THE LADY WAS NOT PLEASED. “I don’t know what kind of man you think you are, but nobody just shows up in the Philippines.”
“I’m good at finding things,” said Milo.
“And did your brother just happen to find Yvonne?”
“I expect he’s with her.”
“If we ran into each other at the airport,” said Neon, “or even a club, I’d say cool. But I’m on a beach and you damn well ain’t passing by.”
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“What it looks like is some freaky shit.” She had her arms folded under her chest but placed an innocent half step in the sand between them in case a kick to the nuts was in order.
“I needed to talk with you,” said Milo.
“About?”
“Unusual things.”
The look on her face said Besides you?
“And stop with that,” she said. “The ‘Looking at me all through my soul’ look.”
No reason not to cut to the chase. “Where’s Buford?”
She considered him a split-second like he was crazy then countered with, “Who?” but didn’t stop there, “the fuck is Buford?”
“Milo Jetstreeeeeeeeaam!” somebody shrieked.
Oh hell.
He’d forgotten Chronic Djinn had moved to Manila. Of all the powerless Djinns in the world and of all the touristy beaches…
The Djinn threw his serving tray to the ground.
Neon knew what a fight looked like.
Milo took his eyes off her a split-second; he had planned to purse his lips to say go, but she was already well on her way.
Other tourists followed her initiative.
Beach police, though, were heading their way.
“Were those her drinks?” Milo asked.
The Djinn realized he’d be docked their cost and faltered a step. Resolve kicked back quickly. He—
Milo grabbed the nearest wrist, twisted while digging into a pressure point, pulled him in close and said very clearly the three words no man whose wrath must be avenged wants to hear: “Not now, fool.”
The Djinn tried struggling free.
Milo increased the pressure.
The Djinn calmed himself.
“Do you know anything about Buford that I need to know? Think a moment.” To the officers as he stepped back and released Chronic—patting the Djinn’s shoulder in rough forgiveness of an apparent misunderstanding—Milo said, “It’s cool.” He held his hands open. Strong and black is strong and black no matter the geography lesson.
“He bothering her?” the shorter and meaner of the officers asked.
“No,” answered Milo. “A bee scared her, he thought I scared her, I thought he said something rude. No charges.”
“Hotel charges for drinks,” the second officer told the Djinn. “What’d you shout?”
“My name,” answered Milo. “I signed for her drinks.”
“What’s your name?” said the first.
“Milo Jetstream.”
“Hell of a name is that?”
Milo was about to answer when Neon returned, intentionally jiggling enough to disarm a nuclear device.
Both officers grinned.
The Djinn looked sheepish.
“You know a lot of people here,” she said to Milo. “Everything’s OK,” she told the officers, who practically curtsied and left. “Hell’s wrong with you, Rema?”
“That’s Milo Jetstream,” he said sullenly.
“Go,” said Milo. Djinns thrived on any opening to remain annoying.
The powerless Chronic Djinn trudged footprints in the sand away from them.
“So you’re famous and you can kick an ass,” said Neon as answer to what he was doing in Manila. Famous people, as most were aware, were expected to track down beautiful women. “Just not famous famous. I knew Smith wasn’t your real name but I thought hey, it’s a cruise…” She pointed a nail at him. “Who’s Buford?”
He opened his mouth to speak without being sure what should come out. “Let’s wait till Ram finds Yvonne,” he said.
“He’s not going to. She’s asleep. Unless you’re into creeping into people’s rooms.” She bent toward him conspiratorially. “That’s when a sister strikes a nut, you know.”
“Duly noted.”
“You flew all this way to see me to ask me about some Buford when I’m half naked on a sunny beach, and still got the presence of mind to be a gentleman. Your real name is Milo Jetstream?”
He nodded.
“I heard that name somewhere before.”
He shrugged.
She relaxed her arms. “I just left a boyfriend named Le’mon J’ello, so who am I to say?”
She walked.
Milo slipped off his sandals and carried them, matching pace with her. Warm sand tended to leech tension from the soul.
“How accidental was it you and your brother picking us out on the cruise?”
“You make it sound like we had ulterior motives.”
She pointed at him. She pointed at herself. She pointed at the beach.
“OK,” he said. “No, fortune favors the foolish.”
“Fortune favors the foolish?”
“All the time.”
“What about a fool and his money will soon part?”
“That’s stupid people. Foolish is part of a different game.”
“Just ‘cause you put ish on it,” she started, but stopped statement and motion. “Are you gay?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “We thought you might have been gay for a minute, playing chess and all, but then said naw.”
“Every gay man doesn’t scream, ‘Flame on!’”
“So you’re gay?”
He allowed a look of such open lust to inhabit his eyes that her teeth hurt.
“Did you just?” she asked.
“With variety.”
“How’d I look without my clothes on?”
Milo Jetstream knew when to keep his mouth closed.
“Plus we caught you checking out our asses,” said Neon. “Really, what’re you doing here?”
“We came specifically to see you.”
“No lie?”
“Not a one. There’re a hundred ways to find somebody when all you have is a name,” he said.
“This still freaks me out.” Someone unaccustomed to honesty though couldn’t fake that flash of pure-D lust he’d given her. “But I can’t pretend it’s not good to see you. So, you an action star? Direct to DVD?”
He laughed.
“I know this guy,” she said, “who bootlegs all kinds of crazy kung fu movies. Rema’s the type who’d be into that crazy stuff,” said Neon.
“Pretty much.”
“Movie star,” she said reflectively. “Who’da thought.”
“You interested in marriage?”
“Damn, brother, we haven’t even slept together yet,” she said, trying and failing to maintain a straight face. “No,” she said, “I have no plans on getting married anytime soon. That also does not mean I plan on engaging in lunacy with you. I like the beard, by the way. Little raggedy but raggedy works for you.”
He’d forgotten all about the growth. Her pointing it out made it itch.
“Got a bit of grey going,” she pointed out.
“I am a little older than you,” he said.
“Without older men I’d be forever thirsty. You did notice he dropped my drink, yes?”
“My treat at dinner.”
“Milo Jetstream, international man of mystery, you’re a bit forward. I may look like a dumb blonde—”
“You have the carriage of a queen.”
“What I was about to say was, I may look like titties and ass, but I’m the smartest girl you’ll ever meet. The game hasn’t been invented I don’t see through.”
“Anything unusual happened since the cruise?”
She slipped her arm around his waist and gave him a friendly squeeze as answer. Then she pulled away and walked off, waving bye.
“Let’s see how good you are,” she said. “Find us tonight at seven. Can I tell Yvonne you’re a movie star? Wouldn’t want to blow your incognito.”
“I’m not a movie star.”
“Humble bastard. I just might have to let you find me a little earlier.” She walked away.
He knew why attractiveness came so easy to her: because she was.
“You’re not here for fun,” the automatic reminder kicked in. But damn if he didn’t walk the beach with the sand lodging between his toes just so the breeze could get to know him.
He’d have to be wary of Chronic Djinn, but that was a minor blip in the scheme of things.
He felt if he walked the beach long enough the wind would tell him where in the world was Buford Bone.
Eventually he sat on the sand and called Ramses. “Come meet me by the water, brother.” Then he stared outward a while, because water, like the hips of dancers, rewarded attention.
~~~
“So why’s ‘high concept’ used to describe things that are stupid?” the lady asked over dinner.
“Masters of regurgitainment,” he said. “People who pay money to see juvenile stuff won’t be branded ‘lowbrow’ when they leave the theater.” Yvonne hadn’t wanted to join them. She, too, was creeped out by their presence. She and Ramses were off somewhere with the younger brother trying his damndest to explain things.
“I’m not a movie star,” said Milo.
“Don’t be ashamed of direct-to-video. Lot of used-to-be stars on the freight now. Michael Jai White…”
“Who?”
“Played Spawn. Demon superhero movie. Van Damme, Wesley—actors gotta eat,” she said and pointed out the heavy plate of arroz caldo, chicken binakol, lumpia rolls and two hellacious desserts in front of him. “It’s cute you eat dessert during your meal.”
“Why wait for heaven,” said Milo, offering her a fork of mango cream cake, “when we’re seeded here on earth?”
She leaned forward and took the fork full in her mouth.
“Real dessert is one of the last refuges of the working class. Homemade, though,” he said.
“I make a mean caramel apple pie,” she said.
“Cinnamon rolls.”
“Completely from scratch?”
“Flour and everything,” he said.
“As good as the malls?”
“Better,” he admitted.
“’Cause there’s this one store at the malls make you yank a white cane to be at the front of the line.”
“Damn.”
“Quite,” she said. She studied the other diners a moment. “Nobody else seems to know who you are.” Nobody else had shouted his name; no one in the restaurant overtly catered to him.
“That’s good.”
Briefly she imagined she wouldn’t mind being a part of the paparazzi and chintz, but surprised herself by realizing she actually would. She enjoyed being with him just as they were.
She nodded in agreement and pointed her fork at his cake.
Milo cut it and slid half to her.
She wore shorts and a blue touristy tee shirt, nothing remotely sensual but all the more sexy for it. She belonged with Sereda, this brown goddess with wide eyes, quick smile, and irreverence that bordered on flight.
Milo loved her, he acknowledged that, but he wasn’t in love. Verbs and prepositions rightfully place chasms between them. But it was more than obvious why Kichi had wanted him to go. The rest of the crew was expected tomorrow. Between now and then if somebody wanted to clone a gigantic Buford to do battle with nine hundred feet Jesus—hey, deal with it as it’s dealt.
“You came all the way out here to find me?” she said.
“Yes.”
He kept an eye out for Chronic Djinn.
~~~
Ramses tried. Focusing on the problem at hand had eluded him fairly easily for the past hour; the next showed no signs being any less agile.
He left the hotel Yvonne-less and walked.
Nighttime was the best time for thinking. Lights looked like lights. Shadows were real. And there were generally fewer people. People, masses of people, were the leaves on a fat full tree: they literally clogged the gutters of thought that led to the draining of animus necessary for free and open contemplation.
It wasn’t a question of who would want Buford. Enough hands would rise for that. But who had the unmitigated balls to secretly trail both Buford and the Jetstreams? Even if Buford had Buford, the methodology introduced new variables.
But it didn’t feel like Buford had Buford. He would have had himself teleported as close to the Mount as possible (without the ‘porter getting there), penance be damned.
Ramses made his way back to the beach. Their butt imprints were still in the sand. He sat in his and consulted the water for a long time.
He kept thinking about Yvonne.