‘Just pulling yer chain mate.’ He held up two fingers and said, ‘Dos Don Equis.’
‘Si, Senor.’
Fenton stretched and then read what he’d so far composed.
SILHOUETTES
So Sharp the budding hope — a flicker
lone your face
this night a past remember
can you some the dread took on
this silhouetted
this justified alone …
That’s it. That’s what he had.
Once he’d heard David Bowie interviewed. What the spiderman did was, write all the lines down, then cut them up with a scissors and let ’em scatter on the floor. Then he’d pick them up haphazardly and that’d be the shape.
The beers came, silver tray ’n’ all. The waiter was about to pour when Fenton shouted, ‘Jeez, Jose, don’t do that! Yah friggin wet-back, don’t yah know shit, yah spic bastard?’
Fenton had seen the change from glasses to bottles. No one used a glass no more. Just took that beer by the neck, chugged it cool.
Posing.
Oh sure, but what the fuck — he could nod towards cool. Plus, he really liked the way the moisture drops slid down the bottle, like pity.
He looked at the waiter who was standing perplexed and said, ‘Yo, Jose, get with the game, vamoos caballero,’ and laughed. He was having a high old time. The waiter, whose name was Gomez, went back to the bar and said, ‘That animal needs taming.’
If you’d leant on the precise translation, you’d get the exact sense of ‘gringo’ to suggest ‘Alien’.
Hurricane Pauline was building, moving closer.
My kind of town
(Ol’ Blue Eyes)
Nancy d’Agostine had arranged accommodation in Kips Bay on East 33rd for Brant. He looked at her. ‘Run the name by me again.’
‘East 33rd?’
‘Jaysus … the other bit.’
‘Oh … Kips Bay.’
‘Screw that babe, I’m for The Village.’
‘But it’s been arranged by the Department.’
Brant gave her his full smile, said, ‘Fuck ’em, eh? I want to stay in a ‘Y’ in The Village.’
She looked for an exit on the ramp and thought, ‘Could be worse — he might have had a hard-on for The Bronx, and then what?’
Brant watched her drive and asked, ‘This is an automatic?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stick-shift?’
‘What?’
‘Four wheel drive?’
She glanced at him and he slapped her knee. ‘Just winding yah up, babe.’
Gritting her teeth, she said, ‘I’m a sergeant in Homicide … do you have any idea of what it takes to make detective, to get my shield?’
Brant said, ‘It takes a babe … am I right?’
The Band-Aider, Josie O’Brien as she was now officially identified, was being held in the psycho ward. ‘Why?’ asked Brant.
Nancy gave the department answer. ‘Suicide watch.’
Brant gave an ugly snort. ‘She kills other people — not a snowball’s chance of her hurting herself.’
Nancy agreed but continued, ‘She saw her boyfriend shot in the face and had to beg for her own life … she could slip into depression.’
Brant shook his head, then asked, ‘So … can I see her?’
Incarceration had suited Josie. Being off the streets, a bath, nutrition, had transformed her. Her dirty blond hair was now shining and looked high-lighted. The previously scabbed, worn face was now scrubbed clean and her eyes had a sparkle.
As Brant prepared to enter the room, he turned to Nancy. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m to be present. It’s …
‘Department Regulations. Christ, will yah learn a new tune? Look, I’ll buy yah dinner if yah fuck off for ten minutes.’
Nancy, who thought she’d gotten some sort of handle on Brant, asked, ‘Ever hear of Popeye Doyle?’
‘Nope.’
‘That figures. Get it straight, I’m with you all the way.’
Brant decided to roll with it, said, ‘Yah dirty article.’
When Brant walked into the room, Josie appeared almost shy. On their previous meeting, her partner had sunk a knife in Brant’s back. She said, ‘Hiya.’
He didn’t answer, took the chair on the other side of the table. The hospital guard gave Nancy an expectant look, like,
She had no idea.
Brant reached in his pocket and everybody jumped. He took out his Weights and Zippo, placed them on the table.
The guard said, ‘This is a NO SMOKING ZONE,’ as if noticing him for the first time.
Brant gave him a brief glance. ‘Fuck off.’
Nancy signalled to the guard — ‘Cool it’. He tried.
Brant tapped the cigs. ‘Want one?’
‘Oh, yes please.’
He shook two free and Josie took one. As he cranked the Zippo, he seized her wrist, the flame in her face, asked, ‘Why’d ya kill the young copper?’
If Josie was spooked, she stifled it. ‘Gis a cup o’ tea, cunt.’
Brant let her go and asked, ‘What’s she on?’
Nancy looked to the guard, ‘The methadone program.’
Brant shrugged, asked Josie, ‘Why’d you want to go back?’
‘I’m homesick.’
He laughed out loud and she added, ‘I’m going to be in a mini-series, maybe Winona Ryder will play me. I’d let Brad Pitt play Sean.’
Brant played along, ‘Gonna be famous, that it?’
‘I’ve got an agent.’
‘You’ve got a hell of an imagination. You’re going to Holloway, not Hollywood. The only stars you’ll see are when the bull dykes ram yer head against the bars.’
Josie looked to Nancy, panic writ large. ‘Tell him to shut his mouth!’
Brant stood up. ‘When can I have her?’
Nancy consulted the paperwork. ‘She’s waived all extradition, so the day after tomorrow, I guess.’
Brant looked at Josie. ‘How’s that, eh? Wanna take a ride with me?’
