But then this assholes right in her face, grinning his mean-ass drunken grin, and shes got her hand on a little folding-knife, something else shes borrowed from Skinner. It has a hole in the blade that you can press the tip of your thumb into and snap it open, one-handed. That blades under three inches, broad as a soupspoon, wickedly serrated, and ceramic. Skinner says its a fractal knife, its actual edge more than twice as long as the blade itself.
Youre not enjoying yourself, I think he says. European, but shes not sure which flavor. Not French or German. His jackets leather, too, but nothing like Skinners. Some thin-skinned animal whose hide drapes like heavy silk, the color of tobacco. She thinks of the smell of the yellow-spined magazines up in Skinners room, some so old the pictures are only shades of gray, the way the city looks, sometimes, from the bridge.
Doing fine til you showed up Chevette says, thinking its probably time to go, this guys bad news.
Tell me he says, looking appraisingly at the jacket and the t-shirt and the bike-pants, what services you offer.
The fucks that supposed to mean?
Clearly he says, pointing at the Tenderloin girls across the room, you offer something more interesting and he rolls his tongue wetly around the word, than these two.
Fuck that Chevette says, Im a messenger.
And a funny pause crosses his face, like somethings gotten past his drunk, nudged him. Then he throws back his head and laughs like its the biggest joke in the world. She gets a look at a lot of very white, very expensive-looking teeth. Rich people never have any metal in their teeth, Skinners told her.
I say something funny?
The asshole wipes his eyes. But we have something in common, you and I.
I doubt it.
I am a messenger he says, though he looks to Chevette like a moderate hill would put him in line for a pig-valve.
A courier he says, like hes reminding himself.
So proj on she says, and steps around him, but just then the lights go out, the music starts, and its the intro to Chrome Korans She Gods Girlfriend. Chevette, who has kind of a major thing for Chrome Koran, and cranks them on her bike whenever she needs a boost to proj on, just moves with it now, everybody dancing, even the icers from the bathroom.
With the asshole gone, or anyway forgotten she notices how much better these people look dancing. She finds herself opposite this girl in a leather skirt, little black boots with jingling silver spurs. Chevette grins; the girl grins back.
Youre from the city? the girl asks, as She Gods Girlfriend eh and for a second Chevette thinks shes being asked if shes a municipal messenger. The girlwomanis older than shed thought; late twenties maybe, but definitely older than Chevette. Good-looking without looking like it came out of a kit; dark eyes, dark hair cut short. San Francisco?
Chevette nods.
The next tunes older than she is; that black guy who turned white, and then his face fell in, she guesses. She looks down for her drink but they all look alike. Her Japanese doll dances past, bangs swinging, no recognition in her eyes as she sees Chevette.
Cody can usually find all he needs, in San Francisco the woman says, a tiredness behind her voice but at the same time you can tell she thinks its all pretty funny. German, Chevette thinks by her accent.
Who?
The woman raises her eyebrows. Our host. But shes still got her wide easy grin.
Just sort of walked in
Could I only say the same! The woman laughs.
Why?
Then I could walk out again.
You dont like it? Up close, she smells expensive. Chevettes suddenly worried about how she must smell herself, after a day on the bike and no shower. But the woman takes her elbow and leads her aside.
You dont know Cody?
No. Chevette sees the drunk, the asshole, through the doorway into the next room, where the lights are still on. Hes looking right at her. And I think maybe I should leave now, okay?
You wont have to. Please. I only envy you the option.
You German?
Padanjan.
Chevette knows thats part of what used to be Italy. The northern part, she thinks. Whos this Cody?
Cody likes a party. Cody likes this party. This partys been going on for several years now. When it isnt here, its in London, Prague, Macau A boy is moving through the crowd with a tray of drinks. He doesnt look to Chevette like he works for the hotel. His stiff white shirts not so stiff anymore; its open all the way, wrinkled tails hanging loose, and she sees he has one of those things like a little steel barbell through one nipple. His stiff collars popped off at the front and sticks up behind his neck like a slipped halo. The woman takes a glass of white wine when he offers the tray. Chevette shakes her head. Theres a white saucer on the tray, with pills and what look like twists of dancer.
The boy winks at Chevette and moves on.
You find this strange? The woman drinks her wine off and tosses the empty glass over her shoulder. Chevette hears it break.
Huh?
Codys party.
Yeah. I guess. I mean, I just walked in
Where do you live?
The bridge. Watching for the reaction.
The grin widens. Really? It looks so mysterious. Id like to go there, but there are no tours, and they say its dangerous
Its not Chevette says, then hesitates. Just dont dress up so much, right? But its not dangerous, not even as much as the neighborhood around here. Thinking of the ones around the trash-fires. Just dont go out on Treasure Island. Dont try to go all the way to Oakland. Stay over on the suspension side.
You like it, living there?
Shit, yes. 1 wouldnt live anywhere else.
The woman smiles. Youre very lucky then, I think.
Well Chevette says, feeling clumsy, I gotta go.
My name is Maria
Chevette offering her hand. Almost like her own other name. Chevette-Marie.
They shake.
Goodbye, Chevette.
You have a nice party, okay?
This is not a nice party.
Settling the wide shoulders of Skinners jacket, Chevette nods to the woman Maria and begins to work her way through the crowd. Which is tighter now by several degrees, like maybe this Codys friends are still arriving. More Japanese here now, she notices, all of them serious suits; their wives or secretaries or whatever are all wearing pearls. But evidently this doesnt prevent them getting into the spirit of the thing. Its gotten noisier, too, as people have gotten more whacked. Theres that loud constant burr of party-noise you get when the drinks kick in, and now she wants to be out of there all that much faster.
She finds herself stuck near the door to the bathroom where shed seen the icers, but its closed now. A bunch of French people are talking French and laughing and waving their hands around, but Chevette can hear somebody vomiting in there. Coming through she says to a man with a bowtie and a gray crewcut, and just pushes past him, spilling part of his drink. He says something after her in French.
She feels really claustro now, like she does up in offices sometimes when a receptionist makes her wait to pick something up, and she sees the office people walking back and forth, and wonders whether it all means anything or if theyre just walking back and forth. Or maybe the wines gotten to her, a little, because drinking isnt something she does much, and now she doesnt like the taste of it in the back of her throat.
And suddenly theres her drunk, her Euro with his unlit cigar, sweaty brow too close to the dull-eyed, vaguely worried face of one of the Tenderloin girls. Hes got her backed into a corner. And everyones jammed so tight, this close to the door and the corridor and freedom, that Chevette finds herself pressed up against his back for a second, not that that interrupts whatever infinitely dreary shit hes laying down for the girl, no, though he does jam his elbow, hard, back into Chevettes ribs to get himself more space.