Moondogs - Alexander Yates [64]
“Something just happened,” Efrem says.
“What?” Racha does not look up from his calluses.
“I think Reynato just made a deal.”
“Fuck, it’s about time!” Lorenzo’s voice booms from the bathroom. The door opens and he emerges in a thick cloud of steam, naked save a towel wrapped around his head like a turban. He takes no fewer than three hot showers daily and enjoys letting his naked body drip dry in the cool suite air. “I’m about ready to bust these fuckers, right Mohammed? I mean, a man as good as me can sit on an ass as good as mine for only so long.”
Lorenzo saunters over to a table by the open window where the coffees have been left steaming and begins eating the sugar packets and drinking the little plastic cups of creamer. “Be real nice to have the twins wrapped up by lunchtime,” he says, flicking each tiny piece of garbage down to the street below, the window a frame for his wet nudity. Spreading his legs and squaring his shoulders, Lorenzo jukes his hips so that his hanging genitals pendulate. They break Efrem’s gaze and he loses his view of Reynato and the dealers. “Jesus, Mohammed, quit looking at my balls.”
The phone rings. Lorenzo plucks a butt from the ashtray, lights it and sucks burning filter. He glances back at Efrem and despite a look that says: Reconsider, he continues. “They tell you about telephones on your island, Mohammed? If you pick it up, you’ll hear a man in there. Or, sometimes, a lady. Now that’s magic.”
Efrem stands. The phone lets out a broken gurgle as he pulls it, handset and all, from the wall. One hit to the back of the head cracks the phone and floors Lorenzo. Then two slaps with the receiver across his upturned face make his lips and chin split like the seat of a fat man’s pants.
Lorenzo looks even more naked when Efrem whips the coiled towel off his head and drags him across the suite. He tosses him out into the hall, closes the door and slides the deadbolt home. Racha, done filleting his feet, closes his penknife. Efrem can’t read his expression through the scar tissue. A lady guest shouts from the hallway and Lorenzo jostles the doorknob frantically. A playing card shoots under the door and slides to Efrem’s feet. It’s the jack of spades, giving him the finger.
Another telephone rings, this time Racha’s cell. “Yes, boss,” he says, “I know. Sorry. Your boy … Efrem broke it.” Racha looks at his watch, which got fused to the skin of his wrist some years back when he was left hogtied in a burning jeepney. “How long? The one by the bus station? All right.”
He hangs up.
“All right?” Efrem asks.
“Renny got his deal,” he says. “Wants us at the market in an hour. Also says you have to pay for the phone.” Racha crosses to the window and leans out. He looks down a few floors to where Elvis has made a nest of twigs and dried palm overlooking the suite of young honeymooners. “I see you there!” he calls. “Yes, you. Come up here.”
As soon as Racha makes space at the window a fat black hornbill flies straight in and performs a rough skid landing at the foot of the bed. The bird rights itself and cocks its head, looking around as though remembering past lives. Its feathers stand on end. A modest explosion plasters the walls and carpet with greasy down. Elvis stands at the center of the mess, all basketball shorts and rainwater. Efrem is still unaccustomed to this.
Racha glances at Efrem before unbolting the door. Lorenzo tumbles in with an empty ice bucket over his crotch and an inside-joke smirk on his dripping face.
“Fuck you buddy,” he says, “you got me good.” Efrem tenses as Lorenzo drops the ice bucket and claps him on the arm. “Won’t be so easy next time. I’ve got eyes in the back of my head.” Racha and Elvis chuckle, but Efrem is sure to walk behind Lorenzo on their way to the elevators