Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [99]
She goes to the coffee table and finds her pack of Camel Ultra Lights among a jumble of binge trash. Two overflowing ashtrays, a mirror smeared with white residue, crumpled squares of magazine paper, three empty Veuve bottles, a colored pot box like the ones we found at Tim’s, a loaded bong, and three Bic lighters. She drags hard on her cigarette.
—So you get some rest?
There’s a doorway covered by a beaded curtain next to the love seat. I’m guessing that’s the kitchen. Terry is in there, listening. I light one of my own smokes and bob my head up and down.
—Oh, yeah, I’m good to go. But, man, was I wasted.
—Yeah, me too.
I drop a spent match into one of the ashtrays and point at all the gear.
—Not too much to keep going.
—Yeah, yeah, well, me and T got started and then he, you know, and the guy, my boss, Terry, came around so we.
—Kept the party going.
—Yeah, yeah, but yeah, I’m ready to crash.
The toilet flushes and Sid comes back into the room. Sandy jams her smoke out in an ashtray and starts for the front door. I sit on the couch, Rolf drops down next to me, and Sid moves over by the fireplace. Sandy stops.
—So, you guys need to, like, go wait in the car now.
—They’re gonna stay here, OK?
She crosses her arms and shakes her head.
—Motherfucker.
—It’s cool, Sandy.
—Fucking, what is this, Wade?
—It’s cool, baby. These guys are just helping me find Tim and they need to hear what your guy has to say.
—This is so uncool and you know it is.
—Baby, the guy, he wanted a grand, right?
I take my money out of my pocket. After T shopped for me, after paying Sandy last night, and after partying my ass off, I’m down to about fourteen hundred. I count off a thousand.
—Tell him he can have it. All he has to do is walk out here and talk to us.
She looks at the money.
—This is wrong, this is so.
—Baby, take the money and go talk to the guy.
The index and middle fingers of her right hand are scissoring against each other and she’s shaking her head.
—Please. Don’t.
I push the money to the edge of the coffee table.
—I’m sorry, baby. But this is the way it’s gonna be. These guys have to stay. So take the money and go talk to your guy and make him understand. Take the money, baby.
She rubs her forehead.
—Shit.
She steps to the table, scoops up the money, and pushes through the curtain, the strings of beads swinging and clicking behind her.
She’s afraid.
And she should be.
We are violent men.
TERRY’S BEEN spending a lot of time in the gym and the tanning salon. I can tell because of the way his tailored black slacks stretch to cover his thighs, and because his light blue silk shirt with the white French cuffs and collar is hanging open so we can all look at his washboard stomach. He’s completed the look with high-gloss blond hair, sculpted straight back from his forehead, black loafers with no socks, and a Rolex. Terry may be a pot dealer, but he clearly has higher aspirations.
He sashays into the room, his arm draped over Sandy’s shoulder, the tips of his fingers dipped inside her kimono, grazing the top of her left breast. He reclines with Sandy on the love seat across from us.
—Get me a smoke, babe.
She leans forward, gets one of the Newports from the coffee table, hands it to him, and lights it.
—Thanks.
He puts his arm back around her and draws her close until her head is on his shoulder. He looks at Sid by the fireplace and then at me.
—You Wade?
—Yeah.
—I’m Terry.
He waves his cig in Sid’s direction.
—Want to tell your friend there to sit down?
—Why?
—Because he’s making me a little uptight and if he doesn’t sit I’m gonna walk out of the room and you can fuck off.
Sid doesn’t move, but Rolf looks at me.
—Dude.
I put my hand on his thigh.
—It’s cool.
Terry points his cleft chin at Rolf.
—He gotta problem?
—It’s cool.
Rolf rolls his eyes,