Wtf Page 10

  “Look,” Byron said, “um, let’s just do this. We split the proceeds, pay off Waits, return the car, and find out what happened to Jimmy.”

  “And then—?” MC asked.

  The arguing group was now being led away by two guys who looked like they’d subsisted on T-bone steak since birth. The remaining bouncer, not looking too cheery, glared at Byron and MC. “End of the line, kids.”

  “Byron Durgin?” Byron said, gesturing toward a handwritten list on a makeshift podium. “I should be there? Reina Sanchez was supposed to—”

  Glancing briefly at the list, the bouncer wordlessly pulled aside the silk rope and gestured for Byron to enter.

  MC squealed, throwing her arms around Byron and kissing his ear from behind, so loudly that his eardrum popped.

  “Ow—don’t ever do that again,” Byron said as they walked in.

  “Who do you know here?” MC asked, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you know, like, everybody? Who should we start with? What’s our opening line? Is there some kind of, like, body language we should use—?”

  “I don’t know! I’ve never done this before!” Byron snapped. “We have to be quiet. Don’t forget, what we’re doing happens to be illegal.”

  “Right.” MC straightened her dress out. “Right. I know. I am feeling like so Jennifer Garner at this moment.”

  Byron grabbed her by the arms. “This is serious, MC. We owe somebody a lot of money. This guy, Waits? Trust me, he is a motherfucker. From what I know, he has ties to the Mob. Close ones. So we have to be discreet and fast. Got it?”

  “Check. So what do we do?”

  “Let’s dance. I’ll look around and see what other people are doing.”

  “Like, other drug dealers?” MC whispered. “Do we have to worry about, like, a turf war? I’m not packing anything—”

  “Stop it!” Byron hissed. He started moving to the beat. “Oh. One other thing. If we see Reina, we should talk to her. Thank her for getting us in.”

  MC was giggling. “You don’t dance much, do you?”

  “What? I mean, yeah. No. Am I doing something wrong?”

  “You’re trying too hard. Just relax into the beat. Like this.”

  Byron watched as she spun away. She was a great dancer. Subtle and sure. “I hate you,” he said.

  She swooped back toward him, wrapping her arms around his shoulder and leaning in close. “Just pick up the vibe. You can do that.”

  Byron tried to feel the rhythm. He smiled. “Do you take lessons, or is that natural?”

  “That is such a dorky question,” MC said, raising her hands high over her head.

  Byron imitated her motions as they traveled around the dance floor until her shoulders shook from laughing and she had to stop. “Ow, ow, ow,” she said, doubled over, “I have to go to the bathroom before I wet my pants.”

  She pushed her way across the dance floor. As Byron watched her go, he spun around all by himself, taking in the scene: a woman naked from the waist up who was really a man, a guy in a G-string with a snake wrapped around his neck, someone of indeterminate sex with a five-foot-high purple wig and a sequined gown, bunches of people who looked like Tom Cruise and Ashton Kutcher, about a hundred girls who were too skinny to be anything but models or Olsen twins, and a bar manned by a team of buff bartenders in black tank tops. Incongruously, a big middle-aged dude with slicked-back graying hair, all dressed in black, was walking around aggressively as if suddenly tele-ported from the Hustler Club.

  The sight of bottles against the bar’s wall made Byron realize he hadn’t had a thing to drink since the party in Westchester. He elbowed his way closer.

  “What’ll you have?” a bartender called out.

  “Diet Coke—two?” Byron shouted back.

  As he reached the bar, Byron could see Reina at the other end, deep in conversation with a guy.

  He called out her name, but she couldn’t hear him above the noise, so he began nudging through the crowd. “Yo! Reina!”

  She looked very serious, angry even. Throwing up her arms, she stormed away.

  And Byron could see who she’d been talking to.

  Waits.

  32

  1:04 A.M.

  Shit.

  Byron burst out the front door and ran to the end of the block. There, he put his hand to his chest.

  It was statistically impossible for fright to cause a heart attack in a seventeen-year-old. Wasn’t it?

  It was one of the many, many questions to which he did not know the answer at that moment. Like what would happen if you promised to deliver drug money and then didn’t. In the movies they could shoot you for that. Or drop you in the river with cement shoes.

  Stop. Breathe. Think.

  Okay, this was simpler than it seemed. It was about buying and selling. Like chocolate chip cookies or lemonade. Only illegal. He would have to make enough to pay Waits, that was all. Whatever “enough” was. Cam wasn’t around to provide him with that info.

  Sell, baby, sell.

  He eyed a group of high school kids up the street to his left. He didn’t know them, which was a good thing. One of them, a tall Latino guy with glasses, had noticed Byron’s glance and nodded to him tentatively.

  “Uh, hi,” Byron said. “Do you guys, uh, you know, need…?” His voice trailed off and he made a suggestive head gesture that he hoped would convey the desire to make a deal regarding substances.

  “Need?” the guy repeated.

  “… something?” Byron quickly added, looking nervously over his shoulder. “I mean, all of you? Any of you? We could, like, go somewhere….”

  “Oh, my God, ew, is this like some sex thing?” piped up a black-haired girl in the group. “I am not into clusterfucks at all.”

  “No! I didn’t—I—” Byron stammered, but the kids were walking quickly up the block away from him.

  He turned back toward the club and came face-to-face with a skinny, bearded guy with droopy eyes and multiple piercings leaning against a brick wall.

  “What do you got?” the guy rasped.

  Byron reached into his pocket. “Pills?”

  “And what kind of pills would these be?” the guy drawled.

  Nothing.

  He had no pills. He had given them to MC.

  “Um… never mind,” Byron squeaked.

  “I have some weed,” the guy said. “Trade? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours….”

  Byron gulped. “Uh, I think my friends are calling….”

  He ran up the block, losing himself among the milling crowd. Squatting against the metal grating of a closed-up bodega, he caught his breath.

  His phone rang in his pocket and he snapped it open. “Yeah?”

  “Where are you?” came MC’s voice.

  “Outside. I saw Waits.”

  “Oh great, so you chickened out? I have to do this alone?”

  “Just give me a minute to think this through.”

  “It’s not fun to do this all alone! How do I start?”

  “Fun?” The memories of the night cascaded through his mind, and he suddenly had no patience for his new partner. “This isn’t fun, MC. Someone died for those stupid fucking pills.”

  “Aren’t we dramatic?”

  “His name was Cam, MC. Short for Cameron. And you are holding his life in your fucking hands!”

  “Byron? Are you okay?”

  Up the block, Byron heard the rumble of a truck. Red and white light flashed on the sidewalk.

  Cops.

  “Later,” he said, snapping the phone shut.

  Two kids were running up the street, clambering into a double-parked car. Byron squinted at the flashing vehicle. It was a tow truck, pulling just in front of a double-parked behemoth of a car—the black Hummer, showing a nasty scratch on the trunk from MC’s bottle toss.

  The rear window rolled down, revealing the tanned, stony face. From out of the club ran the black-clad middle-aged guy Byron had seen a moment ago, be
llowing profanities at the tow truck operator.

  Byron leaped to his feet, glancing up the street to the double-parked Lincoln Town Car. Fumbling for his keys, he ran over to it and jumped in. His phone was vibrating but he ignored it. He jammed the key in the ignition, looking around for a place to move it. The street was packed on both sides, and a garage just ahead said NO VACANCY.

  He pulled into the street and drove slowly, stopping at a red light on Washington Street. In his rearview mirror, he saw a tall guy wearing thin glasses and a long black coat running toward him, hand-in-hand with a willowy Asian girl who was laughing out of control, her head canted upward.

  Byron figured they were running to rescue their car too. Then he heard his rear door open. “Penn Station?” the guy said.

  “This isn’t a cab!” Byron said.

  But the girl, giggling, was climbing into the back, holding her arms to the guy, who jumped on top of her. “Shut the door, André!” she squealed.

  Byron turned. “Uh, excuse me? This isn’t a—”

  HONNK!

  The entire street was blowing horns at him. The guy slammed the car door shut and wrapped the girl in his arms.

  HONNK! HONNNNNNK!

  Byron stepped on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, patching out as he turned the corner.

  “Oooh,” the girl cried out. “That felt nice.”

  In the rearview mirror he saw something black and lacy flying through the air. A bare shoulder. A grunt.

  “Listen, guys…,” Byron said, angling toward the curb. “This is, like, a private car? So I’ll just pull over and…”

  A graceful hand with long nails, painted a robin’s-egg-blue pattern, reached over the seat of the car. It dropped a fifty-dollar bill onto the front seat. “Keep the change,” the girl’s voice said.

  Byron gulped. “Okay, Penn Station,” he said.

  That was uptown. In the distance the Empire State Building was winking at him through the gaps between buildings. Penn Station was near that. If he kept going straight, he’d be in the vicinity. He edged back into the flow of traffic and worked up to forty miles an hour. Washington Street was a sea of green lights.

  The sounds of the streets filtered in through the window, mixing with the laughter and unbucklings from behind him.

  “So, you guys… need anything? Pills?” he asked. “I can, um, go back to the club. To my source. It’ll only be a second.”

  “Fuck that,” the guy’s voice replied. “You got condoms?”

  Byron laughed. But no one laughed back.

  They were serious.

  They’d already passed a few Duane Reades, Rite Aids, and CVSes, but there were a couple more on the next block. Byron pulled into a metered spot and grabbed the fifty off the seat. “Stay right there.”

  He ran into the drugstore and headed straight for the pharmacy. A petite blonde in thick glasses looked up at him impassively.

  “Uh, hi,” Byron said, swallowing hard to force saliva down his suddenly arid throat. “Condoms?”

  “Which brand?” she asked, smiling as she leaned on the counter.

  “Which brand is, like, the most popular?” Byron asked. “Like, for people who… know condoms?”

  The pharmacist suddenly reached forward at waist level. Byron jumped aside, muffling a scream.

  She was lying over the counter now, and Byron realized she was examining an array that had been right in front of him, condoms in different sizes, styles, and flavors. She pulled out two boxes and stood, holding them out to him with a raised eyebrow. “What did you think I was going to do, measure you?” she asked. “These two are our, um, biggest sellers.”

  Byron smiled wanly, putting the fifty on the counter. “Sorry. Um, both, I guess. To be on the safe side. Brandwise.”

  When she handed back the change, he bolted.

  He scrambled into the car. The two boxes were different brands, but the couple seemed to be in advanced stages of need, so he ripped open the first, extracted a condom, and handed it over the seat. “I’m not looking,” he said helpfully.

  “Aw, shit, don’t you have Fourex?” the guy protested.

  Byron panicked momentarily—until he saw the brand name on the other box.

  God bless Duane Reade and its superior employees.

  Byron opened the box and tossed back the requested item. “At your service.”

  33

  REINA

  October 18, 1:09 A.M.

  “Yo, cuz—where you been?”

  Reina felt a bearlike grip take her from behind and lift her high off the ground. She let out an involuntary scream.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, it’s just me.” Gino set her down and turned around, a big smile quickly fading from his face. “Hey, are you okay, Reina-Beina?”

  Reina nodded. She didn’t realize she’d been crying, but her hand was lifting upward to wipe her cheeks dry. “Just… an argument.”

  “So whose kneecaps am I breaking?” Gino said with mock toughness, scanning the room.

  Reina smiled. “I think I did it already. Metaphorically speaking.”

  “Here in Blowback no metaphors allowed, babe.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Now that’s my dainty cousin.” Gino looked distractedly over his shoulder. “I got a sick guy behind the bar and a botched delivery on the phone. Feel better. Whatever it is, it ain’t worth it. Catch you later, okay?”

  As Gino raced back behind the bar, Reina felt her cell phone ring. She glanced at the screen.

  BYRON.

  Quickly she flipped it open. “Are you here?”

  “No, I’m driving to Penn Station!” his voice crackled. “Sorry. I was at Blowback, but I had to… move my car. It was double parked. Anyway…”

  Reina heard a high-pitched moan in the background. “Byron?” she said.

  “That’s not… I mean, I’m not… it’s a long story,” Byron replied. “Not what you think. Way not what you think.”

  “As long as you’re all right. You sounded awful over the phone earlier. I could barely hear you, but it sounded like something was wrong.”

  “No, everything’s just fine….” Byron’s voice drifted off, and then he said, softer, “Actually, Reina, it’s not. Do you have a minute? Because the reason I’m in this car—”

  “Holy shit…” Reina was no longer listening. In the middle of the dance floor, a short-haired girl in a stupid floral dress was peddling pills out in the open. “Byron, can I call you back later? Someone is selling drugs like they’re Girl Scout cookies.”

  “What?” Byron shouted. “Is it a she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really short hair, kind of pretty, dressed like she just blew in from the farm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, fuck. I know her, Reina. Her name is MC. She came to the club with me.”

  “She was your date? Doesn’t she know anything? There are cops all over this place after that New York article. If Gino sees her she is dead meat.”

  “Reina. Listen to me—”

  “I’ll call you back, Byron.”

  Reina snapped the phone shut and moved toward the girl. She was trying to do a deal with a tall beehive-haired transvestite who looked like Amy Winehouse.

  “Are they good?” Beehive asked flirtatiously.

  “Better than good,” the girl replied with a wink. “The best. Ever.”

  Beehive put one arm around her, holding out a wad of cash with the other. “Can I get a personal guarantee?”

  “Hey!” Reina shouted, but there were still too many people in her way.

  “Looks like a fair price to me,” the girl said, snatching the cash and stuffing it into her bra. “And how!”

  Beehive raised a theatrical hand to a rocky jaw. “Did you actually say, ‘And how’? Oh, I think I’m going to faint.”

  Reina was close enough now to grab the girl’s arm. “What are you doing? You can’t do that here! There are cops around.”

  “Jealousy is a harsh mistress,
” Beehive hissed.

  “Fuck off,” Reina snapped, pulling the girl away.

  “Oh, jeez, did you ever see an uglier girl in your life?” the girl said with a giggle.

  Reina cringed. “Um, is your name MC?”

  “How did you know that?” the girl asked.

  Holding on to the girl’s arm, Reina led her toward the women’s room. “Come with me. We need to talk.”

  34

  BYRON

  1:27 A.M.

  Another fifty.

  Byron whooped aloud at the feel of his second fifty-dollar bill, as he watched André and Yuki disappear, a little wobblier than they had been outside the club, down the steps of Penn Station.

  This one had been just as easy as the first. At the drop-off, André had seemed ecstatic. His first question had been “How much do I owe you?” And in a triumph of sense over propriety, Byron had beaten back the urge to say But you already paid me! and blurted out, “Fifty.”

  The amount had just popped into his head. It was a New York amount. It bore no relationship to any rational cost analysis. There was a vague feeling that a fair amount of the first payment had gone to expenses, so a second charge of an equal amount was reasonable and appropriate.

  And they had paid it.

  Byron tucked it into his pocket and pulled away. He had a little over seventy-five now. Not enough to pay off Waits, but it was a good start.

  He was about to call Reina back, to pick up where they had left off. He was dying to let someone know—and to find out out what had happened to MC. But as he pulled away from the curb, he spotted a group of twenty-somethings emerging from the glass doors. The first one out, a red-haired girl, went running to the curb, waving her arms.

  “Hi! Where are you heading?” Byron called out.

  The girl grinned, turning to her friends. “Guys? Guys, come on, we have a ride!”

  Byron loaded them in and drove them clear down to the Palladium.

  They were louder and more fun than André and Yuki. They had a CD of some band their friend belonged to, and Byron played it as they chattered all the way there.

  “That’ll be thirty,” he said, figuring he’d give them a break for good behavior.

  After a quick gathering of funds among the group, they gave him thirty-five and even threw in a couple of kisses.