The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [117]
“What can I get you?”
Noel paused. What does Norval say? “Irish single, two-storey. And a Blanche de Chambly.” Much cooler when he says it. With an attempt at Norvalian nonchalance, he glanced at a blonde woman with tweezed eyebrows on a barstool beside him, then at the table, now empty, where the man with the laptop had been sitting, then at a “Culture Board” with posters advertising Helium Induced Orgasms: The Musical and Who Put the “KY” in FUNKY ASS?
Norval, meanwhile, was conversing with two gentlemen: one was the guy in motorcycle leathers who had blocked his path earlier; the other was tall and stringy and metallic with a tiny hairless head, like a Giacometti man.
“My girlfriend says you’re a hotshot writer,” said the leather man, with the inflection and warmth of a dial tone. “Before I kill you, I want you to read my bro’s script.” He nodded towards his slender companion, whose blinky grey eyes were cautious, constantly on the watch.
Norval looked calmly from one man to the other, and then at an attractive redhead at the next table. “What’s it about? The Pope’s visit to Canada?”
“You’re a dead man,” said the Giacometti man, displaying teeth like black pumpkin seeds. “You cease to exist.”
“It’s called The Phyllis Killers,” said the leather man, a toothpick shifting from one corner of his mouth to the other. “It’s about two guys who rape and kill women—but only bitches named Phyllis.”
Norval nodded. “A sentimental comedy? Have you tried Disney?”
“Ain’t no fuckin’ comedy, dead man,” said the Giacometti man.
“No? Is it based on your doctoral work in Greek tragedy?”
“You know where fuck-heads like you end up, don’t you.”
“Riding motorcycles?”
“At the bottom of the Saint Lawrence, you little fucker. We know where you live, dead man. Next time we’ll get the right house. You get my drift, you frog faggot?”
“Let me put it another way,” said the leather man. “You go near my girlfriend again and I’ll send her your fried pecker in a Fed-Ex box …”
On his way back from the bar, Noel watched as the two bikers clomped towards the door. They had been replaced at the table, he noticed, by a crimson-headed woman. Noel ducked behind a wooden column with shelves for potted plants, and set the drinks down on a table. I’ll wait till she leaves, he decided. I’ll just make a fool of myself. He peered round the column. Maybe I’ll pick up some pointers. Focus focus, hocus-pocus, don’t let the colour-wheel spin …
“Let me get this straight,” said the woman in French. “I tell you my name, and because it’s the right name, I have the honour of going back to your place.”
“Correct. You qualify.”
“I qualify.” The woman nodded, chomped on her gum. “Tell you what. You qualify if you’ve got a million bucks, are built like a gymnast and hung like a horse.”
Norval slowly exhaled smoke from his cigarette, squinted at her through the cloud. “The first two conditions I can satisfy,” he replied, “but I’ll be damned if I get a penis reduction for any woman.”
Through fleshy green leaves Noel saw the woman’s electric-red hair fly back, heard her high-pitched detonation of laughter. Yes, thought Noel, you have to make women laugh, something I never seem able to …
The woman, shimmying her spandexed hips, was being escorted away by someone with a boyfriend’s authority. But she’d had time, Noel remarked as he approached the table, to leave a white slip of paper. A business card? Was she an S or a T? Noel craned his neck to see. Candy colours: wild cherry, menthol, blueberry, white chocolate, green apple, peppermint. Simone?
“You get everything? Or do you want me to read out the bits you may’ve missed?”
“What? No, sorry, I just …” Noel set down the drinks, pulled out a chair. “So who were those two guys? They looked pretty rough.”
“Nullities. Expendables. Toilet flushings.”
“Right.”
“Unless you’ve more questions, I’ll think I’ll fuck off.” With a flick of the wrist, Norval tossed back his drink.
“Well, actually, I did have one more … but, you know, you don’t have to answer it.”
Norval looked