7.

Matt woke facedown on a leather couch, shirtless, but with his pants still on and a pressure against the back of his head: which on investigation turned out to be a cat. Lester, who leapt to the wooden floor and, tail erect, turned round to reprove Matt with a look of offended majesty before gliding off toward the kitchen.

He pushed himself up on a fist—difficult on the beaten, tanned pelt of the couch which gave way beneath his weight. There were gray smudges of ash on the dark-wood coffee table. Two tumblers part full of watery scotch. His button-down shirt open on the floor, its black arms twisted, reaching out toward nothing.

Mother of God.

There were something like a hundred shut doors in his brain, slammed and permanent against some better version of him. Someone utterly left behind yesterday, someone capable of saying on the phone he would be late, but not too, not terribly, who had planned when he was done with the work of the night to sleep beside Sophie. Matt’s hands were trembling as he buttoned his shirt over a chest that was beginning to burn, to radiate out an insane heat from the splotches Liza had touched, bitten. Evidently she had slept upstairs, in the loft: the black sash-shirt hung out over the railing. Right, that’s right. You’re impossible, she had said when at last he’d managed to push her off him, picking out the fingers she was digging in his waistband. You’re impossible: tossing the words over her shoulder with a look of disgust—before she flounced up the steps, lifting off her top to reveal a fantastic curved and swaying Amazonian back along the way.

Mother of God. He was moving quickly now, hopping as he tried to squeeze his feet back into the boots collapsed like war dead on one side of the couch. This happened, you kissed her, repeatedly, probably for as long as ten minutes if not considerably more? And where else were his lips: but around her ear, in her scented neck, taking the long voyage to beneath the plunge line of that shirt, which opened so subserviently, which let him lift her out of the extravagant bra—ah, it was all slit like a razor blade into the tissue of his brain: her golden peninsula of skin, the luminous white globes offered to him—her hot and liquid mouth, the coiled asp of her tongue, striking deep—

Automatic, mechanical, the door made a definite and irrevocable click when Matt shut it behind. Down in the dim nether regions of the corridor, a woman gave him a dubious glance before coaxing a large, cottony dog into an invisible apartment. And perhaps it was obvious here what style of scene he was departing from: eight A.M. yet dressed for the evening, not to mention roped in with smoke stench, besides wreathed with unseen but nonetheless palpable stains. The sun was a red gouge in the sky surrounded by a few sullen pewter-colored clouds as Matt skirted Washington Square Park. In their trench coats, clutching briefcases or paper bags with coffee, they passed him, the good people of this city, so definite and going incredibly fast.

Everything was strangely the same in the room when Matt limped through his door—the wooden desk and the stiffly made white sheets of the bed took him back again cheerfully, as if nothing had altered, as if he were precisely the same figure who had checked his image in the mirror and clicked shut the light before leaving last night. Well, but what a night. First Dwight. There was intentional, premeditated evil in that, and yet when it had still been a stratagem, when it had still been mere plan—he could have stopped then, satisfied it was in his power to do, but in the clear, crime-free. Lord knows what hours Dwight must have spent over the toilet, with his guts being pulled out his mouth. Then Liza. The reverse of Dwight, in a way: unplanned, unchosen, really, unless one were to count the dozens of nights spent together these last months which must have been encouragement, yes, aiding and abetting of a sort. Because she had to have known. It must have been in how he looked at her. It was certainly in the lurch of his viscera whenever her name came up on his cell-phone screen—which so many times, blinking long and slow, he tried to hide from Sophie, who must also have known.

Damp and naked from the shower, Matt crumpled onto the bed. Ah, God. What more do you want? You craven apostate? He rolled over onto his stomach, pressed his face into the pillow: a sour smoke smell simpered out. Yes, everything poisoned, everything graffitied over by your blasphemies. Over again Matt flipped onto his back to face the incurious screen of the ceiling: black, it felt, the heart in his chest, like some kind of tumor, some meteor matter that had fallen and lodged there in place of what should be red and pulsing with truth. Simply, last night, as Sophie lay ten blocks away, blameless in sleep, he’d taken the stick of her-in-him and snapped it.⁵⁹ What now?

“God,” he said aloud, but it sounded hollow. A reflex action, nothing behind it. No one taking the call on the other end.

         

Counsel was needed: someone to take confession. That fact revealed itself incontrovertible as the hours ticked by in the unfeelingly brilliant room invested by a spring breeze, almost showily naive, from the open window, where Matt paced, sat creaking on the chair, lay facedown on the bed, and cried hot tears on finding his old notes from the first night here, fallen between footboard and mattress: I—Love—You. In a circle around his Love, Sophie had written with small capitals FOREVER, and from this drawn the flames of a sun. How could he, all these weeks—Christ, man, are you alive?—never once have found this here? I’ll tell you why: Paradise. When he came home nights after hitting the scene, he hardly even bothered to turn on the light.

Not anymore. This note he tucked into his breast pocket—a totem, a flag of his devotion, a shield over that quadrant of his chest where a desperate, battered muscle was squeezing and letting slip its fistfuls of blood—when, close to noon, he dressed, headed out toward Third North: let Jason be up now, Lord, please. I realize I am in no position for requests. But who else might one talk to? The sulky walls, the blue sky?

Just then his cell phone began to tremble, to peal…

“Magic, baby,” Vic barked. “What’s this I hear, you’re throwing your ropes girl a birthday thing? Glad to see you’re thinking, trying new things with your par-ty, don’t get me wrong, but your ropes girl, I wouldn’t advise…and covering for her at the ropes, kid, take it from me, it doesn’t look right for you to do that. You shoulda told me, now it’s too late to call one of my alternates. Even yesterday, if you’d—listen, it’s busy now, but stop by, come by early tonight and find me. All right? We’ll talk when you get in.”

Cinema? Tonight? Liza? Like he could possibly stand at the ropes, click-clack with the velvet barrier, screen out uglies, make chitchat—and for her party, of all creatures? “You know, Vic, I’m actually—not feeling so well. I wonder if there’s—are you sure it’s too late for a replacement?”

“What did I tell you, kid? This is a business. You hafta be professional. I don’t care what kinda partying you do in your spare time, but when it comes to my club—”

“I know Vic, I know, it isn’t that, just there’s something personal, very imp—”

“Miranda!” Vic yelled, muted, away from the mouthpiece. “What did I tell—”

“Vic, please. Look, I can’t, I’m not in the right frame of mind to absorb a lesson just now….”

Silence. Then: “Where should I send the flowers?” Vic snapped, asinine.

“What?”

“Because somebody better be dead or in the hospital. Magic, what the hell is with you? This is not—”

“Vic, can we maybe talk about this another time? I’m really, I’m not able to…”

“You know what I think? I think Carl and Brett are right. Take it from me. When you go fabulous that fast—”

“—Vic, I really, gotta go—”

“You’re FINISHED!”

Matt pressed the little button marked End.

Was that an adult, the well-respected leader of a major nightclub? Somebody better be dead. Why were people so evil? God, but only to reach Jason. Ah, jeez. If Jason wasn’t up…could he, would he mind so much being waked? Since we are in An Extreme State?

But wide awake and strangely unsurprised: “There you are,” murmured Jason, when Matt appeared at his stinky cave. Cleaner than usual, in a white button-down, though some general puffiness showed he’d had a long night. Holding the door barely ajar, Jason studied Matt curiously, as though trying to piece together someone he’d only heard of or seen in photos: then sighed and walked heavily inside, leaving Matt by the door. “Come in, I guess.” He fell solidly onto the couch, rubbing hands against his pants legs. “Since you’re here.”

What? “Okay?” Matt gingerly assumed a seat opposite, on the foot of the bed.

“I wondered if you might come by.” Jason fumbled with a cigarette. “Wondered what you might have to say.” He looked over at Matt soberly above the Zippo’s large flame. “Because I’m sure you know,” the lighter snapped shut, “you’ve gone too far on this one, Matt. You just have.”

Could Liza—have told Marco? Already? Was word of our botched fling spreading that fast?

“You don’t fuck around with heroin. I could have told you that.” Sadly, Jason tapped off his ash. “But you didn’t ask me. Naturally. You just fed me that bullshit about Stefan: such obvious bullshit. And why didn’t I ask you? That part is my fault. Like I was afraid of you or something. I mean, not that I thought you were suddenly interested in trying heroin. But, motherfucker, Matt!” Jason’s fists clenched up. “I’m a good person!”

Oh. “This is—about Dwight?”

An odd, indefinable expression entered Jason’s eyes as he peered at Matt, as though trying to see a different facet of Matt’s face from a new angle. “Yes,” he said finally, very calm and slow, “this is about Dwight. Don’t tell me—you didn’t come here to pretend you had nothing to do with that, did you?”

“N-no, of course not, I just, I’m surprised to hear that you know…”

“Or tell me to keep my mouth shut? Is that why you came here?”

“No! I just told you, I didn’t even know you knew. How—”

“Walker came over last night. Said they saw my light. He had Dwight down the hall in his room—they couldn’t get him to stop throwing up. Supposedly they just brought him home from a party where you sold X: very interesting, I thought. So, did I know what to do? Since they knew we were ‘friends’—did I have any advice? Because otherwise they might have to take him to the hospital, but they didn’t want to, didn’t want to get anyone in trouble…and I had to stand there, over Dwight, while he’s shaking and crying, and spitting up, saying all kinds of crazy shit—I don’t want to die, Oh God, I wanna call my mom. I had to stand there and say, ‘Oh yeah. You just gotta wait it out. Same thing happened to me. That’s just—just Ecstasy. Some times. Some people.’”

“‘I don’t want to die’?” repeated Matt dully. Dwight?

“That’s right.” Jason stubbed out the cigarette morosely. “Actually, he told us he had ulcers. I almost did have them take him to the hospital—he kept clutching his stomach, saying it hurt. And what if he had—ruptured his lining or something?”

Dwight, pale-faced, moaning on a stretcher. The ambulance outside Third North, silent white-dressed assistants loading him in…Dwight shunted along on a gurney, gripping his stomach, as surgeons in green masks bent toward him, holding up scalpels—

“But you probably didn’t even consider that possibility. It doesn’t seem like you waste much time thinking about anything, or I mean anyone, anymore. You certainly weren’t thinking about me when you made me, like, a fucking accessory to your plan. Here.” Jason reached over to the bookshelf by the couch, lifting a tattered white envelope. “Here are the rest of your hits; pretty sure that’s everything. You can find yourself another slave to sample your shit.” He tossed the envelope to the bed. “I’m out. Done. I’m done with you.”

“What are you saying, Jason? You can’t just—we’re best friends.”

“Best friends?” Jason’s head whipped back in disbelief. “Sure, every now and then you throw me a bone—‘Jason, J-Force, whoever you are, how would you like to help out around the club?’ As if you had any intention of that. And one more thing—”

But Jason never got a chance to say what this was. For now there came a flurry of bangings at the door and someone—Marco?—crying, I was right, I was right, in pinched, elated tones. “Come in,” Jason declared, exhausted. Evidently Marco couldn’t hear above the chorus of Billy Idol’s “Flesh for Fantasy” he was now singing. Flesh—bang—flesh for fantasy-hee… “It’s open,” Jason called, a bit louder but still weary and reluctant.

From the far end of the room came the noise of the door wheeling to slam at the wall. “Hate to say I told you so…but: somebody is soooo busted!” Three finger snaps crackled out as an invisible Marco apparently took his sweet time walking down the tiny corridor. “Guess who Amber saw coming out of Liza’s building this morning at eight A.M.—” And now Marco was standing before him, astonished, with a hand clamped over his mouth. “Oops,” he said, beginning to titter. “Now, this is embarrassing.” Though he didn’t look embarrassed in the least as his whole body discharged little shocks of ill-spirited hilarity.

Jason was searching Matt’s face. “Really?” His gaze darkening.

“I think I need to go now,” Matt breathed. “Bye.”