He liked hand jobs, too: but a sophomore? Some pimple-faced kid with baby fat? Not cool. The cool thing would be a hand job from some classy girl, the drop-dead fuck-you kind. Not Estrella: take away all her good points and what was left? Just another wetback among millions. Did he know any classy girls of the drop-dead fuck-you kind? No. Had he even actually seen one in real life? The surprising answer to that question came as he was knocking back the last of the V.O. He’d seen two!
Two. Double your pleasure, double your fun. Two, as drop-dead fuck-you as they came. As drop-dead, fuck- you as those TV miniskirt lawyers of Ronnie’s, except these two were real, real flesh and blood, down there in that underground palace where F tunnel hooked beneath building 68. The underground palace-what was that all about? Some mystery, some college shit from the past, buried down there. Who cared? What mattered was that those two classy girls had discovered it too. Probably thought of it as their little secret. An amazing, what was the word? Insight. That was it. An amazing insight. They thought of it as their little secret. But he knew! Amazing. And he was amazing too, because just like that he’d figured out where ideas-the first step on the infomercial road to success- came from. Get an idea, they said, step one, they said, but they never told you where ideas came from. And now he knew. He’d figured it out, all by himself. Was he some unit in the common herd? Oh, no. He was an original, like, thinker. One day he’d be making infomercials of his own. He knew that with absolute certainty. Why? Because he’d figured out where ideas came from. They came “I said c’n I get you another?”
Freedy looked up, up into the face of some waitress, not a classy, drop-dead fuck-you face, more like the opposite. Just the basics-face, tits, cunt. “Saturday night, why not?” he said. So cool.
“Phew,” said waitress, “thought you were on one of those toxic-shock trips there for a sec. Bud and a shot of V.O.?”
“Make it a Bud Light.” Had to keep his head clear.
She went away. Ass. He’d left out ass. Face, tits, cunt, ass. Easy to make a joke of it by saying forget about the face part. That would be crude. There were crude guys around, but not him. He sipped Bud Light like a gentleman, tried the V.O., went back to the beer, back and forth, but like a gentleman, taking his time, cool and moderate. Had to keep his head clear. Why? Because things were happening, were going to happen. He didn’t know what things, but the… elements, yes, the elements were in place. Take Einstein. Had Einstein known what those theories of his were leading to? ’Course not-he just knew things were going to happen. Ka-boom.
But-as Freedy went to the can to piss away several beers and V.O.’s-one thing Einstein must have known about, just like him, was where ideas came from. He went into a cubicle, snorted the tiniest possible snort of meth. Ideas: they came-this was incredible! — from the crashing together, the collision, of two… two things. Two… forces! Yes. Such as: those two drop-dead fuck-you girls thought the underground palace was their little secret. That was force one. But he knew. That was the second force. Ka-boom. And out of that ka-boom-Freedy stepped from the cubicle, saw himself in the mirror, more diesel than ever, smile whiter than ever, like Superman with bigger muscles and a ponytail-out of that ka-boom came an idea, new and fresh: he would go back down to the palace, down where F tunnel hooked under building 68. When? Why not now? It was Saturday night.
He popped an andro, and as he did saw another cubicle open behind him. A guy came out zipping up, a guy in a state trooper’s uniform. A fuckin’ statie, wearing the Smokey hat. You wear it in the crapper? Freedy came close to saying that aloud, probably would have if it hadn’t been for the way the statie was eyeing him in the mirror. What the fuck was that all about? Then he remembered the meth. What cubicle had he been tweaking in? Couldn’t have been the one next to the statie, could it? Hard to tell. Freedy turned on the tap, washed his hands. The statie broke off eye contact-his image stopped staring at Freedy’s was what really happened, as nice a bit of meth thinking as you could ask for, but the main point was that Freedy could stare anybody down, what with those eyes of his that resembled some British actor’s-and went out. “Ever heard of hygiene?” Freedy said; but not loud. He wasn’t afraid of some statie with bad personal habits, wasn’t afraid of any cop, for that matter, but this was no time for distractions. Idea, plan, stick, stick, stick.
Before he even got to his spyhole, Freedy knew they were there. That creepy music, coming down tunnel F: he didn’t like any music, but this kind was the worst. Wasn’t even in English, like the singer was rubbing your nose in it.
Freedy removed his drywall door, went into the little room, put his eye to the spyhole. Ka-boom: drop-dead, fuck-you, better than he’d remembered, one, the darker-haired, dressed all in black, the other, the blonde, in red. And that guy. Freedy had forgotten all about him, the college kid he could break in half.
They were lounging on couches, purple couches with gold fringe, drinking some golden liquid from sparkling glasses and talking, the whole room golden too, from the candlelight. The funny thing was that the blond one, hanging something silver around her neck, was saying exactly what she’d said the first time he’d seen her: “How do I look?”
Some weird time warp, like they’d been waiting for him to come back. But what a ridiculous fuckin’ question. How could she even ask? Drop-dead fuck-you is how she looked. The drop-dead fuck-you ones had to know they were drop-dead fuck-you, didn’t they? Otherwise nothing made sense. Freedy toyed with the idea of saying it, not loud, just cool and matter-of-fact, speaking right through the spyhole. Drop-dead fuck-you is how you look, babe. Then their heads would whip up, real quick, to where the sound came from, and he’d come crashing through the wall. Ka-boom. Toyed with the idea, but remained silent. He was good at silence when he wanted to be; right now, he couldn’t even hear his own breathing.
“Like a pirate,” said the darker-haired one. “Do you think Leo actually found it, or just bought it somewhere?”
“Who knows anything about Leo anymore?” said the blonde.
The darker-haired one thought that over. The college kid, so breakable in two, watched her do it like something special was happening. “Do you think Dad knew all this?” she said.
“Knew all what?” said the blond one.
“Brooklyn,” said the darker-haired one. “Mrs. Uzig.”
Mrs. Uzig? Leo? Bells rang. Maybe something special was happening.
“It would be just like him, wouldn’t it?” said the blond one. “To keep the good stuff to himself.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that,” said the darker-haired one.
The blonde shook her head. “Daddy’s little girl.”
Daddy’s little girl. What the fuck was this all about? Suddenly it hit him, another one of his amazing insights: they were sisters! And this other one, the college kid, was their brother! Three rich kids, fooling around down in the tunnels. It all made sense. Lucky for the college kid, that brother angle-might save him from being broken in two.
“What do you mean, daddy’s little girl?” said the darkerhaired one.
“You find that obscure?” said the blonde.
Totally obscure, but Freedy didn’t care: their bodies! Meanwhile they were exchanging some sort of look. The darker-haired one broke it first, just like the statie with him. Hey! Was this a fight? And were they a little drunk? Probably not-they weren’t behaving like fighters and drunks he knew: no snarling, for one thing; no punching, for another.
The music stopped. It got very quiet. Freedy pressed his forehead to the wall, his eye almost in the room. He could hear the candles burning. “More music?” said the college kid, getting up.
For fuck sake.
“How about the Caruso?” said the blonde.
“ ‘Caro Nome,’ ” said the darker-haired one, real decisive for some reason.
“ ‘Caro Nome,’ ” said the blond one. “Aren’t you getting sick of it?” The darker-haired one didn’t answer. The blond one turned to the college kid. “Aren’t you getting sick of it, Nat?”
“Not yet,” said the college kid, Nat.
From his angle, Freedy had a good look at the blonde’s face when he said that. She was pissed. He had no idea why, but she was. The others didn’t see it: the one called Nat was winding up some old-fashioned record player-maybe an antique, maybe worth a bundle-and the darker-haired one, the little sister, was watching him.
More music. A female voice, the same hideous song that had been playing the first night. The big sister didn’t like it either; Freedy could see that. She got up right away and said: “I’m going to call him.”
“Who?” said the little sister.
