– I can wait.
He smiles, points at my watch.
– But not too long, right?
– No, not too long.
He twirls his pool cue.
– Yeah, got the same condition. Let me knock this guy off and we’ll go someplace.
I watch him play. He’s sharp on the table. Smooth. Keeps up a patter with a couple girls sitting on one of the couches. Between shots he takes a clove cigarette from one of their mouths without asking. He drags on it and passes it back, steps to the table and casually sinks the eight. The loser comes over to shake and The Count passes him his cue.
– Take the table, man. I got to go.
He looks over at me, flashes a finger, asking for another second, and chats up the girls as he puts on his fake fur-lined cord jacket, plaid scarf and furry Russian hat. Before he comes over to me he’s flipped open his phone and entered both girls’ numbers into it.
– Thanks for waiting, man.
I get up. Phil gets up.
– So cool, where to, guys?
I put a hand on Philip’s shoulder and press him back into his chair.
– Stay, Phil.
He starts to rise again.
– But.
I point a finger.
– Stay.
He stays. We go.
– Hey, girlie. No, I’m up. Yeah, right, as if. I don’t know, just heading for my crib. Right now? Girlie, you know I want to, but I got a thing I got to do. That ain’t right. That ain’t right. Girlie, you know I don’t rock like that. No doubt. There was any way, I’d be there. Yeah? Yeah? You are such a bad girlie. You know you are. Yeah. Sure. That’s it. Later.
The Count snaps his cell phone closed.
– Sorry about that. She’s not my regular thing, but she likes to think she is. I could shine her on, but the girl is just so damn dirty, I don’t want to lose the hookup. Know what I mean?
– Sure, I know.
– Right you do. This is the place.
It’s an old brick building, right next to the El Iglesia de Dios Church on 6th between B and C. The place is turreted. Oxidized copper plating details the roofs and gables.
– You live here?
– Yeah, I know, all castlelike and such. Didn’t plan it that way.
I eye the renovated lobby through the glass door.
– I was thinking about the money.
He takes out a set of keys.
– Oh, that. Well, I got like a trust fund I draw on. Money’s no thing.
I look at my watch: almost five forty-five. Mid-January: sunrise just after seven. I look at the sky. There’s a heavy overcast. Even if I’m out right at seven, there shouldn’t be enough UVs hitting the street to do me any real harm. The Count catches my eye.
– Don’t sweat the sun. You get stuck here, you can hang. I got some chicks staying with me. All like to party.
– No thanks. We’ll talk. I’ll go home.
– Cool by me.
He opens the door.
We take the elevator. The Count looks down from the numbers as they light up.
– Thanks for getting rid of Philip, man. That guy, he starts tagging after you and there’s just no way to lose him.
– You hang out with him much?
– No chance. He just always shows up. Something’s going on and he hears about it. One of those guys. Nothing wrong with him. He’s just, he’s such a…
– Renfield.
– Yeah, he is. Didn’t want to say. Thought he might be your friend or something.
– He’s not my friend.
The elevator stops, the doors open and he leads me down the landing on the fourth floor. A door at the end of the hall opens while he’s still fiddling the key into the lock. A twenty-something girl in a pink leather miniskirt and black camisole top, her blond hair done up in pigtails, jumps into his arms.
– Hey, baby.
She wraps her legs around his waist and plants her mouth on his. They make out for a couple seconds, then The Count pulls his face away.
– Brought a friend.
She looks at me.
– Hey, friend.
I nod.
She jumps down.
– Well, don’t stand around, come join the party.
She spins and skips back inside.
The Count goes to lead the way and his phone rings. He looks at the number.
– Got to take this. You go in.
He opens the phone and starts talking. I go in, the door shuts behind me.
The apartment is a loft. An assortment of partitions have been used to separate sleeping areas. One defined by two Chinese screens collaged with pictures clipped from fashion magazines, one by roll-down bamboo blinds, and the last by an assortment of cast-off doors clearly rescued from the street. The communal space is about one-third disaster-area kitchen and two-thirds disaster-area couches, beanbags, TV and stereo.
The girl with the pigtails drops into one of the beanbags and a handful of Styrofoam pellets squirts out of a splitting seam in its side.
– Careful!
Another girl, this one a brunette, in nothing but beige Ugg boots, panties and a scarlet poncho, comes out from behind the wall of doors.
– You’ll pop it.
Pigtails stretches her foot toward the TV and starts changing channels with her big toe.
– It’s already popped.
Poncho kneels next to the beanbag and presses on a piece of silver duct tape that’s peeled away from the seam.
– It’s not popped all the way. You keep bouncing on it and it’s gonna pop all the way.
– So what?
– So I’m not gonna clean up all the fucking foam BBs.
– So what?
– So they stick to everything and they’re a pain in the ass.
– So what?
– So stop jumping on it.
– OK. Where’s the remote?
Poncho stands.
– Don’t know.
