Kick (The Jenkins Cycle Book 1) (23 page)

“Well don’t,” she said. “I hate when people call me that. We totally talked about it. Anyway, why would the time suddenly change? Are you going to be ready? Did you get your tuxedo yet?”

“Uh, not yet. I figured I’d pick it up tomorrow afternoon.”

“What?” she said, even louder than when I’d called her babe. “The wedding’s at six, you goddamned lump—are you fucking kidding?”

I went silent for a moment, my mind reeling from what she’d just said. Or rather, how she’d said it. I’d never heard that tone from her before. Kind of like a movie she-villain chewing out a bumbling henchman, right before she hands the job to Henchman #2. Though now with the added task of disposing of Henchman #1.

“Oh honey!” Erika said, sobbing from hundreds of miles away. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me—I shouldn’t snap at you like that. It’s just… just… my family, and the
baby
, and I miss you so much… and …” Then she started crying louder.

I couldn’t be positive, but I was fairly certain she wasn’t really crying. Upset, sure. Leaving streaks through her makeup and getting all puffy? Call me heartless, but I didn’t think so.

Since Erika’s personal issues had nothing to do with why I’d been sent back as Nate, I let it slide and played along.

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said. “I was only teasing—trying to cheer you up. I’ll be ready for the wedding, I promise.”

“You just be ready for
after
the wedding,” Erika said, making it sound a little bit dirty.

“Uh …”

Snorting her little laugh, she hung up on me.

Firmly, forcefully, I pushed away lewd thoughts about Nate’s wedding night and looked up Fair Lakes Mall on the Internet. The tuxedo pickup was an in-and-out job, minus a quick stop at the Dairy Queen as a matter of principle. Then I went home for a shave, a shower and an adventure through Nate’s wardrobe.

He had more clothes than I’d owned in my entire life. Everything looked new and trendy, with several sports jackets and an entire rack of button-downs, the shirts colored everything from electric blue to conch shell pink. He had a lot of nice shoes too, and a kaleidoscope of ties, but I refused to wear a tie if I didn’t have to. In the end, because it was summer, I chose a navy blue polo and a pair of dark slacks.

Simple. Conceptual. Aspiring.

I lay propped in bed not watching something on TV when the doorbell rang. I rushed downstairs, opened the door and found two guys waiting. Rob and Tom, I assumed.

The one on the right had dark, glossy hair, maybe a few years older than Nate, with a light behind his eyes suggesting intelligence. The way he looked at me, I felt evaluated, making me want to check my hair or zipper or whatever it was that made him sweep his gaze from head to foot and back again. It was a smiling kind of moment, so he smiled when he saw me, but if he weren’t already Nate’s friend I think I would have avoided him.

The one on the left stood six feet plus, with broad shoulders made bigger from a comfortable layer of American flab. He had the wry, open face of someone who likes to have fun.

“Hey guys, come on in,” I said, back-stepping in a way that seemed more formal than intended.

The one on the right said, “Waazup, mang?”

Rob’s voice, from the phone.

The other one said, “Nate went and got all civilized on us, what with the fancy castle and the trophy wife and highfalutin manners. You know Rob, I’m not entirely sure if we’re welcome here anymore.” He said it impishly, as if seeking out a sore spot and poking it.

I liked him immediately.

“Yeah that’s me,” I said. “Pretty soon I’ll be complaining about taxes and trimming my sandwich crusts.”

Rob quirked his head at me, his half-smile never leaving his face.

“Is that from a movie?” he said.

Stop being yourself.

“Yeah, something on the tube,” I said. “Been wondering when I’d get to use it.”

Rob watched me a bit longer, then chucked me on the shoulder and stepped past, heading to the kitchen.

“You got any pizza?” he said.

Tom said, “I got dibs on everything.”

It was still too early to leave so we hung out in the kitchen. Rob and Tom did most of the talking. At one point, Tom told a story about how midgets were lucky and if you saw one you had to spin around three times fast to steal their magic. It was a twisted sort of joke, not politically correct at all, but the way he said it had me laughing all the same.

“Now, if you see a redheaded midget,” he said, “you gotta turn counterclockwise or you’ll be cursed for seven years.”

“Even on Easter?” Rob said.

“Well, of course not on Easter,” Tom said. “Nothing works on Easter. Not midgets
or
Siamese twins. But that’s offset by the chocolate bunnies and jellybeans. No sense being greedy.”

Put like that, it made sense.

During the ride in, I reflected that I would have rather hung out in the kitchen throwing it back and forth. I hadn’t done anything like that in years. Most of my rides were social outcasts of one stripe or another—loners nobody normal would think to talk to, let alone call a friend. Yucking it up with Nate’s friends had its risks, but for the first time in years I felt close to being a normal person again.

“I hear there’s supposed to be a surprise tonight,” Rob said at one point, as if privy to a joke that hadn’t reached the punch line. “Some celebrity, something like that.”

“Any idea who?” I said. “That’d be pretty cool.”

I’d never seen anyone famous in person before, though I wondered what sort of celebrity would appear at a strip club. Carrot Top? Pauly Shore? That kid from the Home Alone movies?

“Could be anyone,” Tom said, innocently.

We had to park three blocks away, in a parking garage that charged a whopping $20. Along the way, no fewer than four panhandlers tried their luck, only to get sent packing when Rob stared them down. It was weird. He didn’t just ignore them or say “Sorry, I got nothing.” He got up in their faces and stared at them until they moved out of the way. The panhandlers didn’t say anything either, not even after we were far enough away that they could have yelled something nasty and ran off.

I checked out Rob from the corner of my eye: staring straight ahead, a vague smile hanging on his face. When I looked over at Tom, he acted like Rob hadn’t done anything. He just plodded along, seemingly enjoying himself.

When we were about a block away, I began to grow nervous. I was about to walk into a club full of women who probably hated me. On top of that, I was afraid Rob would get in a fight or something.

“There they are,” Tom said, pointing toward a garishly ornamented establishment whose yellow, illuminated marquis read, “Hardlickers.” There were three people standing together near the roped entryway, each looking our way. One of them waved.

Well yeah. How many millionaires have only two friends?

Thinking about it, I wondered why people weren’t lined up around the block to see ol’ Nate off.

Trying to play it cool, I gathered my extensive collection of segues and deflections and prepared for yet another reunion with a group of strangers who thought they knew me.

Chapter 27

There were no introductions because Nate already knew these people. Instead, I greeted each friend with a “hey man,” “bro!” and the old reliable, “wuzz
aaaaap!
” and hoped to catch a few names.

“Kamalesh,” Tom said, high-fiving the guy who’d been waving. He looked like he came from India or Pakistan, despite his thoroughly American accent.

Kamalesh Kamalesh Kamalesh
, I repeated to myself. I’m horrible at names if I have to remember them the normal way.

The other two guys were notable only in that one of them was fat with sandy hair and the other looked fit with straight black hair and a wedge for a nose that made him look a little like Christopher Reeve.

“Something’s different about you,” Superman said, in an elevated nasal tone, making me think he was either gay or had a high-pitched cold. “Something in your eyes. Christ, what I wouldn’t give for your bone structure.”

“You stay away from my bone structure,” I said, trying to deflect whatever weird ESP he was using. Also, I couldn’t pass up that zinger. I just hoped he had a good sense of humor.

“Oh my god!” he said, loudly. “What have you done with Nate?”

Just when I thought the jig was up, he burst out laughing and pulled me into a hug.

He looked me in the eyes and said, “The boy’s not even here—he’s completely gone. Quick, before it’s too late. Boobies! Vaginas!
STAT!
”

Almost everyone laughed. He was one of those guys who were always on, but in a good way. When I looked over at Rob, though, I saw neither laughter nor smiles. He appeared to be studiously not noticing the fun and general wackiness ensuing a mere three feet away from him.

Though we were all clearly old enough to drink alcohol and look at naked women, one of the two bouncers tried to card us—only to be stopped after a whispered comment from his partner, who motioned us in with a big smile for Rob.

Curiously, Rob barely acknowledged the friendly treatment. He just walked in.

Going through the doors of Hardlickers was like stepping into a brochure advertisement for Hell. Beautiful women everywhere, carrying trays or serving at the bar in blacklight-reflecting outfits that, stitched together, could possibly have formed a nice dress for an anorexic. The lighting swept back and forth on gimbals, streaming multicolored to hide blemishes and smooth out scars or other imperfections. Drinking and laughing, loud music and a pitiful hunger pervaded the atmosphere.

There were two stages on the main floor. On one of them danced an exotic woman with almond shaped eyes, polyester black hair with fiber optic tips and breasts that heaved nearly parallel with her chin. But I had to drag my eyes away from that to take in the strange behavior from Tom and Rob. They were each spinning around in circles, and I had no idea why until I looked to the other stage. There, completely naked, totaling every inch of three feet tall, pierced and tattooed with neon pink hair, danced a lady midget. Surrounding her was a crowd of mostly middle-aged and older admirers that had managed to make “seedy” seem like a noble aspiration. Her garter bulged in a wreath of ones, fives and even twenties.

As I watched, an ashtray of a man approached the edge of the stage with a brand-new fifty-dollar bill in his hand, causing her mouth to pucker in a vulgar mockery of sensuality. When he leaned forward, she put her heel behind his neck. Then, using the dancing poll for leverage, she elevated her waist up to within inches of his face and then waited while he inhaled. Kind of like a dog. Moments later, looking satisfied, the man added the bill to the others in her garter and slowly drifted back to wherever he was sitting.

A quick glance at the normal-sized lady with the glowing hair showed she wasn’t doing nearly as well, which made a twisted sense in that place.

Looks like she forgot to spin around three times.

“How’s that for celebrity, Nate!” Tom yelled, pointing to a headshot of the midget on the wall with her name on it: Sweet ’N Low. He had to yell because the music was so loud—“I Know What Boys Like,” by The Waitresses.

“It’s messed up!” I yelled back, grinning ear to ear. Strangely, I was having a good time—in the least likely of places.

A mousy, peroxide blonde led us upstairs to a table someone had pushed close to another stage. Smiling, I said hello to a room with ten more people, all men, who had come for Nate’s party. I suppose the real Nate had known about all this, but it felt a little like watching a commercial where the announcer keeps chanting, “But wait, there’s more!”

There was more—thousands of dollars more. Tens of thousands, which Rob handed out in stacks to everyone.

When he handed me my stack, he said, “I’m just giving it back to the guy who gave it to me—here’s to a short marriage!”

Groans and laughter all around.

“He knows I’m kidding,” he said, pounding me on the back just this side of painfully.

There were strippers everywhere, hanging all over us—physically, not figuratively—each plying us with drinks. They all knew about the high rollers in town, so the drinks didn’t stop. Normally I don’t drink because I dislike the taste and hate feeling drunk. Something told me Nate didn’t either, or at least not very often, because the only drinks in his house were chocolate milk and soda. But somewhere between Nate’s kitchen and the entrance to the bar I decided to leave both Dan Jenkins and Nate Cantrell behind. Tonight I’d be channeling Kevin the junkie and Mike Nichols, the Howlers enforcer. When the first shots arrived, I held my nose like a girl and took three excruciating sips of something that could have been battery acid. God, it tasted awful.

A girl beside me crossed one long leg over her other leg and mine too and told me she was working her way through college. She was a strange creature, part silicone and part human, whose powers included flowery pheromones, glitter, and a modified private school uniform that suggested shockingly permissive parenting. I mean, she was popping out, you know? I did my best to pop it back in, much to everyone’s raucous amusement. That got me a lecture from the manager of the club. Rob pulled him aside in the middle of it and said something that could have been threatening and we didn’t have any trouble from him for the rest of the night.

I drank another shot—one-handed this time because the girl pressed on my other side was reading my palm.

“How did you learn to read palms?” I said to her.

She said something, and then had to say it again, louder, because of the music.

“My mother said I’m part gypsy!” Then she said she was working her way through college. She told me her name but had to say it louder because of the music—“Electra! What’s yours?”

I told her, and then had to say it louder because of the music—“Mike Nichols, but everyone here calls me Nate!”

“Why don’t they call you Mike?” she said, and right away I knew Electra wasn’t a real gypsy. Otherwise, she would have known.

“They don’t know about it,” I said. “It’s a secret. I only tell people I’ve just met.”