored, sucking in the shoulders and tapering the waist. In the end it seemed more like a uniform for a bannerless army than anything. For kicks, I preserved combat readiness and bought a pair of oxblood Doc Martens and told the Little Kid’s protest to fuck off. Dressing the part was one thing. It was still a job.

  I had to dead-stare the Little Kid for a full ten seconds before he’d accept the grand I gave for his fashion eye. He tried to ask me what it was for as I left him standing in the mall in downtown San Francisco. Four hours later, back at the dock when I walked within striking distance of Shotgun and he didn’t notice it was me, I knew it was money well spent. I’m sure brushing and combing my hair out also helped. I tapped the window of Shotgun’s truck as he sat parked by the dock.

  “You look . . . human,” he said, meaning “hot,” when I stepped into his truck.

  Don’t let the look fool you. Where’s the product?

  “This is negotiation, not delivery. You ready?”

  Whether it was driving into the city or just being nervous I couldn’t tell; all I knew was that it would have been easier for him to go through Oakland to get to our destination than going over the Golden Gate Bridge. But I let it go. I didn’t bother speaking until we were at the hotel. Sorry, not hotel. Naga L
uxury Suites. Right on the border of Hayes Valley and downtown San Francisco, the building distinguished itself from the posh restaurants and fashion boutiques around it by having a circular driveway with a shed-sized fountain as its centerpiece. The fountain was shaped to resemble a giant cobra spitting water from its fangs as it encircled the world. Someplace nearby that dark dubstep sound I loved and feared was playing.

  “What the fuck?” Shotgun stammered. He stomped the clutch, afraid to even enter the driveway. I couldn’t fault his reaction. There was something alive, almost in motion, about the sculpture. It could have been the water bouncing off the snake’s body, or maybe some slow rotation motor built into the globe, but whatever it was, the concept of the image itself was threatening. The real threat that I felt was the irresistibility of the image. Much as it screamed danger, neither Shotgun nor I could take our eyes off of it easily. The building itself had a similar effect; white silver, beyond modern sheer glass and polymers coated its outside and made it seem more like a monument to impossible heights than a place you’d actually enter. From jump, the Suites were intimidating.

  You going to pull out now? I asked genuinely. He could’ve gone either way.

  “Last time I felt this tweaked,” Shotgun started, regaining his composure and pushing the truck into first, “four dudes that did better in the Hole than in Gen Pop were all moved to the cell next to me.”

  Don’t worry. I’ll protect you. For the first time ever, that sounded false.

  Shotgun got more nervous when he turned his keys over to the valet. I acclimated to the Naga effect quickly but Shotgun’s breathing just got more erratic; his movements were jerkier. Luckily, he pulled himself together enough to speak at the front counter.

  “Welcome to the Naga Suites. How can I be of service?” the small Asian receptionist asked with subservience too genuine to seem born of a paycheck.

  “We’re here to see Rice Montague.” The perfectly manicured woman gulped slightly at the name then stared incredulously at Shotgun.

  “And you are?” Even I could tell that Matt should have spent more time on his wardrobe. A pair of Dickies and a long-sleeved chambray shirt covered by a full-length double-breasted leather duster can only take you so far in this world. After being assured that we had an appointment, she pointed to the back elevators and with a humble glare said, “He’s in the club.”

  The elevator buttons didn’t have numbers, just icons. Above the door, correlates to numbers as well as locations of shopping floors, massage floors, and “The Club” were posted. Of course, we were heading to the basement. That supple dubstep tempo that teased my ears upstairs threatened to destroy them as we descended. Shotgun became even more nervous. But the music was so . . . good; I almost forgot I was on the job.

  “Chabi . . .” Shotgun murmured as we exited the elevator. It wasn’t the bass, the flickering purple, red, and yellow lights, or the mass of over four hundred people—pure body funk mixed with every trendy perfume release in the past last three months. It was the bouncers. Two thick-necked Samoans, one checking ID, the other doing complete and thorough pat-downs. Not that he needed to do that much to catch the sixteen-inch shotgun strapped like an extra limb to Matt’s back under his broad-shouldered jacket. I’d been hearing the thing shake loosely since he got out of the truck.

  Me first, I told him, squeezing in front. Before I could speak, the Samoan waved me and Shotgun past the line of sequin-and-black-dressed waifs and costumed club kids. The Samoan’s only interruption, a small stamp on our hands, a silver snake that glowed in blacklight.

  Don’t ask how I found them. You’d only get confusion. What can I say? I smelled them before I saw them? They called me? You ever long for something you’ve never seen but once you find it, you’re repulsed by it? That was me the first time I saw them. At the dead center of the dance floor, defended by four pillars shaped like red and silver pythons intertwined, five of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen in my life reclined on a slightly elevated black sectional couch. There were no guards but no one even approached the mini stage, or those that reclined on it. They looked bored and fashionable—at least three of them did. One, the palest smallest woman, wore silk pajamas and seemed unaffected by the heat and music of the crowd. But the youngest, an olive complexion guy with an almost crew cut and eyes so black I noticed them through the darkness of the club, couldn’t stop staring at me. As we approached I saw his v-neck, tan shirt show a chest with no hair and a mouth that had the perpetual beginnings of a smile.

  “You Rice?” Shotgun asked the black-eyed man as we approached the bed/throne/couch.

  “You don’t look like you’re carrying eighty-five pounds of marijuana,” Rice said, standing but still staring at me. “Are you carrying it?”

  I’m just the eye candy, I said and felt the echo of my Voice in his head. That almost smile grew to adulthood. But the pajama woman, whose face up close looked like that of a pleased rat, turned as I spoke and stared at me. All the beautiful people did. Shotgun barely noticed.

  “I’m not about to bring all my product to a meet-and-greet. We haven’t even agreed on a price.” Still not taking his eyes off of me, Rice reached into his back pocket and pulled out a black credit card.

  “Six hundred thousand dollars on that.”

  “I don’t take credit cards.”

  “I don’t give them. That’s a black card. Any ATM, every bank accepts them. No proof of ID necessary. Think bearer bonds for the twenty-first century.”

  “I guess that works,” Shotgun murmured and reached for the card. I knew this was just the sort of thing his uncles sent me to protect against, but I was surprised how easily the kid was falling for it. I slapped his hand back and noticed a weird narcotic haze jump off him.

  “Eye candy has teeth,” the rat-face woman said. Not just her face, but if I looked at her mouth long enough, just a second longer than normal, I saw a thousand pairs of tiny rodent teeth in her mouth. But that didn’t matter. Another part of me still saw her as gorgeous.

  ATMs have cameras. So do banks. Computers leave trails. Cash is king. With each of my words, the small-toothed one and Rice exchanged furious, confused looks.

  “Let’s all have drinks, discuss this,” Rice offered. Like nothing I’ve ever wanted before, I wanted to please him. More than I ever wanted to please my mother. The feeling sickened me, reminding me of my Narayana. But I couldn’t think of a reason to refuse, so we sat.

  “At four eighty an ounce, we’re looking at six hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Shotgun said after the woman made some invisible signal and got a waiter to come over and pour champagne for us all. The other three beautiful people, all men in four-thousand-dollar suits, were older and out of place. They seemed bemused and slightly annoyed by us. Me in particular.

  “That’s a lot per ounce. Where’s the bulk discount?” Rice asked playfully.

  You hurting for cash? I asked looking around. Besides, we all know you’re going to slap another forty percent on top of the sticker price when you sell it overseas.

  I couldn’t tell if it was what I said or how I said it that got the other three beautiful men to take notice of me. But I’d almost wished they hadn’t.

  What’s your name? the small-toothed woman asked, her high-pitched voice suddenly echoing through my head.

  Chabi, I answered, and then wondered why. What’s yours?

  “They call me Poppy. Now what makes you think my cousin is at all interested in resale?” Something in her voice was also telling me to go fuck myself, but I couldn’t find it in her tone or vocabulary.

  Eighty-five pounds of weed? I fake laughed. You could give everyone in this room a joint for that and still not even make a dent in your pot pile. You could be trying to go the legal route, sell to the clubs, but high rollers like you, able to hand out black cards like Halloween candy, you couldn’t see enough profit from a cannabis club unless you owned it. But you take this Cali bud to Europe where they’re sick of all that high-THC hash,
you can name your price.

  With each word, the silent pretty ones became more irritated. Poppy ground her thousand teeth together but still managed to act like she was smiling. Only Rice emanated curiosity over anger. When one of the silent ones finally did speak, it was to Poppy.

  “Teach this girl her place and let’s move on with this.”

  You’re welcome to come over here and try, big man. No need to hide behind little miss skinny.

  You understand me? He looked absolutely shocked.

  “You heard him,” Rice stated more than he asked.

  I said yes quickly then realized something unsettling. The big man’s mouth hadn’t moved.

  “Listen, I have no desire to get into the international pot business. The truth of it is we throw eight parties a month like this. S.F., New York, London, Barcelona, Kotte, all over the world. Let the masses drink, smoke, pop what they like. It’s of utmost importance that the VIPs only have consistent high-grade party favors. We don’t have to quibble over dimes and nickels.” He looked to Shotgun, glassy eyed and slack tongued. “Six hundred thousand is too low? Fine. Seven hundred thousand. Cash. Delivered tomorrow morning.”

  “Ok,” Shotgun managed to get out.

  “You are overly eager.” The last of the formerly silent finally spoke. Again his lips didn’t move. None of the pretty people’s lips were moving. “Demand what you will from these weak wills and see it done.”

  An ancient pain began to light on the skin of my back. I tried to ignore it but it came with an equally ancient anger.

  A lot of reckless tongue wagging is coming from that corner over there. Don’t see a lot of action, I barked using my Voice.

  That got the pretty man’s attention. He stood, a clear foot and a half taller than me, in a soft steel gray suit obviously custom-made by a tailor far better than mine. It fit his vulture-like chest span perfectly.