‘How did the gambling go?’
‘You win some, you lose some.’
His Cheshire grin returns. I run my hands over my face and check my reflection in the desk’s polished glass, relieved to find I’m in one piece. My muscles are raw, but there are no cuts on the surface, no breaks inside. I unplug the cable connecting me to the data port and carefully pull the proboscis from the Ouija in my head. A subtle click I’ve never heard before accompanies its removal and a nondescript flash of something wretched and bloody invades my thoughts for an instant.
What the fuck was that? I think.
‘We should do this again some time,’ Navarette says.
‘Yeah,’ I say, rubbing my temples. ‘I think so too.’
I’m under the impression he’s used me correctly, and for that I’m appreciative. We’re starting out on the right foot, mutually respectful, a solid understanding between live product and dead consumer.
‘Please see Dante on your way out. He has everything you need.’
‘Thank you, Mr Navarette. Do let me know –’
But Navarette is gone, the Picasso image breaking apart and fading on screen as he returns to whatever virtual world he wishes to exist in. I get up and remove the new suit that smells like sweat and sex. Naked, I walk out of the study and find the bathroom. In the oversized mirror I examine my body. There are fresh bruises on my chest and buttocks, small and sparse. The older ones from before are already yellowed and fading. There is mouthwash by the sink. I rinse the taste of puke from my teeth, feeling a sharp sting in my gums. Then I step into the shower and soak up all the soft, hot water I don’t regularly get to indulge in. Through the glass partition I see Dante come into the bathroom with fresh towels. He waits for me to finish. I get the distinct impression that he wants to join me.
‘Was your boss satisfied?’ I ask.
‘Very.’
‘Any problems?’
‘None that are of any of your concern.’
I look over to see what expression he wears, but the steam from the shower has fogged the glass leaving a flesh-coloured blur where his face would be.
‘I took the liberty of testing your blood at the end of the session,’ he says. ‘The results came back HIV positive.’
I wipe away the fog and look at him. ‘How’d I contract it?’
‘Dirty needle? Sketchy piece of ass?’ Dante smirks. ‘Who knows? Don’t worry. You … I mean, he, infected me as well with it the other night.’
I can’t help but wince. In my own absence I’ve either done intravenous drugs with Dante or slept with him, neither of which I find very appealing. I step out of the shower and take the towels offered. He’s also brought my clothes, washed and freshly pressed. As I put them on, he hovers too close for my liking. When I walk into the living room he follows too quickly.
‘Navarette is gone now,’ I say, turning to face him so fast that we almost butt heads. ‘He’s not me. I’m not him. You understand that, don’t you?’
Dante looks disheartened. ‘Yes, I know.’
His eyes moisten and his bottom lip quivers. He becomes fidgety, kneading fingers, unsure how to deal with the emotions that are welling up inside him. I didn’t think it possible, but I start to feel a little bit sorry for him.
‘What was he to you anyway?’ I ask.
‘A good friend.’
He lets out a shuddering breath. What I do is a generous mix of kindness and cruelty most of the time. I can only imagine how hard it is to get over the loss of someone when just enough of what they used to be still exists in such a way as to be considered living. With little left to say, I check my Liaison to make sure the correct payment has been deposited into my account.
‘Satisfied?’ Dante asks.
‘Very,’ I reply, looking at the amount.
‘Good. I’ll be contacting your firm about future bookings.’
‘Wonderful. I guess I’ll be seeing you again soon.’
I turn to leave, but stumble with my first step. Exhaustion ambushes me and I suddenly feel a swirl of drowsiness. How long I’ve gone without rest is unknown, but it’s obvious I need sleep and plenty of it. I think about asking Dante for an espresso or energy drink or maybe a couple grams of coke if there is any lying around, but I don’t want to stay in the Emerald City for another goddamn minute.
‘Wouldn’t you like the vaccine before you go?’ Dante asks.
I turn back. ‘Yes, of course.’
Dante tosses me a medi-pack with an ampoule of the HIV vaccine and a disposable syringe. I go to put it in my pocket, but he shakes his head with a sly smile.
‘You know better than that, Mr Rhodes. Do it now.’
I do know better than to try and leave with the vaccine in my possession, a cure that doesn’t officially exist for the general public. I fumble with the packet as I try to open it, fatigue making everything more difficult than it has to be. Dante steps closer and gently takes it from me, prepping the dose with steady fingers.
‘I’ve called you a limo,’ he says as he finds a vein in my forearm and injects me. ‘Anything you want, within reason, is available. Just ask the driver.’
‘I want sleep,’ I grumble.
‘Sleep when you’re dead,’ he says, and then looks back to the study Navarette haunts. ‘Or maybe not.’
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another clear packet with a half-dozen red and white pills inside. I already know it’s the detox medication for the drug abuse Navarette indulges in. These meds have been given to me before, though I can’t remember which withdrawal symptoms they combat. I slip them into my pocket.
‘One pill every four hours until they’re finished,’ Dante says. ‘You can see yourself out?’
‘Not a problem.’
Dante gives a terse nod and walks back to the study, leaving me in the living room. He doesn’t look back before entering, doesn’t even shut the door. Through the doorway I see him sit before the flat-screen where Navarette appeared. The framed oval remains dark. I see Dante’s head hang forward, his face in his hands. Soon I hear the sounds of him sobbing.
Swallowing one of the pills, I exit by the front door of the condo. In the hallway outside the security guard with the Vector is waiting, gun in hand. I can’t help but notice the safety is off. It makes me nervous. That particular gun can fill me with an entire magazine of .45 rounds in a matter of seconds. The Emerald City is wary of outsiders, maybe a little too much, but enough of the rich have been murdered by the great unwashed in recent years to warrant concern. On the elevator ride down I lean against the doors for support, my sore head pressed to the cool metal. The guard looks like he wants to say something, but keeps silent. He walks me out of the Emerald City to the limo idling at the kerb.
‘You take care of yourself now,’ he says as the driver opens the door.
‘Thanks, I will.’
The guard shakes his head and frowns. ‘It didn’t look like you were doing a very good job the other night, pal.’
I want to ask him what he’s talking about, but I can barely keep my eyes open. I half step, half stumble into the air-conditioned limo and slump down onto the cool leather. The driver shuts the door as I help myself to a rare single malt Scotch from the minibar. The pour is generous. I raise the glass to the guard standing on the sidewalk, even though I know he can’t see much of me through the tinted windows. As the limo pulls away the guard looks on, unimpressed.
‘To the airport, sir?’ the driver asks through the intercom.
‘Yeah,’ I say, and throw back the contents of my tumbler. ‘But for the love of God take the long way round.’
Less than a minute later I’m fast asleep.
4
The whole flight back to NYC I’m wide awake, much to my annoyance. Maybe I’m overtired, or maybe it’s an effect of the detox medication. My body is out of whack, doesn’t know if it’s coming or going. Every time I start to fall asleep, my Ouija makes that odd click and some awful thought occurs, jarring me awake. What I s
ee in my head is appalling, but seconds later I can’t remember what it was. There’s no way to retain the information, almost as if it isn’t mine to keep. I figure it has something to do with the change in air pressure, or maybe another side effect of the detox pill, except the first time it happened I was neither on a plane nor medicated. That bothers me. I sit in first class waiting anxiously for the flight to be over, being short and dismissive with the stewardesses when they ask if there is anything they can do to improve my flight experience. My thoughts race. it seems all I have is time to think. A sense of guilt seeps into me, though there is no basis for it. I feel like a total shit. I feel like I have to remind myself why it is I do what I do.
You see, I’m not what you’d call a skilled man. No trades or talents. I can’t act, don’t play an instrument. Singing a single note in tune is a personal challenge. I’ve got two left feet on a good day. Hell, my work ethic in general leaves a lot to be desired. What I do possess is the looks and little else. It’s always been this way. There wasn’t much for me growing up. My parents, good people, worked tirelessly at low-wage jobs so me and my sisters could keep pace with our peers, just enough to dodge the label of poor. Even when I was young I knew the family was living cheque to cheque, sometimes day to day. The fights I heard through the walls, always money, always too little of it. The constant phone calls and piles of mail, new credit card offers alongside letters from collection agencies running out of patience. First notices, second notices, final notices. Mom and Dad hid it from the kids as best they could, but they couldn’t plug every hole in that crumbling dam.
There were times when it was more obvious. Conversations overheard, Dad asking friends for loans, Mom requesting emergency funds from family. Once in a while my sisters or I would answer the phone and get an earful from whoever was owed, threats being thrown around that we were too young to understand. None of us answered the front door much when the doorbell rang. We would stay quiet until the shadowed figures behind the frosted glass moved away. Sometimes our electricity or phone would be cut for a while. Mom walked out on us a few times, unable to cope, only to return later laden with guilt. Dad increased his drinking. There were times my parents didn’t talk to each other for days, sometimes weeks after a bad blowout.
Somewhere in those formative years I made a firm decision not to live that way. I craved security, the kind that only fat bank accounts could afford. Instability was unbearable. The anxiety of my folks not knowing where next month’s rent was coming from affected everybody. Living one bounced cheque away from the poverty line was always on our minds, driving wedges between us when we needed each other most. The absence of money somehow managed to trump all other aspects of our lives. Everything else we had, we had to spare: love, laughs, a certain liberty around the dinner table. My parents entertained every far-fetched dream their kids ever had, told me I would be someone important one day, told me to follow my gut and walk my path wherever it led. I believed them, wholeheartedly.
I did my damnedest to come out on top, played every card I could. People said study hard. I hit the books. Guidance counsellor told me to go to university. I applied to the best. Eventually I graduated with a Bachelor of Fuck-All and tallied up a shitload of school debt for my troubles as I entered a job market that was already saturated with degrees and diplomas, but lacking any real opportunities. I ended up taking whatever I could with the rest of the over-educated suckers. We, the post-secondary mass-produced, bartenders with bachelors, hostesses with honours, managers with masters, all of us employed in a tenth of the capacity we were good for doing jobs we never expected.
That’s a bitter pill to swallow, especially when everything you were working toward was designed to ensure that you wouldn’t end up where you eventually did. Sure, tell me I’m bitching about my First World problems, except too much of the West ain’t looking like First World anything any more. We’re more like Second World now, reminiscent of Cold War Russia, a military superpower with a miserable middle-class population facing few legitimate ladders they can climb and getting more desperate by the day.
So what do you do if you don’t want that desperation in your life? You acquire an understanding, a moral flexibility to do something lucrative off the books, off the radar, and often in bad taste. You find that double-edged sword which doesn’t scare you like it scares other people, and throw yourself on it. Husking and I found each other, one part destiny and one part design. We go hand in hand. You want to be someone rich and special in life? Well, for periods of up to three days at a time, I’m some of the wealthiest, most high-profile people who ever lived. There’s an awful lot profit to be made in this business. I do what I do for the money, plain and simple.
Smooth touchdown at JFK International and I’m feeling better about myself. I apologize to the stewardesses for being a consummate dickhead and take a double espresso to go. Outside the airport I hail a cab back to the East Village and boot up my favourite eighties playlist. I’m listening to Hall & Oates’s ‘Out of Touch’ when Ryoko calls. I love the timing. Feels like a little touch of fate.
‘Hi, beautiful,’ I say.
‘Hi, handsome,’ she replies, but it lacks warmth. ‘Where you at?’
That fateful feeling takes on a darker tone. She doesn’t sound like herself and I wonder quickly if it actually is Ryoko or if it’s one of her clients breaking the rules by going through the contacts on her Liaison. I throw out our little codeword to make sure.
‘Just on my way home from the airport, sugarplum.’
‘Fancy meeting me for a drink, cheesecake?’
It’s her. I breathe a sigh of relief and throw back the rest of my espresso to give me enough energy for a round or two.
‘Love to. Where’re you thinking?’
‘How about Harbinger’s in half an hour?’
‘Sounds good. See you there.’
She hangs up, leaving me to wonder what’s got her panties in a twist. Then I can’t stop thinking about her panties, the trademark lacy pink ones that I love tearing away from her fantastic ass. The thought electrifies me, despite my exhaustion. I wonder if she’ll take me for a quickie in the bar bathroom when we meet.
When I get to Harbinger’s it becomes obvious it won’t happen. I find Ryoko in a private booth nursing a glass of Chardonnay. She looks dark around the eyes and the muscles in her gorgeous face seem slack and tired. Otherwise, she’s stunning, her striking half-Swedish, half-Japanese features never failing to turn heads. There’s good reason why she falls under the exotic category.
‘Hi, you,’ I say as I plunk down beside her.
‘Hi, you.’
I kiss her gently on the nose as she nuzzles up to me, resting her head on my shoulder. A beefy, balding waiter comes and I order a gin and tonic.
‘I tried calling you the other day,’ Ryoko says.
‘I was in Vegas.’
‘Working?’
‘Yeah, you?’
She shakes her head. ‘I haven’t worked in a few days now, not since I got back from London. I think I need a little time off to be honest.’
‘I was thinking the same thing.’
‘Yeah, well, the boss is going to be crawling up your ass about more gigs. Demand is up again. Baxter has been calling me non-stop. I’ll probably have to go back soon.’
My gin and tonic arrives and I take a long drink. It’s not like Ryoko to turn down gigs, but the fact she’s willing to makes me want to do the same. I need a timeout, a breather. Everything lately has seemed like some sort of masochistic marathon. Ryoko chews her bottom lip in a way that looks like she’s trying to be cute. What it means is anything but.
‘What happened?’ I say.
‘Fuck it. Forget about it.’
I reach over and lay my hand on hers. ‘Ry, what is it?’
We’re not supposed to talk about work. She takes a mouthful of wine, swishes it around, swallows and orders another one with a hand gesture as the waiter passes. Then she turns and looks me straight
in the eye. Hers are surprisingly cold, disconnected in that way we have to be sometimes.
‘The gig in London,’ she says. ‘The client used me to go slumming …’
I shrug. We’ve both been there before. Ryoko continues to chew her lip, hard. I worry she might make it bleed if she keeps it up. I’m about to tell her to stop when I realize she might be doing it on purpose. Damage decreases value. Cuts and marks, even slight and temporary, instantly make Husks less marketable. We can be sidelined for such. If she wants time off, this is one way to go about it.
‘Before I got out of the city,’ she continues, ‘some kid managed to locate me. He must have been fifteen or sixteen. He just appears out of nowhere and starts professing his undying love for me. Without a doubt my client popped his cherry and broke his little heart.’
The new glass of white wine arrives and Ryoko takes to it eagerly, polishing off half. Her tolerance is shit, and she knows it, but she has this look on her face like no amount of booze is going to get her drunk this evening.
‘Client must have done a number on him, because the poor boy didn’t want to go on living without me.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah.’ The rest of the wine filters through Ryoko’s clenched teeth. ‘Kid had the cuts on his wrists to prove it.’
Her words leave a bad taste in my mouth. I gulp down most of my gin and tonic, thinking about similar situations I’ve had over the years. In the silence our attention drifts to a fifty-inch flat-screen behind the bar where a news anchor informs us that a young Manhattan woman has been reported missing. She’s identified as Tiffany Burrows, age twenty. The photograph that takes over the screen is of a blue-eyed blonde bombshell with high cheekbones and a foolish smile. My gut tells me the broad comes from money. I immediately think kidnapping, a crime that has been happening in the US with increasing regularity. A ransom demand will turn up in a day or so, keeping to the standard set decades ago by lower-class criminals in South America. Kidnap rich kids, mail their wealthy parents a finger or an ear plus an amount to be paid for their safe return, and then wait to see whether they do the drop or send a SWAT team. The following report says two men have been found beaten to death in an alley in Hell’s Kitchen. Police suspect they are the victims of a robbery gone wrong, yet another casualty of the rotting Big Apple.
Husk Page 3