“Get away from her, you bitch!”

— RIPLEY, Aliens

SHERRY’S HEAD was lying on my chest, her hand on my balls; she said,

“I think you’re ready to go again.”

I moved her hand, pulled myself upright, got the pillow against my back and remembered I’d asked myself in the cab,

“What’s the dumbest, the most reckless thing you can do, what would be like, the worst idea?”

I’d just done it. Sherry sat up, reached for her cigs, got one cranked. I couldn’t believe what I said:

“This is a non-smoking room.”

She asked,

“Yeah, where’s the non-fucking room?”

Then she blew smoke at the ceiling, said,

“So fuck ‘em, let ‘em come get me . . .”

She flicked the ash on the floor, saw me looking, shrugged, then,

“Juan finds you fucked me, he’ll kill you.”

I caught her wrist, said,

“Enough with the tough-broad routine, okay, it’s like tired . . . and could you stop, you know, calling what we did . . . calling it. . . am . . .”

She was amused, said,

“Isn’t that kinda cute, you want it to be special, how’d you like me to say it, lovemaking, that make you swoon?”

I got out of bed, pulled on boxers, T-shirt, and went to get some water. On the table was a brochure for Tucson, even the motel we planned on, the aptly named Lazy 8, and various guides to Arizona, all concentrating on a lengthy stay. Last night, hot to trot, full of bad wine, it never occurred to me to put them away. Thinking with my dick. Checked my watch, six in the morning, and Sherry reading my mind, said,

“You’re wondering what Juan is thinking, like where the fuck his wife is at?”

Might as well fess up, said,

“It crossed my mind.”

She was out of bed, pulling on clothes, said,

“He’ll be wasted, he won’t surface till noon, then he’ll come home.”

I said,

“Handy arrangement.”

And she shouted,

“Don’t get judgemental, hotshot, you’ve no idea how my marriage is, you met me eight hours ago, you jumped my bones, and now you . . . like . . . know me?”

Before I could apologise, admit I was outta line, she completely changed. The rage evaporated in a moment and now she was almost perky, indicated the brochures, asked,

“Want me to tag along, touch you in Tucson?”

Something in the way she used touch, an almost imperceptible hiss, gave me pause, then I said,

“It was just a notion, I’ve got brochures for all sorts of places.”

She was hiking up her skirt, her breasts on display, asked,

“Let’s see’em?”

“What?”

“The other brochures, let’s see ‘em.”

Fuck.

I waved it off, tried,

“Don’t you want to shower, get freshened up while I brew some coffee?”

She pulled on her top, the one that had shone in the light last night, didn’t glisten much now, her head was down, her voice real low with,

“I want to see the other brochures.”

I headed for the bathroom, maybe when I finished, she’d be gone, like Bob Dylan’s “Waiting on a Miracle.”

Asked myself,

“The fuck I’m doing, having a shower this time of the morning?”

Got in there, shut the door, nearly locked it, had to fight the impulse; shaved, taking it slow, killing time. Had the shower to scalding, burn off the paranoia. Finally emerging, towelling my hair dry, casual, nothing on my mind save caffeine. She was dressed, a glass of Bush in her hand, asked,

“Join me?”

I tried not to sound like a total prick, going,

“Little early for me.”

Sounded like a total prick. She knocked back the drink, said,

“You guys make neat booze.”

Then,

“Wanna fuck?”

Pause.

“My apologies, like to make love?”

Then she was up, moving towards me, shoved the glass at me, said,

“Keep it in your shorts, fellah.”

Banged the door on her way out.

I went back to bed, clean, if not easy.

The phone dragged me to consciousness, couldn’t figure out where the hell was I? . . . But it was dark, grabbed the phone, muttered,

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Blake, you have a visitor, waiting in the lobby.”

“Oh right, I’ll be down, um, in ten minutes.”

“As you wish, Mr. Blake.”

Shit, I should have asked whom. Checked my watch, after ten, I’d been out fourteen hours, at least. Stumbled to the bathroom, got my head under the cold tap, woke me fast. Dried my hair, finger-combed it, get that raffish look. Put on a white shirt, jeans, the mocs, ready to roll. I shared the elevator with an elderly black man who gave me a warm smile, I said,

“How you doing?”

“I’m doing swell, young man, and thank you for asking.”

New York, gotta love it.

I moved into the lobby and my brief joy evaporated. Juan. Dressed a la pimp. Bright. . . nay . . . blinding orange shirt and skintight white leather trousers, try that gear in Galway on a Saturday night, they’d chuck you in the Corrib. I thought,

“He’s got to be fucking kidding.”

Maybe heroin made you colour blind. He was wired, energy coursing through him, he asked,

“You ready to get down?”

Like we were a couple of frat boys, trying to be black. That’s among the most pathetic things on the planet. I couldn’t think of a sane answer, apart from “Aw, fuck,” so said,

“Sure.”

We went outside and there’s a stretch limo, chauffeur holding the door, Juan said,

“For you, hombre, tonight you are the man.”

When I didn’t move, he said,

“Buddy of mine, runs a limo service, owes me big.”

Tommy would have loved that crap. The bigger the nonsense, the more he dug it. A limo would light him up. I don’t hate them but can’t get over the ridiculous image they convey, plus, they call attention, which is the last item, like, ever, on my agenda. Juan bowed, said,

“After you, amigo.”

I got in, saw a bucket of champagne on ice, full mini bar, and salsa on the speakers. Juan slid in beside me, asked,

“What’s your poison, muchacho?

I’d just got up, I wanted coffee, breakfast, solitude, said,

“I’ve been sleeping, need a caffeine fix.”

He wasn’t pleased, snapped at the intercom, rattled off some Spanish. The limo suddenly changed lanes and a few moments later, we pulled up. Through the window, I could see Starbucks — Juan asked,

“Watcha need?”

“Latte, shot of expresso.”

Juan gave me a slow look, then fired off more orders. The driver was out and in flash time, was back, handed the container over. I placed it in a holder on the seat. Juan got out some cellophane packets, laid lines of white powder on the seat, rolled a bill, offered me. I shook my head and he snorted deep, three lines, let his head back, then made a sound midway between relief and agony. I began to work on the latte, I could see the coke hitting Juan, he mellowed, said,

“I want to say muchas gracias, amigo.”

“Yeah? Why’s that.”

“My woman, you took real good care of her.”

I was glad of the cup, gave me something to work on, keep my head down, he continued:

“Some guys, they think maybe they can hit on her, I’m not around, they see a chance.”

The coke hit another level and he used his index finger to rub his gums, said,

“They mess with my woman, I cut their nuts off.”

Mister Mex macho. The expresso had jolted and the devil was in me to ask how was it growing up in the Bronx?.”

Some reply was needed, so I tried,

“Juan, I don’t think too many guys would want to mess with you.”

Taking what Tommy called the piss, he took it as flattery, said,

“Sherry, she’s muy bonita, sí?”

Testing me? I could play, fuck, had to, said,

“You’ve a good one there, she’s . . . devoted.”

His left leg was tapping out a rapid beat, not to the music, which mercilessly droned on, least not any external tape, this was pure nerves, fuelled on coke and adrenaline, he said,

“Sherry, she don’t take to many hombres, they bore her, comprende? But you, you, amigo, she likes you, is good, no?”

I was in a minefield, tried,

“You guys been together long?”

Like I gave a goddamn.

Clicking his fingers, checking out his boots—looked like lizard skin, some creature’s precious hide—he was off somewhere, then clicked back:

“Like a year, maybe, but is, you know, siempre, always, I got me some señoritas on the Lower East Side, no big thang (pronounced it thus) they is like... fuck babes, Sherry, she’s my main event, she’s my rock.”

Some foundation.

I finished the coffee and he grabbed the cup, hit a button, and the window slid down, he chucked it out. Registering my surprise, he laughed.

“They can’t take a joke, fuck ‘em, right? . . . is important the limo is clean, is like life, keep the garbage outside.”

I couldn’t resist, said,

“Some philosophy.”

He put up his hand, for the high five, I gave him my palm, feeling like a horse’s ass, and he went, “We’re simpatico, you and me, bro, we gonna kick some ass.”

Which was about as depressing news as I’d ever heard. There was a briefcase on the floor and he nudged it with his boot, said,

“Open it, my friend.”

I gave him the look, said,

“Juan, I’m Irish, I don’t open things without the bomb squad.”

Took him a while to get it, then a display of teeth, the cokehead’s smile, which has no connection to warmth. He tapped the case with the heel of his boot, so I picked it up, set it on my lap, lifted the top.

Guns.

Guys and guns.

Could be a musical.

Tommy was fascinated by them, always talking about getting a piece. I asked the obvious:

“Why?”

And got a look of total confusion, he said,

“You were in the army, don’t you love weapons?”

I let out a deep breath, said,

“It’s the very reason I have no use for them, put a dick-head and a gun together, you have a recipe for disaster.”

The day I finally left the army, I’d figured on never having a gun in my possession again. Like so many other resolutions, it was only a matter of time. Tommy’s love of weapons came from the movies; he said

“Man, if I was packing, I’d never be afraid.”

I wanted to say that’s when you most need to be afraid, asked,

“What are you afraid of?”

He gave the Irish answer:

“Bringlodi.”

That’s the Irish word for dreams. I was lost, asked,

“I’m not sure what you mean?”

He gave me the hangdog look, part anger, part sorrow, said,

“Steve, you’re never sure what I mean, fuck, I’m not sure me own self, all I know is, my dreams scare the bejay-sus out of me, and I’m afraid that one La Brea (fine day), the dreams will come true.”

I’d heard him in the grip of his dreams, his body twisting and writhing, his teeth grinding, sweat rolling in torrents off him. There are few more awful sounds than the grinding of teeth, you know that deep trauma is the cause. Though his continued descent into the maelstrom of dope and booze pissed me off and alarmed me, I could understand why. Alas, comprehension didn’t mean compassion or tolerance.

In a futile effort to get him off the fascination of guns, I’d said,

“Knowing you, you had a gun, you’d probably shoot yer-self.”

He’d gone real quiet and I thought maybe he hadn’t heard me till he said,

“Not the worst scenario.”

Tommy reached some basic part of me, some primitive need to protect. I’d promised his father I’d always watch out for him, and a pledge to a dying man in Ireland is the most binding contract you’ll ever take. Seeing his face that time, contemplating suicide as an option, I made an oath to do whatever it took to keep him, if not safe, at least protected.

What gods there be, I think they especially love when you make such an undertaking. They send such grief down the pike that your very words will lodge and strangle in your throat.

As Juan displayed the hardware, the gleaming metal, I felt my throat muscles constrict. Making a supreme effort, I managed to actually look at the assembled tapestry of carnage.

I recognised a Glock 9 mill. The shiny black finish; holds seventeen rounds. One of those odd coincidences, I’d had one during the robbery. I lifted the second, heavy and made of silver aluminium alloy. A German SIG-Sauer, serious firepower. Juan said,

“Take your pick.”

I said,

“Aren’t we like, going to dinner?”

He didn’t follow, gave a dubious,

“Sí.”

“So what, we’re going to shoot them if the food sucks?”

He lunged at the case, grabbed the SIG, worked the slide, and feverishly jacked a round in the chamber, said,

“Fifteen rounds.”

And I thought of one of my favourite Springsteen songs, “American Skin (41 Shots).”

I echoed,

“Fifteen rounds, what are you expecting?”

He ignored that, said,

“Pick one.”

“No thanks.”

He couldn’t believe it, went,

“You’re in America, you don’t want to be armed?”

I shook my head, he hefted the SIG, trying to make sense of me, said,

“Not to have a gun . . . it’s un-American.”

Oh I wanted a gun, just not from him, asked,

“Where are we?”

All I could see was people wearing Gucci sneakers and rip-off Stella McCartney designs; he said,

“West Fifteenth.”

“Didn’t this used to be a shithole, meatpacking and male hookers?”

He shrugged.

“It changed, what are you going to do, now it’s goddamn boutiques and freaking artists.”

His cell phone chirped and he answered, launched into a spitting frenzy, banged it against the window, said,

“Amigo, I gotta take a rain check, one of my homies is in trouble.”

“No big thing.”

Truth is, I was relieved, I said,

“Drop me off here, I’ll walk, get a feel again for the city.”

He indicated the SIG and I shook my head.

The limo pulled over, I got out. Passersby didn’t give me a second look, I could have been P. Diddy but no response; Juan said,

“Don’t be a stranger, hear?”

Yeah, right.

I knew not taking the gun had been an insult. Too, I figured it had been some sort of test and I failed, like I gave a fuck. Ate in a diner, of all the reasons to live in America, they top the list, them and Johnny Cash.