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.
seventeen.
THIS 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.
The waiter returns, scowling. Are you ready to order?
