Moondogs - Alexander Yates [74]
“Something’s wrong,” he said, “and it’s not whiskey-dick.”
“I’m sorry.” Monique covered herself with the blanket and he uncovered her. “Can we not do it here? I mean in this room.”
“Of course.” Reynato hopped out of bed and followed her back into the den. He walked with his gut stuck out, his hands on his lower back, his long skinny penis pointing the way like a ridiculous divining rod. Uncomfortable as she was, Monique had to laugh a little, which is what she knew he wanted. He swung his hips to point at the open door to Shawn’s room, where the gecko had begun chirping again, demanding more crickets.
“My son. Too creepy.”
He spun again and pointed to Amartina’s quarters.
“That’s the maid’s room.”
“Hot. Do you fit into her outfits?”
“No. But they’re not sexy, anyway.”
“They would be on you.” He negotiated her onto the couch facing the television. Monique was afraid of getting sweat—or something worse—on the leather, but she figured things were already awkward enough and went with it. Reynato had lied about the whiskey-dick, and it took him a while to finish. From where she lay, with her head on the armrest, Monique could see right into Shawn’s room. The gecko pressed up against the glass, all eyeballs and throat. Somehow seeing the animal thrilled her with remorse so strong it approached grief. That was her son’s pet. Never mind he only bought it because he was angry with her—he loved it. And that was his room. And this was the den where he and Leila sat sullenly and argued over television channels. This was the couch that Joseph slept on when he was angry, or desperately tired, or both. And here she was with Reynato, a nice enough guy but also a creep in a lot of ways, humiliating them all in absentia. She was cheating on everybody. And as awful as she felt, she didn’t think she could stop.
Then the building moved. Reynato gripped the leather and let out a shout—not the good kind. The terrarium toppled from its stand and crashed to the floor. The door to Shawn’s room slammed closed. Books leapt off shelves and Joseph’s big eighties-era speakers face-planted like drunks. It wasn’t a big earthquake, but they always feel worse in high-rises. For people on the topmost floors it’s like being perched atop a palm in a whipping storm. Reynato held on to her tight and shouted, “That’s enough. Whatever it is you’re doing, stop.”
Chapter 13
THE SQUARE WINDOW
Howard wakes to the sound of a rooster crowing. It’s dark. Not night-dark, but blind-person dark. The floor below him is cool, and slick. He thinks he should try to sit up. He sits up. That was easy, he thinks, determined to be an optimist about this. I’m not bound, or gagged. I have strength enough to move. And my sitting-up parts still work. So far, so good.
Sitting in the dark, Howard takes stock of how badly he’s been hurt. The news here is less good. His fingers are in terrible shape; all but the thumb on his left hand are swollen and can hardly bend. There’s a menacing numbness floating beneath his right kneecap that, in a pinch, turns into an unforgettable shooting pain when he tries to move. He runs his hands over his lap, grazing glass chips and feathers soft as ash, and then touches his shirtfront, rigid with rivulets of dried blood. He can only imagine what his face looks like. He hesitates for a moment and then puts his good thumb on the tip of his nose. It’s still in the right place, at least. He moves his thumb down to trace the lines of his cheekbones and chin, his lips and eyebrows. It’s a slow process. There are ridges where there shouldn’t be, some open cuts cresting bruises. The gash in his cheek is still oozing freely, and the molars beneath it are loose. Howard works his tongue over them and rocks them in their sockets, the way he used to do as a boy, with baby teeth. Not good, all in all. But not the end of the world.
After feeling his body out, Howard feels out the space. He reaches in front and finds nothing but air. He reaches behind and his tender hands strike a wall. Sliding on his butt, he backs into it and runs his