Kill Kill Faster Faster (12 page)

J
oey and Fleur had a place they liked to go where you came in from the street and you climbed the stairs and asked to be seated or took a seat at the bar or at a small table, and they liked to sit in the back, where it was dark, and where there were flowers on the table and a candle burning in a small glass, the candle floating in clear water, and Fleur liked to touch the flame as the candle burnt, Joey touching her cunt under the table or sucking back beers, and the name of the place was, ironically, Flowers.

For whatever reason, Joey only drank beers in bottles. If the waitress poured the beer before he told her not to, he wouldn’t drink what she poured, he would only drink it from the bottle, where he liked to feel the glass and liked to hold the bottle to his lips, the cold beer, the hard round glass of the bottle, feel the round hard glass bottle in his hand, better than a beer glass or a stein or a flute or whatever the fuck they pour beer into these days.

Or any days.

Joey had a problem. Did I tell you that?

Joey had a problem.

The problem consumed Joey.

He tried to think of it and trace the start of it, although he didn’t have to trace it so much, because it started right there in the joint, what a surprise, but he thought maybe it was only a symptom of the joint, localized to the joint, and would go away when he left the joint, but it didn’t do that, the problem, it stayed with him, and he couldn’t muscle it or finesse it or anything like that. It just was there and it had become part of him and when it manifested itself in the joint, who the fuck cared, but now that he was out, man, he wished he could get rid of it, know what I mean? Because the nature of the problem was Joey couldn’t get hard. Or he could, but he couldn’t keep it hard. It was like his focus had strayed sometime there in the middle of everything, or his blood had thinned or lessened or weakened or dissipated or whatever, and even when he was with Fleur he couldn’t stay hard, and the nature of sex had changed for him, although Fleur wasn’t complaining. She was always saying how sexy he was, watching him masturbate himself, him sitting on her pussy, his balls nestled in her muff, her finger up his asshole, or a bunch of her fingers up his asshole, just touching his balls, or touching his tits, or kissing his mouth, him jacking away, his finger straying to his mouth, touching the edge of his teeth, his lips, her going, Oh baby, so she didn’t care, and he got her off, he could get her off with his mouth or his hand or his fingers, he put his whole hand inside her and she would moan, but she liked the pain and he could put his whole hand in her and lick her asshole and she liked that, but what she liked the best was him kissing her, kissing her mouth, and his finger just lightly touching her clit, she liked that, and he would kiss her and hug her and hold her breast and just touch her clit and she would get off like that in his arms, tight as could be to him, and that was sexy, and then he would get himself off, and he would come in her face or all over her chest and neck, and as it built he would moan, and it would come from deep inside him, and it was animal and she would look at him, and when their eyes met, she would smile, and he could imagine he could see deep inside her, into her, and he would imagine a love that she might have for him, and he would not be thinking clearly exactly, because he’d be working, jacking his joint, lost, working at it, and he could feel the come building from deep inside him, and she, she could feel his asshole tightening and she too could feel the come building, and that would get her off too, that would excite her, seeing him build to orgasm, feeling him build, and looking into his face, and she would say he was sexy, the sexiest man she had ever met, and she would tell him that, because she saw and felt his violence just under the surface, and he had almost raped her more than once, come close in some kind of ritual acting out of his violence and anger, as his frustration and anger had built, and he had almost torn her apart, but with his hand and not with his cock, he had tossed her, and he had choked her, and he had torn her clothes, and she had looked at him, and she had said, Go ahead, kill me, that’s what she thought and felt, she thought, Joey might kill me, he might kill me, and she didn’t care, she wanted to see how far he would take it, knowing he had killed before, and killed for love, she thought go ahead, if that’s what you need, take it as far as you need to, and she looked up at him, and he didn’t smile, he had a hardass cast to his expression, and his left eye, the blind one, went wonky, and he was a hardass and he was dangerous and that turned her on, him drinking beer out of a bottle at a table at the West Seventeenth Street bar called by his name for her, Flowers.

F
leur looking at Joey, see him so miserable, still at the bar called Flowers, get all serious, quietly tell Joey if he so miserable she have the solution to all his problems.

Joey don’t say nothing.

Fleur go on. Fleur say, if Joey as miserable as he look, she will leave Mec for him. Leave Mec for Joey. If that’s what Joey want. It so simple.

She smile at him. He don’t smile back. She shrug her shoulders, wait, wait for Joey.

But Joey don’t respond, Joey don’t answer. Joey don’t even look at her. Joey stare into space.

Fleur could wait and wait. Wait for Joey to say something, for Joey to answer. But Joey not saying anything, Joey’s answer not coming.

It’s not like Joey hadn’t thought about it. It’s not like Joey hadn’t wondered—being with Fleur all the time, living with Fleur, coming home to Fleur, calling out, saying, Hi, honey, I’m home. He had thought about it. Considered it. He had wondered.

Sure.

How could he help it?

It was more like it was the thing that was on his mind more than anything else, if you want to know the truth.

More than his self-pity.

More than his morose.

Joey and Fleur.

Fleur and Joey.

Living with Fleur full time.

Being with Fleur all the time.

Doing the dishes, bringing home the groceries, scrubbing the toilet clean with a nylon brush.

The whole ball of wax.

Joey watching Fleur play with the wax from the candle.

Fleur leaving Markie for him.

Sure.

Why not?

Why not? The reasons are clear.

Fleur not leaving Markie for Joey. No way. Markie mean too much for her. Offer too much. Without Markie Fleur back to square one. She nowhere.

The same go for Joey. Without Markie he nowhere, back in the joint.

Anyway, when he thought about her, about Fleur, try to imagine what it would be like, him and her, it always came back to him. Back to himself. Why that?

Maybe after everything was said and done, maybe all Joey could think about was Joey.

Sure, that was it.

But, you know what, Joey didn’t think so. It was more like there were considerations is all.

So maybe Joey didn’t love Fleur as much as he thought.

He looked up. Met her eyes. She was still looking at him, waiting. She smiled when their eyes met. He looked away.

Joey was a fatalist.

Joey believed shit happened.

Joey wished it was different, but he gave himself over to his fate, whatever that would be. Maybe this was a product of where Joey came from, his mother always repeating what she always repeated: This too will pass, day in, day out, This too will pass, no matter the particular crisis of the day, This too will pass.

That’s how it was with Joey, that’s how he thought. So when Fleur finally said, What about it, Joey, what do you want to do?, and she pushed, and she looked at him and she watched him and she waited for him, Joey eventually said, he said after a long time of silence, and nervous fidgeting, he said, What do I want to do? What do I want to do about what? Because when it was all said and done, what Joey thought really, what he really thought, was if he gave himself over to Fleur, if he gave himself over, she would eventually get tired of him and she would throw him over, and she would leave him and where would that leave Joey?

So maybe he had to beat her to it.

T
here’s nothing Joey could do or say or what could he do or say anyway?

Joey.

Joey been shot.

Joey been shot every which way. He been fucked and he been shot and right now he sitting where he belong in his chair and he’s thinking how it is with him and with him it is fucked and shot and fuckall too and he thinking about Fleur. He thinking about Flowers and what she offer and he thinking where he at. He ain’t nowhere, but really where he is is back in his office and he been thinking about loving and he been thinking about violence and he been thinking about the dance loving and violence do together, then personalizing it and thinking about him and it and females and Flowers, what it is exactly he think he doing, and it ain’t good and it is the very best of good and it is all confusing for Joey One-Way, which is just the way he like it, he guess, because it never been any other way but this way.

Which is when Markie Mann come in, because Joey in his office thinking these thoughts, sitting in front of his word processor, not writing or nothing, just playing, playing with the mouse, watching the cursor fly across the screen, fly across the script he’d written, now in production, for “Shark Cut Into the Night,” and Markie Mann come in and he say to Joey, Man, we got trouble. Actor who play Sweet Tyrone, he want to rewrite his entire part. Simplify it.

Joey look up from his reverie, see Markie Mann. Joey a little stunned because Markie like the last person on Earth Joey want to see, Joey not really aware Markie Mann come in and sit down, but now here he is, sitting in front of him, looking worried, his brows knit.

Joey say, No sweat.

Joey say, What the fuck, who cares. Joey not caring. Not caring in the least about writing.

So Joey say it’s cool. It cool. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Let him do what he want. Man who play Tyrone Shore. Let us see what he come up with. What the fuck?

In response Markie say, It never let up, man. Trying to allay whatever went down on the set, he say, Joey-man, it never stops, boyo. They never leave you alone.

I know, Joey say, and he ain’t lying.

Same for you, right? Markie go on. It’s a never-ending battle between truth, justice, and the American way. Right, Joey?

Markie looking to be reassured. It’s the same for you. Right, Joey?

Joey pause, but eventually he say… Yeah, right, maybe.

Markie eyes get all weepy like he appreciate Joey giving him this one, like it make it so much easier for Markie.

In gratitude Markie say, Joey-man, anything I can do for you, man?

I’m not looking for nothing, Markie, Joey say. You don’t got to do nothing for me. I’m cool. You liked the draft I done. That’s all that’s important to me. The rest is fuckall.

Ah, man, Markie say. It’s always the same old, same old. It never fails. They take these great scripts and they just butcher them.

Who do?

The director, the actors, man. The usual suspects. I try to protect you, but you know everyone got their own personal agenda. Everyone got their different take. This one’s trying to work out this and that, the other one’s trying to work out this and that, you know, what’s my motivation, what’s my inner self. You know the drill. They all think they can write. I don’t got to tell you. And the network. The network has its own fucking agenda. They never let up. They never give an inch. Your draft was great, man, but, you know, this is TV. This is writing by committee and we powerless against them. It’s like you and me against the world, guy. I’m sorry. I tried. I really did. I love you, Joey. I love you.

I can take it, Joey says. I’m a big boy, Markie. They can’t touch me.

But I know you care. I know you worked hard.

I didn’t do nothing, man. I sit here. I type. The worst thing that happens to me my wrists hurt. I’m not in the lockup, I’m not upstate. I’m here. They can’t touch me worse than I been touched. They don’t live where I live and they never will. If this is what it takes, I can take it. It’s easy, man. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done. I’m cool.

Markie get up. He put out his hand. He say, I appreciate it. I really do. It’s not everyone who takes it this well.

Joey says, Well, Markie, I’m not bullshitting you, this is how I feel. What can I tell you? If it turn out that bad, take my name off the credits. I could give a shit.

You don’t mean that, Markie say, stroking Joey’s head, smoothing his hair, playing with his curls. We won’t have to do that. I promise. I’ll have a look at it. If necessary, I’ll tweak it. I’m looking out for you, boyo. You’re a mensch, guy, you really are. You’re my brother.

Yeah, some fucking brother. Some brother fuck his brother’s wife. Yeah, that’s a fine brother. That’s what Joey do if he have a brother, he fuck his brother’s wife, then he come in and kiss him on the lips and he say, Yeah, man, we brothers, we solid and we up front and we for always and always. Yeah, that’s how it is for we, O my brothers.

F
leur had gone away.

Joey knew she was going away and it was okay with him.

She left the morning after she and Joey had spent one of the best nights they’d ever had together. Joey had gone with her to get her hair cut. He sat in a bar on the Upper East Side on Third Avenue waiting for her while she went upstairs to the haircutter’s apartment. The bartender was a woman, a dyke, and while Fleur was upstairs they didn’t have much conversation, but when Fleur come back with her new haircut, the bartender was sort of into Fleur, and got all talky talky, gushing about what a great haircut. Fleur flirted right back.

The haircutter was a dyke too and Fleur had been out dancing with her more than once. Fleur told Joey the haircutter was convinced Fleur was a dyke waiting to happen.

After a couple of drinks Fleur asked the bartender if there was a hotel nearby. The bartender winked, said, For you and me or you and him? Fleur threw her arm around Joey and said, For me and him, but maybe you get lucky next time. The bartender liked that. She said there was a nice hotel over on Seventy-eighth Street, off of Park. Joey and Fleur went over there, the night streets glistening and quiet. A young black man was sitting in the lobby, behind a sleek gray, very discreet Formica desk, with cut flowers in a small vase on the left-hand side. He handed them a key to a room on the seventh floor after Joey registered. The young black man asked, Your bags in the car? Joey said, No bags.

They went upstairs. The room had gauze netting over the bed and stainless-steel fixtures in the bathroom, a single rose on the nightstand. Fleur undressed for Joey and to his surprise he got hard right away. Fleur reached down and touched her clit, making tender circular motions until she was wet. Then she guided Joey inside her. She said, Oh baby, and Joey felt like he was going to come right away. He started to stop himself, but Fleur said, No, don’t, I want you to come inside of me. She touched his balls and fingered his asshole. She could feel him swell inside her like he was reaching for her heart with his cock. She said, Oh baby, again and licked his upper lip and he came, moaning softly, not like the deep male growl she was used to hearing from him when he masturbated for her. She hugged him, kissed his lips softly, whispering to him, That was so sweet, and meaning it.

They went home by cab and she dropped Joey off on Third Street near the halfway, kissed him good-bye, then kissed him again and again, said, Talk to you tomorrow, sweetheart, or in a day or two, as soon as I get settled, I love you so much, and that was it.

The next day she left early to go out to Markie’s summer house in Lloyd’s Neck for a week, even though it was winter and the house had poor heat. Joey let the first day go by without trying to reach her, even though he was dying to talk to her, missed her voice, missed her. When he called a day later, she didn’t pick up or wasn’t home, and days went on and he called many more times but didn’t get her. He couldn’t understand where she could be, and he hoped she was all right, and he was dying for her to call him, but she didn’t call, and he was getting nervous, like disaster was right there, and he fell into his solace, walking the city, wondering what was happening, was she sick, and out of the blue he began to feel the dope call, the doojie calling, calling his name. He began to imagine things, Fleur really ill or in trouble, and he called again, the phone ringing and ringing with no answer, and when a week was over she still hadn’t come back, and he still hadn’t heard from her, and his worry was beginning to eat him up, people at work noticing, saying, What’s wrong, Joey?, and he couldn’t say, I’m worried about Fleur, I haven’t heard from her, and we’re lovers, and it’s not like her, and he had an overwhelming feeling of panic, and a feeling like the end was near, that the end was imminent, and then finally he heard Markie’s assistant telling the receptionist that Fleur was back in town, but she had decided to give up her office and work at home, where she was feeling more comfortable and could spend more time with her daughter.

He called her right away and she answered, and it wasn’t hard to pick up her tone, her distance from him, and when he said, Hey, how are you? she said so matter-of-factly, like she’d been practicing, It’s over, Joey. It’s over.

And he said, Excuse me? Excuse me, I don’t think I’m hearing you right.

And she said, I’m sorry, Joey, I’m so sorry, but you don’t understand, everything’s changed.

And she was right. She was dead right. Because he didn’t understand.