10

“Afternoon, Noreen,” I say as I step off the elevator, my cheeks stinging from the double slaps. “Love the nails.”

Noreen smiles, and it’s the same grin she had when I knew her in days past, a smile that plucks my heart from my chest and lodges it in my gullet. “Family heirlooms,” she tells me, flashing the inch-long claws before my face. “Tupperware, of course.”

Jack’s penthouse is beautifully appointed, with massive bay windows on all sides looking out over the Intracoastal Waterway and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. The light streaming in illuminates Noreen from behind, casting her tall, lithe body in a stark silhouette.

“You look well,” I say. “The years have treated you nicely.”

“Likewise,” says Noreen, and I can feel it now. We’re doing the dance, a little fox trot around the past.

Noreen does look smashing, though, her body in top-notch shape, the skin flawless, the hair cut just so. She was always good at maintaining a guise; even back in high school, she did her own tailoring, and was quite adept at smoothing out the inevitable wrinkles that always bunched up around the genitals and buttocks. It was doubly fun when she did it to my guise; triply so when I was still wearing it.

“Jack’s occupied right now,” she says, turning on a three-inch heel and strutting into the main section of the penthouse. “He’ll be out in a bit. Come inside.”

Inside, a number of Jack’s men mill about, sitting on sofas and pouring themselves drinks. A few nod or give me curt little waves; some actively ignore my presence.

“Drink?” asks Noreen, and suddenly a tumbler is in her hand.

“No,” I say. “Thank you.”

Noreen steps closer, that glass looming large in my vision, the liquid inside spilling and sloshing. It would be so easy to gulp it down. “It’s a special blend,” she says. “We call it Infusion—”

“I know what it is,” I interrupt. “Jack gave me . . . I had some earlier.”

Her eyelids close halfway; she’s inspecting me. “You didn’t like it?”

“I did. Very much. Please, take it away.”

She’s confused—that wrinkle in her nose hasn’t changed a bit—but complies. When she returns, I find myself trying to explain. About the drink, about my presence, about everything.

“I’m an herbaholic,” I blurt out, possibly a bit too loud. Not that I care; my sins are miracles of nature compared to the crimes most of these folks have probably committed in the last few hours alone.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I shrug. It’s a common response; there’s nothing good to say after someone confesses that they’re powerless to manage their own lives. Hey, how’s your golf game? is the best rejoinder I’ve gotten so far, but that was Sutherland, and it was easily the most intelligent thing he’d said in months. “Recovering. It’s actually . . .” Hell, might as well go for broke. “That night, back in Los Angeles, when we were supposed to meet at the bus station—”

Noreen extends a single finger and presses it against my lips. “Uh-uh,” she whispers. “None of that.”

“I just thought—”

“Uh-uh,” she repeats, and walks away, over to a large sofa where some of Jack’s men are staring intently at the television.

“Yeah, okay, and how ’bout this,” says the one they call BB. “Why do they call ’em meteorologists? They don’t tell ya when a meteor’s gonna hit.”

This gets a good chuckle out of a little guy with crooked teeth and a smell of baby powder, but an older guy nearby just shakes his head. “I heard that bit before.”

“What bit?”

“The meteorologist bit. You stole it.”

“Hell,” says the first one, “I wasn’t even doing a bit.”

“Okay, boys,” Noreen says, wedging her way next to BB, “make room for mama.” They clear a spot for her on the sofa, and she pats the small empty spot next to her, hooking a finger in my direction. “Ever see a hurricane report before?”

“I’ve seen earthquake reports,” I say as I wedge myself between Noreen and the armrest.

“World of difference. An earthquake report just tells you about the damage that’s been done. A hurricane report . . . well, watch.”

The weatherman—meteorologist—stands in front of a radar graphic, pointing to the swirling mass of white a few hundred miles east of the Dominican Republic. “Hurricane Alison could do a lot of damage if she decides to come ashore,” he’s saying, talking about this weather system as if it’s an overweight gal trying to get out of a canoe. “She’s sucking up a lot of the warm Atlantic water and really building up steam. Let’s go in for a closer look—”

And suddenly the image is lurching up and over, pivoting in a way television images should never pivot, especially when the screen is over sixty inches, diagonally. I’m taken along for the ride as a computerized effect takes us viewers down through the heart of the hurricane and into the eye of the storm itself. Wholly useless, of course, except the TV station gets to justify its technology budget and some geek in the back room can congratulate himself for writing the code.

The figures are all there for us to see—89 mph winds, heading due west at 15 knots, landfall in the Dominican expected sometime within the next three to four days, all this according to thirteen out of the twenty-six possible computer models.

“Nine other models have it taking a more northerly direction,” the weatherman continues, “and three have it going south. The last model has Alison turning back around, skirting the Cape of Good Hope and eventually petering out near India, but we think there may have been a computer error on that one.”

Noreen smiles as her leg presses against mine, her fake but firm thigh contoured against the material of her skirt. “See? A hurricane report isn’t about the damage that’s been done; it’s about the damage that could be done, if everything goes right. Or wrong. It’s all about the possibilities.”

She leans back against the sofa, a soft sigh escaping her lips, and for a split second, we’re back in my childhood bedroom, Star Wars sheets on the bed and Rush posters on the walls, preparing to make out. Her back is arched just so, and my arm slides beneath her shoulderblades, my body coming around to hers, our faces pulling together—

Then I’m back on the sofa, and it’s just me and Noreen and the TV weatherman droning on and on. The rest of Jack’s men have disappeared for the moment.

“I don’t seem to inspire much camaraderie,” I confess.

“Why do you think that is?”

“Folks are distrustful of things they don’t know,” I say. “They fear the unknown.”

A little laugh escapes her. “They fear you, is that it?”

“Perhaps.”

“Is that what you’ve become since last I saw you, Vincent? Someone to be feared?”

I turn to her, swinging my right leg up and onto the sofa so that we’re truly facing each other. “You know, this isn’t the way I expected our conversation to go.”

She feigns shock. “You were expecting a conversation?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m sure I don’t.” Noreen’s playing this to the hilt; I can see that now. She’s older, of course, wiser, and I wonder if our ruined relationship had anything to do with the creation of this tougher but sadder gal. There’s a restrained undertone of anger running through her words, but she’s barely letting it trickle out. That pair of slaps out by the elevator—her handprints still burned into the more sensitive parts of my faux skin—were carefully planned releases, and nothing more.

“Look,” I say, trying to figure a way out of this and into a more normal mode of conversation, “we could sit here all day and pussyfoot around—”

“Excellent,” she interrupts. “Let’s.”

I’m not that easily swayed. “Or we could come right out and be done with it. You’re pissed at me.”

“I assure you, I’m not.”

“Then you were. Back then, the day at the bus station, when—”

“Ah-ah-ah,” she says once more, and the finger is back across my lips.

“It’s hard to talk when you do that,” I mumble.

“That’s the idea.”

I smell Hagstrom before I see him, and my shoulders tense instantly. He slides next to Noreen, and, with the ease of a world-class lech, throws an arm around her bare shoulder. A wave of chivalry washes over me, and I hop off the sofa to defend Noreen’s honor—

Which is when she leans in and kisses him. This bears repeating: she kisses him. Leaving me standing in front of the sofa, frozen, my arm cocked back in a pre-punch, crouched for balance, looking for all the world like a Heisman Trophy statue after it’s been crushed by a steamroller.

Noreen pulls her lips off Hagstrom’s and stares me down. She looks nearly as confused at my posture as I am at her liplock. “Have you met Nelly?” she asks. “We’re engaged.”

“Engaged,” I repeat mindlessly. The word bounces around my head without making any major impact. “Engaged.”

“For about a year now.” She pats Hagstrom’s knee and leaves her hand there. The diamond on her finger is large, without being ostentatious. I want to rip it off. “At first, Jack wasn’t too happy about it. Mixing business and pleasure, but now . . .”

She kisses Hagstrom again, and I do my best to regain control of my body and walk away. No good can come of staying and watching them snog like . . . well, like Noreen and I used to snog. I don’t get more than ten feet away when I feel someone sliding up next to me.

“Man, look at those two go at it. Get a nest!”

Glenda’s at my side, a tumbler of Infusion in her hand. She swirls the ice around the clear liquid. “That’s Noreen,” I tell her.

“Yeah, we met last night. Jack’s sister. Swell gal.”

“Noreen,” I repeat. “High school Noreen.” Glenda’s heard the stories, sat through countless drunken recollections of my lost love.

It takes a moment to sink through her herb-addled brain, but the connection finally rings true. Glenda turns back and gives Noreen the once-over, in the way that only women can inspect other women. Half beauty show, half criminal lineup. “Ohhhh, that Noreen. The one you stood up.”

“Thanks so much.”

Glenda shrugs and tosses down the rest of her Infusion. “This place is amazing,” she says. “The mattress I slept on must have been three feet thick. The pantry’s stocked, the herb cabinet unlocked and climate-controlled . . . Shit, they even got a little private movie theater downstairs.”

“Glad you’re enjoying the accommodations. Did you find anything out for me?”

“Like what?”

“Those girls—the waitresses—”

“Oh yeah,” she says, “they got ’em all over the place. Here at the house, back at the club.”

“But you didn’t notice anything else about them? Anything odd?”

“Nope. Why, was I supposed to?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.” At this point, I’d just like to find Jack, see if he needs me for anything, and then get back to Tallarico’s place. I can still feel the grime from the racetrack coating my guise, and I worry that small particles of dissolution powder may be hiding out on my clothes, waiting for their chance to contact raw dino flesh.

“Where’s Jack?” I ask.

Glenda nods toward the back of the penthouse. “Saw him disappear back that way with some little old chick.”

“Gray hair, well kept?”

“That’s the one. Who is she?”

“I don’t really know. No one seems to.”

Glenda and I move toward the back of the massive apartment, skirting antiques and art I should probably admire—but what the hell do I know about art and antiques? A long hallway is lined with doors, all closed.

“Jack?” I call out. “You back here?”

A muffled groan from the end of the hall. Glenda and I take a few more steps.

“Jack, that you?”

Another groan, and now I’m thinking this is the part in any good horror movie where the audience would be yelling at me to turn around and run, out the door, and perferably to the local police station. But like those oblivious scream queens, I keep walking forward.

A grunt, a moan, a clipped roar, all coming from behind that far door. I look to Glenda. “Should I?”

“It’s your shoulder,” she says.

I brace myself, prepare to take a running start—

The door opens, and Jack wheels out. He’s neither a crazed beast, nor does he have a knife poking out of his back like a giant piece of rumaki, but he looks drained. Withered. A balloon animal three days old, loose and wrinkling.

“Vincent,” he whispers, his chest rising slowly as he catches a deep breath. “I didn’t know you’d gotten here already.”

“Yeah, just about twenty minutes ago—”

I stop when I notice the older woman stepping out of the room behind Jack, shooting me a sweet smile as she meets my gaze. She pats Jack on the back and whispers into his ear.

“That’s a good idea, Audrey,” he says. “We’ll do that.” He turns back to me and Glenda. “Let’s go down to the convenience store, get a slushie.”

“A slushie? Like a slushie slushie?”

“What? Vincent Rubio’s too good for a slushie?”

“No,” I say, “it’s just—you look a little tired—”

Jack punches the joystick on his power chair and it lurches forward, nearly knocking me over as he scoots past. “Come on, I’ll pay. I’m sure you and Noreen need some time to catch up. Nostalgia always goes down better with a slushie.”

His good mood seems forced, but it has been a while since I’ve tossed back a good slushie. Raptors are particularly susceptible to Icee Brain Freeze due to our large sinus cavities, so sometimes they’re a little tough going down. But a free dessert is a free dessert, and so off we go, back down the elevator and into the limousine.

It’s me, Glenda, Jack, Hagstrom, and Noreen, and despite the innumerable lines of conversation possible here, there’s a whole lot of silence going on. Jack could certainly get the ball rolling if he chooses to, but he’s slumped back in his seat, so loose he’s nearly sinking into the leather itself.

“Jack,” I say, “you sure you’re feeling all right?”

He nods and gives the thumbs-up, but even that small effort takes something out of him. I wonder if this is the disease, the SMA, starting to progress further. Perhaps that’s what we’re all thinking; perhaps that’s why we’re all so quiet.

“Jack’s going to be fine,” Noreen says softly. It sounds like she’s convincing herself. “He’s just fine.” She hugs her brother close, and he gives her a peck on the forehead. It’s nice to see how far they’ve come since the noogies and tattletales.

Once we get to the 7-Eleven, Hagstrom checks out the store and gives the all-clear before he lets Jack wheel himself inside. “Can’t be too careful,” he says, holding the door open as Jack, Noreen, and Glenda pass through. He lets it close as I approach, the door hitting me as I try to walk by. Very mature. I can only hope Noreen caught a glimpse.

Only the cherry vanilla machine is working, so we order up five and fill up the cups. As I fill mine to the top, Jack wheels over to me and puts his arm around my waist. It feels even heavier than before, as if he’s unable to support its weight.

“I want you to know,” he says, “that I’m real happy you showed up. It means a lot to me.”

“Me, too, Jack,” I say, meaning every word for once. “I’m glad we found each other again.”

“And I know it means a lot to my sister.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Noreen and Hagstrom are off near the beef jerky aisle, giggling over something, making damned fools of themselves if you ask me. “She seems pretty happy otherwise.”

Jack nods. “She is. Look, I know you and Nelly don’t get along, but trust me, Vincent, he’s good for her. You and him are extremely similar.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Which is exactly what he said.” Jack grins and slaps me on the rump, a sports-themed gesture I never quite understood. “Come on, these things are gonna melt in about thirty seconds if we don’t get them back to the house.”

We head outside; the limousine isn’t waiting for us. “I hate when he does this,” Hagstrom snarls. “Everybody wait here.” He trots off to find the chauffeur, leaving me, Glenda, Jack, and Noreen sipping our slushies in the 7-Eleven parking lot. It’s quiet, but not strained. Just a bunch of friends, hanging out, ingesting massive quantities of processed sugar and ice.

But the silence allows me to hear another noise over the dull hum of traffic, a low rumbling gradually separating from the din and becoming its own sound. A growl, but not animal. Mechanical, definitely. A car, old and worn, the muffler dead or dying.

It tears around the corner a moment later, a beat-up Lexus with tinted windows and, I’d bet, bloodstains on the ceiling. The passenger-side window is rolled down slightly, and in that instant of recognition, I catch a glimpse of a thin metal tube poking out into the open air.

The gun is exploding. Light is flashing. Bullets are flying.

Glenda’s already hugging the pavement, and I’m down on the ground half a second later, throwing myself atop Noreen and Glenda both, covering their heads with my body, amazed that anyone in this day and age would resort to a drive-by shooting, especially someone of the reptilian persuasion. The rifle, the handgun, the arrow—these aren’t our weapons. The monkeys need tools to fight. We use our claws, our teeth, our tails, our wits. This is cowardice.

Fortunately, it’s futile cowardice. Rubber burns into the pavement as the car shrieks down the street, carrying its criminal cargo with it. It’s not coming back anytime soon.

“Get the hell off me, Rubio,” grunts Glenda, stumbling to her feet as I step back and help Noreen to hers. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

Noreen’s scream spins me around. Jack is halfway out of his wheelchair—his legs somehow supporting his body for this short moment, trembling but stable, and my first thought is, That’s amazing, he’s walking, followed shortly afterwards by, Wow, those are a lot of bullet wounds.

He collapses to the ground.

A thin trickle of blood trails out by his cheek, and within seconds it’s a thick river, pooling beneath his body. Noreen runs past me, lunges at Jack, spinning him around, flipping him over, the holes in his neck and head large, ragged, bloody. I’m staggering back, head reeling, and Noreen is screaming and crying as Hagstrom tears around the corner and the 7-Eleven clerk races out of his store, his own shotgun at the ready, but there’s nothing anyone can do about it: now even the lure of a hundred bottles of Infusion and a thousand late-night parties along Miami Beach won’t bring him back.

Jack’s mouth is opening, closing, forming soundless syllables as his fingers twitch, his chest heaving with his final breaths. I wonder, if I lean down to hear his last words—will he forgive me? For not moving quickly enough, for not recognizing the sound of the battered Tallarico Lexus. For hurting his sister, his entire family. For not having the courage to stand up for either one of us when we’d pledged unending fealty.

But Jack’s chest falls and doesn’t rise again. There’s no time left for any of that.