“Jimmy Woo.”
“Whatever. You call her, get the goddamn address. I’ma stretch out for a sec.”
Roy reaches halfway along the tall plastic letters that spell out I amsterdam — the I and the am in bright red, everything else a glossy white that almost glows beneath the starry sky — grabs the crossbar of the letter t, and hoists himself up to sit with his back against the t and his feet propped on the top of the s. The modern font of the letters clashes with the museum’s classical architecture, but who gives a shit, the tourist board put several of these fuckers up around the city for the American backpackers and middle-aged Germans and hordes of Japanese with their clicking camera shutters, and they lap it up like dogs attacking a bowl of kibble.
Marco reaches for his phone. “Shit, what was her name again?” He stares at the screen as if waiting for Siri to answer the question.
“I Amsterdam,” says Tommy, using the bottom curve of the s to boost himself up onto the big red m. “That doesn’t fucking mean anything.”
Roy laughs. “Look at the colors, asshole. Read the red letters twice — it says I am Amsterdam.”
“Bullshit,” Tommy responds. “Read the red letters twice, it says, I am I Amsterdam. Now who’s an asshole, asshole?” Then he shakes off the argument and says, “You got any left?”
“Any what? X?”
Tommy rolls his eyes. “No, any licorice. Asshole.”
Roy fishes a small metal box from the pocket of his jeans and shakes it, letting the others hear the rattle from within. He slides it open and sings, in off-key English, “The Candyman can, ’cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good.” He takes out a little yellow pill with a smiley face stamped on one side, swallows it dry, and tosses the box to Tommy.
Marco is scrolling through his contacts. “That guy she was with,” he says, more to himself than his friends, “Raffie? Robbie? Ronnie?”
A white delivery van with Van Galen lettered on its side turns from the Honthorststraat onto the square and pulls up beside the shuttered snack kiosk. Its headlights go out, the purr of its engine dies, the driver’s door swings open, and a thin figure emerges.
“Hey, look who’s here,” says Roy, his face lighting up in a grin. “It’s Vinnie Van and his minivan! Good ol’ Vinnie — shit, what’s he doing here in the middle of the night? C’mon, boys, let’s check it out.”
Marco puts away his phone. Roy drops down from his perch atop the t, Tommy rolls off the m and lands on his feet like a cat. The three of them advance toward the delivery van.
Vincent swings the van’s rear door open. He’ll lug everything over to the kiosk before unlocking it and stacking the goods inside. It’s a ten-minute job, tops. But that doesn’t much matter anymore, since Mila’s already home, probably fast asleep by now. He pushes two crates of soda cans together and slides them out, and that’s when he sees them coming toward him. Roy, Marco, and Tommy, now that’s a fine how-do-you-don’t. What are those jerks doing out here in the middle of the night? It’s like they’ve been waiting for him, but of course their appearance has to be pure coincidence.
“Vinnie Van,” says Roy cheerfully, “you’re workin’ late.”
“Yeah, restocking.”
Roy swings around in front of him, blocking his way.
“Move, will ya? I gotta take this stuff to the—”
“You forgot the magic word, Vinnie, my brother.”
Vincent is tired, not in the mood to fool around. “Please,” he says, swallowing his irritation. “If you don’t mind.”
“You see, boys?” says Roy. “Look how polite he can be. Our Vinnie’s grown up into a good little soldier.”
Vincent, burdened by the two heavy crates, heads for the kiosk’s back door. Roy takes a step closer, bumping into him, almost throwing him off balance.
“Watch where you’re going, Vinnie,” says Roy. “You clumsy piece of shit.”
Tommy and Marco stand there snickering stupidly, watching the comedy play out.
“We’re goin’ to a party,” says Marco. “You comin’ with, Vinnie? The more the merrier, right?”
Vincent holds his tongue. No matter what he says, they’ll take it the wrong way. He sets down his crates and returns to the van for two more.
“What’s the matter?” demands Tommy. “We ain’t good enough for you no more?”
“Maybe his fuckin’ girlfriend don’t like us,” Marco mutters. “Mila with the milky mammaries. You like to suck on those mammaries, Vinnie? She let you have a taste if you’re a good little boy?”
Vincent shakes off the insult and goes back to the van for two cardboard cartons of chips. He can feel his old gang fall into single file behind him, swinging their arms like apes in the zoo, their sneakers slapping on the pavement amid staccato bursts of laughter.
“You need some help handling those big boys, Vinnie?” says Roy, and Vincent isn’t sure if he means the boxes or Mila’s breasts.
“I bet he does,” says Tommy, going straight for the nastier of the two entendres. “I mean, anything more than a mouthful’s too much for one guy on his own, right, Vinnie?”
Vincent sets down the cartons by the kiosk’s back door, and when he straightens up and turns around, Roy is right there in his face, an evil gleam in his eyes. “I could use a snack and a Coke, Vinnie. What about you guys?”
“Sounds good,” Marco smirks, and Tommy nods eagerly.
“Whaddaya say, Vinnie? We’re still your buds, right?”
Vincent heads back to the van.
“Cat’s got his tongue,” says Roy.
“I want a snack and a Coke,” Tommy whines, imitating a child.
“You can spare a couple bags of chips and a couple Cokes for your best pals,” says Roy. “Remember that time in Crete when you puked all over your bed? Who cleaned that shit up for you, Vinnie? We did, remember? You were totally out of it.”
“Yeah,” says Marco, “and this is how you thank us?”
“Come on, man,” Tommy urges, “I’m thirrrrrsty.”
“We’ll help you unload the rest of this crap and then we’ll all head over to the party, have a couple real drinks, for old time’s sake,” Roy suggests.
Vincent shakes his head.
“We’ll catch a ride with you, Vinnie Van. Hey, check it out, I got some X for ya.” Roy holds out his metal pillbox, the yellow smiley faces glowing happily under the light of a billion stars, but Vincent turns away as if he hasn’t even noticed.
“Jesus, you got boring, Van Galen. This is all that fuckin’ Mila’s idea, right? You get high and the bitch won’t suck you off no more?”
Ignoring them, Vincent carries the last two boxes of snacks to the kiosk. Now there’s just a few crates of bottled beer left before he can move it all inside and then take off.
If these three clowns will let him. What did I ever see in these assholes? he wonders.
“How much you make doin’ deliveries, Vinnie?” says Marco. “Your daddy pay you decent, or you work for free ’cause you love him so much?”
Vincent doesn’t react.
“Remember when you used to bitch and moan about the old fucker?” says Tommy. “I never heard you say one nice word about him.” He reaches out and pushes Vincent’s shoulder, not hard, just enough to be annoying. “Now all of a sudden he’s your best friend?”