Hell's Half Acre (16 page)

Then outside, flinching away from the sun like a rat. Miller waits for me on the steps. He asks me how I’m doing and his tone is casual, as if we are meeting for lunch.

I’m a peach. Where is Jude?

Detained, he says.

How did you know I was arrested?

He shrugs. Heard it on the scanner, actually.

Cool, I say.

Yes. He sniffs me.

I know. I stink.

You’re deadly, he says.

I assume you paid my bail.

He smiles. It was the least I could do.

Thanks. I take it you’re a good lawyer.

The best, he says. And very expensive.

Of course.

I nod and he nods and the two of us stand there, nodding. I extract a bent cigarette from my pack and Miller hands me a gold lighter. I fire the thing up and it’s probably the best cigarette I ever had. The smoke drifts hazy in the sunlight and if I close my eyes, the traffic sounds like the ocean.

You killed that girl, I say. Or arranged for someone else to kill her.

Miller raises an eyebrow. I glanced at the evidence, he says. And it looks like you killed her.

Oh, yeah. The evidence.

Pretty damning, he says with a sigh.

I agree. I am living in agreement. But doesn’t it strike you as a fat freakish fucking coincidence that just when you get tangled up with Jude and you want to cast me in a sensitive snuff film that you can screen at Sundance, I get charged with murdering a junkie on the street and then you happen to be a lawyer with the necessary juice to bribe a judge.

I didn’t bribe him. But I could easily see to it that this goes badly for you.

What about Sugar Finch? How did you arrange for him to be placed in my cell?

My gift to you, he says. Did you like that?

I loved it.

Tell me about it, he says, Don’t leave anything out.

Fuck you, Miller.

My pleasure, he says.

The DA was right, you know. I am a flight risk.

You won’t run, he says.

How do you know?

Because you’re a nice guy. Molly thinks so, anyway.

Please. Why not just let me rot in jail?

Jude, he says. Jude won’t do the film unless you’re involved.

I don’t deserve such faith.

Miller whispers. Maybe…she wants you to protect her from me?

I flick my cigarette away and sparks tumble down the steps. And as if this were a signal, a reporter appears out of nowhere with a cameraman.

For god’s sake.

Miller grins at me. I think you might want to take this seriously.

He steps between me and the reporter and I feel almost grateful. Don’t get me wrong because part of me wants to turn and run like hell from him. But part of me wants to do this. The idea of shooting a snuff film with a crazy stranger and his beautiful girlfriend is weirdly appealing. It makes sense to me. And maybe I want to find out what happens. I want to know who the victim will be. Miller is right about one thing, sort of. Phineas is an arrogant fool, sometimes. Because I believe that somehow I can control what’s going to happen, that I can protect Jude and Molly and whoever else drifts into his path.

Miller dispenses with the reporter and turns to me. Are you ready to go, he says.

Yeah. I’m ready.

Excellent. I have a car waiting.

When he says he has a car waiting I foolishly imagine a limousine with somber driver and a fully stocked wet bar with shimmering mirrors. But it’s just a simple yellow cab with a fat bald driver who smells of Old Spice. The radio is tuned to the Giants game and the driver sighs mightily whenever the Giants do something stupid. He sighs frequently. Miller takes a silver flask from his breast pocket and mentions that I have the look of a man who wants a drink.

No shit.

I badly want a drink. I need one. I might trade my left foot for a long greedy swallow of whatever is in that flask. But I really want to straighten up, to see clearly for one night at least. I shake my head and he puts the flask away without comment.

Where are we going?

To meet Molly and Jude for dinner.

Bullshit.

Hardly.

Where?

Miller shrugs. A hideous little place in the Mission. Very trendy.

Good god.

You will love it, he says.

An endless red light and pocket of silence. I catch an unexpected whiff of myself and it’s a complex bouquet. Blood and general funk. Essence of urine and something in the vicious chemical family. I remember being dizzy and I wonder if the cops gave me a splash of pepper spray.

Maybe I should shower. Or something.

He smiles, or bares his teeth. Actually, I would rather you didn’t.

I smell like urine. Unless that’s the cab.

The driver turns around slowly, his eyes raw and poached. What did you say, convict?

Nothing.

My cab don’t freaking smell like urine.

Of course not. I was joking.

And I don’t like comedians, says the driver.

Miller smiles. I will give you a twenty-dollar tip if you turn around and shut up.

The driver stares at him. And if I don’t.

Miller shrugs. Then I will break your jaw.

I try to indicate by my blank, universally friendly expression that Miller is not serious but the driver is already fairly pale and now the light is green and he turns to face the front without another word. I glance over at Miller. His hands are carved and white, resting easy on his knees. His eyes are nearly closed and his face is meditative but for a faint movement in his cheek that suggests he is chewing at his
tongue and I have the distinct feeling that he wishes the driver had not shut up.

The remainder of the drive is somewhat uncomfortable.

But Miller is true to his word. He gives the man a twenty-dollar tip as soon as we are deposited safely in front of the restaurant.

Exterior, night. The façade of the restaurant is pale with ghostly lights. Twenty or so very beautiful people wait around in little clusters, smoking cigarettes and talking in murmurs. I’m not quite ready to go inside yet. There’s surely no smoking allowed inside. I am learning to hate California. The veneer of humanity is stretched impossibly fine and no one seems to care. I stand on the sidewalk, sucking at a cigarette. I recently went eighteen hours without one and I feel like I owe it to my body to get the nicotine count up. Miller is a few feet away from me. He doesn’t want a cigarette. He wants to taste the air, he says.

Uh-huh.

What’s the matter?

Nothing. Did you really need to threaten the driver?

Miller smiles. I know a few things about you.

Yeah?

Of course. I looked into your past, when Jude suggested I use you for this role.

And what did you find?

I found that you tend to be morally ambiguous.

Again, fuck you.

Am I wrong?

I didn’t say that.

Then what’s your problem?

No problem. It’s not about morals. But if you walk around randomly
fucking with everyone who comes into your peripheral vision, you will eventually be sorry.

Miller nods. Interesting theory.

Take it or leave it.

Relax, he says. You’re right. There was no reason to threaten the driver. But I get irritated sometimes. I get irritated when confronted with stupid, brutish people. I have been trained by society to apologize, to pacify such people. To avoid trouble. And this irritates me.

I toss my cigarette in the street. And for once, I smile.

Why are you smiling?

Because I know exactly what you mean. And because I think you’re fucking dangerous.

He steps close to me. Are you afraid of me?

No.

You will be, I think.

Maybe.

I don’t usually like it when people stand so close to me. It makes me think they might want to stab me or kiss me or something. I don’t think I’m paranoid or overly sensitive but I really prefer a little cushion between me and the other mutants. But I don’t want to back away from him because I think this would please him. I breathe through my mouth.

Jude says you’re going to pay us a half million each to do this film with you.

That’s right.

What kind of lawyer are you?

He waves a hand. I represent a very large, very old and powerful corporation that is responsible for the use of asbestos in hundreds of schools, hospitals, and government buildings. My job is to fend off the class action suits and generally drag things out until the plaintiffs
either give up or die.

How nice.

Yes. Very Hollywood, isn’t it?

I shrug. It pays well, yeah.

Absurdly well. But it’s very, very boring.

The ghost lights flicker around us and Miller glances at his watch.

Let’s go inside, he says. I’d hate to keep the girls waiting.

I follow him inside, a half step behind. Down a long dark tunnel, my thoughts buzzing. Miller is a bored and wealthy sociopath, which makes him the best kind of friend to have. It also makes him the worst kind. He pauses to exchange cool whispers with the hostess, who is typically thin and pale and at first glance rather beautiful but somehow ugly in a fierce ravenous way and wearing a glittering black sheath that grimly reveals every bone in her body, and it occurs to me that the one word I would not use to describe Jude lately is girl.

T
HIS WAY, GENTLEMEN
.

Our waiter is a male model in a perfect white shirt. He leads us through a shadowy dining room to an outdoor grotto where smoking, by God, is allowed. Small miracles keep me afloat. Jude and Molly sit at a table in the back. Two women, dark and fair. They sit across from each other, drinking red wine. Their heads rise and fall at opposing angles like two predatory birds warily feeding on the same kill. Miller moves to greet them. I hesitate, confused because there is a movie playing silently on the brick wall behind them. Unsettling because no one else pays it any mind and so I assume that only I can see it.
Cool Hand Luke
. Paul Newman is coming out of the box in a white nightgown. He looks like an angel with a hangover. Molly smiles when she see us and stands up to brush Miller’s mouth with her lips. His expression remains neutral. Molly wears dark suede jeans and a white shirt, open at the throat. Behind her, Paul Newman is ten feet tall, as he should be.

Jude does not stand, but she looks at me in that way that tugs at my
belly. Assimilation, husbandry. Her eyes glitter like wet green glass and her scar is a bright white line across her face. I realize how glad I am that she doesn’t try to hide it. I jerk my head at Molly and mutter hello as I sit down next to Jude, who immediately puts her hand on my thigh. I am very pleased to see her. I tend to be uncomfortable in these social situations and somehow she puts me at ease. Because she is familiar, because she smells like memory. She smells like my own disordered thoughts. Paul Newman is running through the swamp. The dogs are on his ass. Jude wears a slim green dress and a black leather motorcycle jacket, zipped to the throat. Her hair is loose and I remember dimly that the reason I left the hotel room and got so drunk and subsequently was arrested for murder was that I was angry at her.

They put him in the box because his mother died, because they thought he would run.

Jude’s breath is a hot whisper in my ear. You did it, baby.

What?

Sugar Finch, she says.

It wasn’t easy.

Thank you.

Jude kisses me and I feel like our heads will come screaming off. I feel like every fucked-up thing I’ve ever done has been worth it, worth this kiss. Miller smokes his cigar, meanwhile, and Molly watches us with the unblinking eyes of a cat.

Cocktails? says the waiter. He speaks to Miller in a dry, civilized voice.

Miller orders a whiskey sour and nods at me.

What is this place? I say.

Foreign Cinema, says Miller.

What the fuck does that mean?

It’s the name of the restaurant.

And they show American movies on the wall, I say.

Miller glances over his shoulder. Brilliant, isn’t it.

Indeed.

Would you like a drink…sir? The waiter is staring at me with pure hatred.

Yes. I want a glass of water.

The waiter sighs and turns on his heel.

Dot com, says Miller. This place is filthy with dot com dollars.

What?

Dot com, baby.

Is that an adjective or a noun? I say.

He grunts. I believe it’s an obscenity.

Molly smiles at me. I don’t think the waiter likes you.

They never do, I say.

Why not? says Molly.

Look around, says Miller. This place is thick with the privileged, the chosen. Handsome educated white people with tasteful hair and clothes. Phineas is not one of them.

I shrug. I went to college.

But you understand that you are dying, yes?

Of course, I say.

Most of these people are not yet thirty, he says. And they believe they will never die. They believe the world is a giant yellow peach waiting to be eaten.

Jude snorts. Did not Al Pacino teach us that the world is a giant pussy?

Miller smiles at her. And one should not eat pussy unless invited.

The two of them should write greeting cards. Then the other psychopaths would have something nice to send their mothers on holidays.
Molly turns to watch the movie. Paul Newman is bruised and weary and the man with no eyes stands over him with a rifle. The sun is low and fierce, throwing razor blades off those mirrored shades. Molly twists a strand of hair around and around with the little finger of her left hand. Her ears are small as a child’s. Her throat is long and fine. Jude strokes my thigh and whispers, how pretty she is. I glance at Miller, who is studying the menu.

Have you fucked him? I say softly.

Jude hums, studying her menu.

Miller looks up. Do you know what you want?

I’m not sure, I say.

Jude leans close to me, bites my ear. Puritan, she says.

The lamb is generally good, he says.

I jerk my head away from Jude, dizzy and irritated.

And by the way, says Miller. The answer is not yet.

What? says Molly.