Missing (16 page)

They smiled at her. Gaia didn't smile back. She wasn't sure which smelled worse, the stench of liquor on their breath or the two-liter bottle's worth of cheap cologne they must have poured directly over their heads. Actually, worse than both of those odors was the smell of European testosterone, which practically floated off their bodies like steam from a piping teakettle.
Funny: She remembered her mother warning her about certain French men when she was a little girl.
But at the time she still didn't know what the word
lecherous
meant.

“Bonjour,”
they said, with what they must have thought were their smoothest smiles. Gaia realized then that she was being unfair. Lechery wasn't strictly
a problem of the French. She had seen plenty of guys like this before, roaming the streets of Greenwich Village after hours—accosting anything that looked remotely female, desperately trying to make up for another long night of rejection.

The one to her right wore a pink pin-striped shirt, opened at least four buttons to reveal as much of his black Brillo chest hair as possible. Not to mention the very thin gold chain that nestled itself somewhere in the forest of his neck hair. He had slicked back his black curls so that the top of his head was flat, but his hair flowed out in the back into a long frilly ponytail.

And the one on the left . . .

The collar on his lime green Lacoste shirt . . .
was turned up.

That pretty much said it all.

“Vous êtes française?”
the one with the ponytail asked her politely.
Are you French?

It was a reasonable question. Any French girl in her right mind would have been safely tucked away at home by now—not sitting at a deserted café at four in the morning, dressed in black evening wear and stuffed silly with crepes. Gaia could play it either way. If she wanted to convince these boys that she was French, it wouldn't be a problem. Her accent was flawless. But the real test of their character was to see how they'd deal with her if she said she was American. What the hell? Why not have a little fun?

“You boys are gonna have to speak
English,
” she bellowed in a thick midwestern accent. “I'm from Oklahoma.”

Gaia thought the midwestern accent might increase her “innocent victim” status. It was a game she'd often played back in Washington Square Park. You had to lay the best bait to catch the biggest scumbags.

“Oklah-hooma?” the one on her right repeated.

He and his friend shared a complicit laugh.

“Oui!”
Gaia laughed along, like a fool. Then she made a strained face, motioning with her hands in big circles as if she were trying to eke out the one or two French phrases she'd practiced before coming to France. “Uh ...my name
is . . .
no, uh, in French now, okay . . .
Juh mah-pail . . .
Betty Sue!”

Gaia stuck out her hand in the Furry Ponytail's face to give him a nice strong Oklahoma handshake. He and his friend couldn't stop laughing. And the harder
they
laughed, the harder
she
laughed in response.

“
Bettee Soo,
uh?” He laughed mockingly, staring at his friend as he shook her hand.
“Philipe,”
he said, pointing to himself.

Gaia flipped around and stuck out her hand to Collar Boy with a loud inquisitive gaze, waiting to hear his name.

“Thierry,” he said, shaking her hand.

“Well,
helloo,
Phil and Tyrese!” Gaia shouted. “Como tallee-voo, I'm Betty Sue! Hey, that rhymes!”

All three of them began howling with laughter. But
amidst all the noise echoing off the empty street, the two men began to speak to each other in French.

“This one's going to be too easy,”
Philipe murmured as he continued to smile in Gaia's face.

“She's got to be the dumbest one yet,”
Thierry replied with a gracious grin.
“I can't wait to shut her big mouth.”

“Later,”
Philipe said.
“First I want to find out what her tongue tastes like.
”

Bingo,
Gaia thought. She should have known. A couple of lame, vile, idiotic victimizers. They were the same in any culture. Too bad their career was about to come to an abrupt end. She really missed this . . .
this part of her past, the part devoted to cleaning the streets.
She could barely contain her excitement, in fact. Her foot began to shake under the table impatiently. She had to wait for one of them to make a move. That was her style. But the anticipation was killing her. If one of them would just make a move, then she could finish her day with a full-force merciless ass kicking....

“I had no idea you Frenchmen were all so happy!” she exclaimed.

“Ah,
oui,
“Philipe agreed in his heavy accent. “
Very
happy.”

They then discussed in vivid detail—in French, of course—how very happy they'd be to do certain things to Gaia—things that involved so many sickening and deeply offensive words that Gaia began to feel like she
might not be able to hold on to her crepes. She might just have to start ripping them apart solely for their filthy minds. Yeah, screw physical provocation—

Philipe suddenly let out a singsong whistle that echoed down the deserted boulevard.
Three more men emerged from an alley around the corner.
An electric fizz hummed in Gaia's body. Interesting. There were five of them now. Five drunken vermin. Still no problem ...just one that required a little more thought. Philipe casually motioned the newcomers over to the table—as if the street were simply one big party and his cronies had just happened to walk in. They all picked up on the comfortable laughter instantly, making social chatter in their native tongue as they formed a claustrophobic circle around her.

“Oh,
my,
“she uttered.

 

SAM NEVER SAW THE GUY COMING.

He was too busy doing The Gaia with Josh. But it was actually kind of appropriate that the grand finale of The Gaia would involve getting sacked by some muscle-bound thug.

The thug had gone for the knees, taking Sam's support right out from under him. Sam went toppling off the pool table, hitting the ground with a hideous thud—but somehow not even feeling much pain. There was just enough awareness left in Sam's inebriated brain for reflexes to kick in: He threw out his arms to break his fall. His hands hit first, his head hit next (causing an explosion to echo endlessly through his seemingly hollow skull), and last came his shoulders and his knees— sending an agonizing jolt from each corner of his body that seemed to converge in the center of his back.

“Ugh,” Sam groaned.

The thug rolled off him.

A moment after the initial shock, there was nothing.
Sam's bones and head seemed to throb with a dull ache
—
but that was it.
Thank you, Mr. Cuervo,
he thought, smiling facedown on the reeking beer-stained floor.

But his happiness was short-lived. The next thing he knew, a pair of strong hands was lifting him off the ground.

Sam's mouth fell open.

It wasn't a thug at all. It was his former friend and former roommate, Brendan Moss. Actually, it was about three of them. And they were all very blurry.

“Brendan,” Sam slurred, removing Brendan's hands from his shirt and straightening up as best he could. “What's up? Was that
you
—”

“You make me
sick,
Moon,” Brendan spat at him.
The furrowed brow and pinched-up nose said it all: He was disgusted.
“Having the freakin' time of your life—it's disgusting. Are you on junk right now, you son of a bitch?”

“Brendan.” Sam shook his head, trying not to laugh at the utter absurdity of the situation. This was insane. What were people saying about him, anyway? “You have
no idea
what you're talking about, man. It's
me,
for chrissake.
Sam.
”

He reached for Brendan's shoulder, just to make some kind of familiar contact—but Brendan shook it off with a snap of his arm.

“Don't touch me, you psycho!” he shouted. He leaned in close, his face inches from Sam's own.
Blecch.
Sam grimaced. It smelled like Brendan had been drinking a fair share, too. “I don't know how you got Mike into that shit, but I hope you fry for it. Watching you laughing it up. Getting drunk off your ass when they just buried him a few
days
ago?
Dancing,
Sam? Like you're dancing on his freakin'
grave,
you sick shit—”

“All right, chill!” Josh shouted. He planted himself firmly between them, using his arms to drive them apart like a wedge. “That's enough!”

Brendan shoved Josh away from him. “Get off me! I don't even know you, man. For all I know, you're probably his
dealer.
”

Josh laughed. “Actually, I'm his RA. And until
you've officially moved out, I'm yours, too, buddy.”

“Brendan, please, come on,” Sam said, making one last-ditch effort at settling this whole thing. But as Sam leaned forward, Brendan slapped his hand away violently. Sam gaped at him—and in that moment Brendan clamped his hand onto Sam's shoulder and rammed his tight-knuckled fist smack into Sam's jaw.

A white flash exploded in front of Sam's eyes.
The force of the blow whipped his body into the jukebox, shutting the music down—instantly and completely.

“What the hell, man?” Sam barked.

“You want some more, Moon? Come on. Come and get it.”

Sam rolled off the jukebox and rubbed his cheek.
That
hurt.
He was beginning to feel a lot less drunk and a lot more pissed.
Everybody was staring at the two of them, tense, silent. Did they want a fight? Fine. At this point Sam didn't care. He was ready to oblige. Brendan Moss was a moron. And luckily Sam saw only one of him now.

“Whatcha waitin' for, Moon?” Brendan taunted.

Nothing,
Sam answered silently.
Nothing at all.
Rage poured through Sam as he charged, fueling both his aggression and attack. Sam faked with his left, but within inches of Brendan's face he threw a fast, hard right jab to dead center.
Dammit!
That hurt his knuckles. He'd actually felt something crack there, too—

Oh, shit.

Blood was pouring from Brendan's nose.

Brendan cupped his face and leaned over, howling as he watched the blood quickly puddle on the floor. Sam swallowed. He must have broken the kid's nose. He didn't want to do that.

“Brendan, man—”

There was a blur. And in spite of what he might have thought only an instant before, Sam
was
too drunk to fight. Something struck his head, and he went toppling to the floor—right smack into the puddle of blood. All at once he was being subjected to a barrage of wild punches, but he was too disoriented to fight back or even to see the next punch before it came. The assault felt like an avalanche of rocks and razor blades, cutting away at his face and his body ceaselessly.
Not a moment of relief.
Not a moment to breathe, just stinging pain after stinging pain, the frightened screams from the crowded bar, and Brendan's voice.

“Was I next?” Brendan growled as his fists rained down on Sam. “Was I next, you sick piece of—”

Brendan went flying backward off Sam. Just like that. As if someone had landed a hook in his back and reeled him away. Sam didn't think to question it.
No, his only thought was to get out of there, as quickly as possible.
He staggered off the floor and tried to catch his breath—wheezing desperately,
propping himself up on the busted jukebox. But then he saw through his blood-obstructed vision that Josh had twisted both of Brendan's arms behind his back. It was
Josh
who had yanked Brendan away. It was Josh who had come to the rescue, once again. And now Josh was holding fast to Brendan, even as the guy tried to wriggle away.

“Come on, Sam,” Josh grunted. “I'm sick of this asshole. Give him one good shot. Right in the gut.”

But Sam shook his head. Attacking Brendan like that was something a coward would do. Something Brendan himself would do. No. He just stared at Brendan's bloodied face and channeled the remainder of his vengeful rage to his vocal cords.

“I'm not a killer! I did not kill Mike Suarez! I
didn't do it,
you get it? Is that clear enough for you?” Sam turned to the rest of the crowd, jerking his head wildly. “Does
everyone
get it? You're all a bunch of mindless
idiots
if you actually think I killed one of my best friends.”

Brendan didn't say a word. Josh glanced at Sam, then shoved Brendan to the floor. Brendan landed at Sam's feet, falling into his own blood with a sickening smack. All at once Sam realized that people were screaming.
And the screams were all turning into one loud, distorted buzz in his ears.
The once flirtatious women had backed away, staring in absolute horror at the carnage.

Sam bit his lip.

Now that he thought about it, he was very queasy. He was very close to puking, in fact....

Josh grabbed Sam's arm and squeezed it hard. “We gotta get out of here before the cops come, man!” he shouted. “Stay behind me!”

At this point the only thing clear to Sam was that Josh was in control of the situation. As usual. And Sam most definitely was not. As usual. So he simply shut off his mind and did as Josh told him. They elbowed their way to the club exit, cutting through the crowd and shoving any onlookers aside.