Afterburn

Enough-he'd thought that would be enough. It was enough for him. But she'd pulled his left hand down between her legs and he used that one, too, like a piston. She must have come another four or five times, screaming hoarsely, not at all into the pillow, wetness everywhere, and that was when the hotel security man and two bellhops threw open the door, thinking a girl was being murdered. In the dark, they pulled Rick off her and beat the shit out of him, kicked him in the head. The men finally threw on the lights, chests heaving, and asked Christina if she was all right. She hopped up naked from the covers, her body slim and young, nipples pert, and performed a sweet little pirouette on the hotel carpeting, arms outstretched. 'Not a scratch, guys,' she said, 'as you can see.'

He didn't want to remember.

'What I'm looking for is just a splash. There's all this liquid moving around and I want to get splashed. In the face, once. It's not too much to ask. You think these assholes '-the man swept his hand around toward the rest of the bar, the late-night crowd in good clothes, then turned back to Rick-'don't think the same thing? I get that splash, that big splash, I pack it up and pack it out, baby. I take me a little road trip, do some fishing in Alaska, check out the Mexican chicks in Mexico.'

'What if you don't get it?' Rick asked.

'Oh, I will.'

'How do you know?'

'Some things you just know, man. I got a lot of little prospects going. That's what I call them, my prospects. One gets in there, crosses the line first, then I get splashed. When that happens, I shut down, move out. No more risk.'

Rick nodded but let the conversation die. He'd told himself not to go into a bar, and he'd refined that into not going into one of the five or six bars owned by Tony Verducci, and then he'd refined that into not saying anything to anybody about Tony Verducci. If he did that, he'd be okay. The day had been long; he'd walked in circles around the East Village, up and down St. Mark's, around Tompkins Square Park, and up to Tenth Street and then west, looking into every bar and restaurant, the Korean groceries, one after the other, the coffee shops, the secondhand clothing shops, just in and once around, to see if she might be there. He'd covered perhaps a hundred businesses, until about 4:00 p.m., when he came to a health club on Lafayette and stopped in, and once he was there and saw the free weights and the machines and the mirrors, the old sickness hit him, hit him quite beautifully, and he dropped a couple of hundred dollars for a three-month membership right there and bought a T-shirt and a pair of trunks and a towel and a lock right out of the display case and went down to the lockers and changed. The place was full of gay men who were buff, some of them with rings in their nipples and stomachs and dicks. He examined the facilities and found the boxing ring, where white women were kickboxing with black instructors wearing pads. Both getting into it, working the symbolism. Race relations, there it was. Upstairs in the weight room, you had a few guys very pumped up, one or two black guys who looked like they'd done some time. They didn't recognize him; they had no idea he'd made the final round of the New York State Bodybuilding Championship three straight years, won once. He'd told himself to go easy. He'd lost a lot of strength, of course, but didn't mind that. He was back to his basic ability. It would feel good to be sore the next day and the next and the next, and within a week he'd see the first changes in his biceps and shoulders. The chest and stomach would take longer; they always did. He wouldn't get bulky, he told himself, just a little form, a little size. Something to do while he searched for Christina, make himself look better for when he found her. He'd buy some protein drink and start to mix that in with his meals. With the haircut and new glasses, he was back in action. Rick Bocca, here and now. Botta bing, botta boom.

Now, at the bar, an hour slipped by, as did dozens of great-looking people with their hair and eyes and lipstick and cigarettes and leather jackets and good shoes, and he'd fallen into conversation with the bartender, drinking three, then four, then five doses, and then, suddenly, he realized he might have mentioned he used to work for Tony Verducci. He had promised himself he wouldn't talk to anyone, because once you started to talk, about this or that, whatever flew into your head also flew out of your mouth, and then, if you kept drinking, some more stuff came gushing out, and you thought you were a genius or insightful or tragic, and then you really started to babble, but he had been lonely as hell, started talking to the poker-faced guy named Matthew behind the bar instead of keeping his mouth shut. And maybe he really had said something about Tony Verducci, maybe he-yes, he just happened to say the name Tony Verducci, as in, We were running some jobs for this guy who probably worked for Tony Verducci, and when he said this, Matthew the bartender just nodded casually, but his eyes went cold and he set up another glass and said it was on the house, which made perhaps six Mount Gay rums, beautiful bottle, map of Barbados on the label, 'World's Finest Rum-Since 1703,' looked like piss, actually, bit of a celebration due not only because Ronnie didn't blow off his nuts with the shotgun but also because in the gym he'd pressed two-forty on the free weights, which he never expected, must be the fucking boat, all that work with the nets, and he knew-he knew he knew-he must get out of that place as soon as he could. Now. He should leave now. You say Tony Verducci and they look at you funny. Leave now and they won't kill you. Ha-ha. The bartender got a look in his eyes and then gave him a free drink and disappeared. Probably to make a call. Ha-ha. Rick had even leaned over the bar to see that there was already a phone under the bar, but the bartender wasn't going to use it, no sir. We got some fucker in here, says he knows Tony Verducci. Ha-ha. Go now. Get back to the truck. You blew it.

'You mind if I sit here?'

Kill me now, she is beautiful, henna hair, tits like water balloons.

'I don't mind. 'Sokay.'

He moved his stool over and tried not to look at her. You look at them, they have power over you. Besides, he wasn't interested, not really, not when you really asked him.

'Excuse me, can I bum a cig?'

He found it in his pocket. Handed it to her. Now he looked. She was older than she dressed. You can always tell by the neck. But she was still very-

'Thanks.'

'Yeah.'

She smiled at him.

'You want a drink?'

She nodded her head. 'Why not?'

Now the bartender was back. 'Yes?'

Rick gave a suave little wave. 'Whatever she wants.'

'What's he having?'

'Mount Gay.'

'I'll have that. I like that, actually.'

'Great,' said Rick. 'Everything's great.'

'I don't usually come here,' she said. 'Just tonight, sort of by accident.'

She was lying; she had been sent by the bartender to get some more stuff out of him, but he'd just play along.

'My first time here, actually,' he told her.

'Really? You from the city?'

'More or less.'

'What's 'more or less'?'

'Sometimes more, sometimes less.'

'Oh.' She looked puzzled.

'Nah, I've just been out of the city for a while.'

'You a businessman?'

This was a bullshit line, but why not? 'Just been working out of the city. Name's Rick.'

She stuck out her hand, which was soft. 'Connie.'

'That's a great name. Full of great stuff, that name.'

She liked this. How could she not? He was a charming fucker. She leaned closer.'Like what?'

'Oh, Connie, well, it's got all kinds of zip, it's got-it's got lipstick in it and, like a '75 Cadillac convertible, still some fins on there, it's got the Jersey shore in there and some great music, maybe go back to the sixties, some of that great slow stuff, I mean I could go on all night here, Connie, name like that, you can take that name and shiny things keep coming out of it, money and lipstick and guns and stuff.'

She laughed. 'You're drunk.'