I opened the door of the place and stepped in. A bar ran along one wall and then ten to fifteen tables scattered around. Right down at the end was Juan and not alone, a blond woman beside him. He raised his arm
“Stephan, amigo, hombre.”
His lean on my name was a pain but I let it slide, walked to greet him, already regretting I’d made the call. He moved, threw his arms round me, intense hug, going,
“Muy bueno, muchacho.”
I think.
Some Spanish shit anyway. Over his shoulder, my eyes locked with the woman. And wallop, my heart did a jig, as fast and unexpected as that. A very pretty face, like Virginia Madsen in her early twenties. It was the look in her eyes that snared me, consisting of... amusement, heat, smirk.
As if she’d known me and knew exactly what I was thinking. I was thinking I’d sell my soul to have her, Jesus. It came totally out of left field, I loved Siobhan with every fibre of my being, she was the love that passes all understanding. I just couldn’t imagine life without her. This heat, this... I hate to admit it, this pure lust was something I’d never experienced. And didn’t want.
Juan finally released me, stood back, said
“Hombre, you look good.”
He was wearing a loose shirt, bright red over white combat pants, boots, very worn, very scruffed. The stacked heels brought him to my chin. His skin was sallow and he had a soft face, almost feminine till you saw the eyes, something lurked there, cautioned you to move with extreme care. When he hugged me, at the base of his spine I felt the outline of the gun. Weapons were always a feature with him. I guessed him to be my age, a year off forty, yet when he smiled, which was often, he could pass for early twenties. The smile had never been connected to warmth, he extended his hand, went,
“Amigo, meet my ol’ lady, Sherry. Babe, get your ass up, meet my soul bro.”
Dolly Parton memorably said,
“You know how much it costs to look this cheap?”
Sherry had the same idea. About five feet five and all of it trouble. Wearing a tight black halter neck that barely contained her breasts, it didn’t so much cling as hang on for dear life and who wouldn’t? A short black skirt of some shiny material that I swear glistened. Sheer black nylons that couldn’t be hose, too goddamm sexy and the “come get me” heels. My breath was caught in my chest, Juan said,
“Go woman, give him a big one.”
Yeah.
There was a mocking tone in his voice, he knew the effect. She leaned over, kissed me on both cheeks, the aroma of her perfume was dizzying. Beneath it, something else, raw sexuality. She whispered,
“Poison.”
Then moved back, gave me that smile, said,
“The perfume.”
Juan clapped me on the back, said,
“I’ll get us some drinks, yes?”
He moved along to a swarthy guy in an Armani suit and they began an intense conversation. I sat opposite Sherry, she had a pack of Virginia Slims, slid one out, put it in her mouth, waited. I picked up a book of matches, struck one, leaned over, a slight tremor in my fingers, she cupped my hand, said,
“Easy.”
Caution or encouragement?
She blew a perfect ring, watched it curl above us, like an omen of very bad karma. Her accent had hooked me, it was trailer trash with a hint of hillbilly and a hard nasal underlay to edge it along. I asked, like I gave a toss,
“Isn’t it illegal to smoke here?”
Now she let her whole face smile, from her eyes to her even small perfect teeth, said,
“If it’s fun, it’s illegal, yeah?”
Argue that.
I said,
“You’re not a New Yorker.”
The question irritated her, saw it wipe the smile from her eyes, as if she expected more, better, she said,
“Yo, bud, newsflash: Ain’t nobody from New York, I’m from Tallahassee.”
She lingered on the name, drawing it out then rising on the last syllable, I said,
“Like the song?”
Blank look, then,
“Song?”
“Sure. Bobby Gentry, Billy Joe McAllister jumped off that bridge.”
Didn’t register, she indicated her empty glass, said,
“We drinking, or what?”
I looked round and Juan had disappeared, she said,
“He’s got a jones.”
My turn to blank, so she sighed, made the gesture of a needle into a vein. I noticed her nails, black polish. Should have been ugly but worked. ’Course, I was already sold and would have appreciated any shade. Juan had always been into dope, him and Tommy, bags of grass, moving up or down to coke. I was riveted by her eyes, flecks of green in there, I asked,
“How serious is his habit?”
More derision, as if she couldn’t quite get how dumb I was, dissed,
“You’re shooting up, how the fuck serious does it get?”
The obscenity hung in the air, like a bad news flash, to ease it, I stood, asked,
“Wine, right?”
She nodded, stared at me, said,
“Nice buns.”
Threw me, I countered,
“The Girl with Green Eyes.”
Blank again so I explained,
“It’s a novel, by an Irish writer, Edna O’Brien, she...”
Her hand was up, said,
“Like the wine? Before Tuesday.”
An Italian guy at the till, I asked,
“Bottle of wine.”
He looked past me, at Sherry, said,
“Bottles.”
Handed me two, another glass and I headed back, I’d been tempted to ask if he’d seen Juan but if he’d gone,
“Juan who?”
I’d have decked him. Jet lag, new city, Juan, had combined to make my headache start up again. When I sat down, it must showed as Sherry asked,
“You hurting?”
The “hurting” made it sound like a country song, I said, “The miles catching up.”
She held my gaze, then,
“Got some ludes, fix you right up.”
I poured the wine, said,
“I’m not real gone on dope.”
She took her glass, said,
“Juan said you were a tight ass.”
Showstopper.
Then I felt her toes touch my left thigh, a light caress then withdrew, said, “Juan catches you messing with me, he’ll put a cap in your skull.”
“What?”
“We’re married, yeah, so you know what you’re getting into big guy.”
She was insane, no doubt about it, she was your out-and-out lunatic. I figured I’d give it five minutes, then get the hell out of there. I’d fulfilled my obligation to Tommy, met Juan and that was it, deal done.
Juan returned, an energy burning off him, you could almost reach out and touch it, a manic fire. He said,
“More vino, bueno.”
Whatever his origins, Juan dived in and out of accents like a demented seal. When he was high, which was most of the time, he’d spin from Spanish to English to Pidgin at a blistering pace. My headache moved up a notch. I poured him a glass and he said,
“To Tommy, mi amigo.”
We clinked glasses and he drained his. Dopers, they’re cruising on some junk, they’ll take whatever else is to hand, especially your cash. Tommy telling me one time, you go a cokehead’s apartment, the first thing you see is tons of dry cleaning, all on hangers, in cellophane, ready to rock. No waiting. Juan asked,
“Qué passé Stephan, where is Thomas?”
I looked at them, two hyped strangers, my head pounding, said,