Wiley wonders what they've been putting in the water down in Texas, and how much of it Screwball drank before his parents dragged him halfway across the country.
Len pipes up: “He's got some credit cards.”
“Credit cards are no good,” Wiley says. “We need cash.”
Len closes the wallet and puts it back where he found it. He hauls himself up. “He don't have any cash. Unless it's in his car.”
The car is a silver Ford Focus. Doesn't look like one of the newer ones - just like the prick's phone. Trust them to choose a guy with cash-flow problems.
Wiley contemplates rummaging around inside the glove box, and maybe even the trunk, then decides the chances of finding cash beyond the confines of the guy's wallet are slim. Also, he doesn't want to spend any more time in this parking garage than is necessary. Their little gathering must look suspicious, and the last thing he wants to have to deal with is some two-bit security guard eager to prove his worth. Lucky for them this place is one of those with the cheaper rates and, as such, doesn't have much in the way of closed circuit cameras or security.
His right eyelid starts to twitch again. Sometimes it irritates him so much he feels like tearing it off. He touches it in an attempt to stop its involuntary movement, but as soon as he removes his finger, it starts to spasm.
“I can see that,” Len says, staring intently.
Wiley scowls. “See what?”
Len points at Wiley's face. "Your eyelid. I can see it-”
Wiley punches Len in the face. Len makes a little yelp and hits the ground with all the grace of a hippo falling at the ice skating arena.
“Don't look at it then! You hear me! Don't you look at my eye or I'll skin you alive!” Wiley's voice reverberates throughout the parking garage's largely sparse interior.
Len cowers and outstretches a hand to defend himself. “I hear you! I hear you!”
Screwball draws heavily on the back of his nose and plants a thick loogie on Len.
For a few moments, all Len can do is stare, terror-stricken, at the green monster clinging to the upper left arm of his gray NYC sweatshirt. As soon as the initial horror fades, he cries out with revulsion and tears the top off.
Screwball laughs. “Tha
t shirt is the kinda thing only a tourist would wear.”
Len frantically wipes the sleeve against the car's front tire, all the while making distressed whimpering sounds.
Screwball turns to Wiley. “Why the hell we let this guy hang with us anyway?”
Wiley snorts. “He makes for a good whipping boy.”
“He's got bigger titties than a ten ton whore,” Screwball says. “Sometimes I even think about givin' them a little squeeze, just to see...”
Kobie rejoins the group. “Gayest thing I've heard all night.”
Screwball scowls at Kobie. “Hey, I ain't no homosexual!”
Clearly amused, Kobie replies: “Whatever, man.” He looks at Len, who's still wiping and whimpering. “Lenny's good for the junk food industry. Whenever he walks into Wendy's their stock market value increases five hundred per cent.” He flips up the hood of his sweatshirt and rubs his hands briskly together. “Feelin' the cold tonight.”
“September chill,” Wiley says. “Nips at your balls too if you're not careful.”
Kobie chuckles, then turns his attention back to Len. “Quit your blubberin', Len. Help me drag the body over there.” By 'over there' he means between the front of the car and the wall.
Len pulls his top back on and steals a quick look at the arm were the loogie previously clung. Only a damp patch remains.
Kobie grabs the dead man under the arms, being extra careful not to get blood on himself. “Grab his feet.”
As always, Len does as he's told.
Wiley and Screwball watch the two men place the body between the front of the car and the wall. Not the best hiding place in the World, but out of sight for the time-being; which is long enough.
Screwball's hands venture back down to his crotch. “I can't wait till we find us some pussy.” He gives himself a quick tug, almost like he's checking to see that everything is still present and correct. “I
really
can't wait to get my hands on some of that soft stuff.”
Wiley looks at his watch; a tatty piece of digital crap with a worn leather strap. His mom gave it to him on the day of his sixteenth birthday, and that's the only reason he's still using it, almost seven years later. The display reads:
00:20 am
. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his green and white checked shirt and lights one up. When he's done, he hooks a thumb inside the brown leather belt around the waist of his jeans, and inhales deeply.
Exhaling smoke through his mouth and nose, he says: “Relax, Screwy. It may be late, but the night is still young.”
*
They end up in a strange little diner in Lafayette Street, Lower Manhattan. On the wall facing Michael is an analogue clock. It's designed to look like the Moon
, and is currently displaying half past midnight.
Amber sits, staring at Michael's plate. The plate, in itself, isn't anything to look at, but the last chunk of an extremely rare steak cutlet, skewered on a fork and going round and round, mopping up the remainder of what had been two fried eggs, is fascinating to watch for reasons she can't explain to herself.
The steak eventually stops skating around the plate and finds its way into Michael's mouth. He nods, as though in agreement with some inner dialogue.
“You like that, huh?” Amber says.
“Oh yeah,” Michael replies. “This place is just too crazy for me. I love it - love the fact they serve breakfast twenty-four hours a day.”
Amber picks up the menu. The cover is completely black with a picture of the Moon at the top right corner. She flips it open.
The Dawn of Man
from
Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey
starts to play. She closes the menu, killing the sound. “I'll say it's crazy. What is it about this place that does it for you?”
“The Moon,” Michael replies. “You got the Moon on the menu, and the menu plays space music when you open it. There's pictures of the Moon and astronauts and shuttles on the walls, and sometimes they even play space music over the speakers - well, I dunno if it's actually space music, but it sounds like music that belongs in space. Anyway, it's like being somewhere else.”
Amber interlaces her fingers and rests her chin on the backs of her hands. “Like being on the Moon, perhaps?”
“Yeah.” Michael takes a sip of his coffee - cream and two sugars. “It's like being on the Moon. You feeling it too?”
Amber doubts that sitting in a 24hr diner named
MoonCrest
is at all like being on the actual Moon. The room is brightly lit and the staff seem friendly enough, and her small slice of Pecan pie served with a dollop of vanilla ice-cream and espresso hadn't been anything but agreeable.
But
... this isn't the Moon. This isn't even normal.
“I had you down as someone completely different,” she says.
Michael takes another sip of his coffee. “Yeah? How so?”
“Real expensive leather shoes, tailored silk shirt - black looks good on you, by the way - and designer jeans. You look a little upmarket for a diner.”
Michael nods. “It's true I do like the finer things in life - who doesn't, given the choice – but ... and it's a big but...” He pauses to finish his coffee. “I also like the Moon.”
Amber runs a finger around the rim of her coffee cup and gazes at the remainder of a light crema swirl. She hasn't really drank much of it. She never does. “Maybe you'll live long enough to help colonize it.”
Michael doesn't openly acknowledge that comment. Instead, he spends a few moments digesting his companion's outfit. “You look good in black yourself. I like the cuts all the way down the sides of your dress. Very sexy. Almost suicidal.”
Amber laughs softly and shakes her head. She's all teeth - pristine white and perfectly shaped. “You have a nice sense of humor.”
Michael gives an almost indiscernible nod. “And you have a nice nose.”
“A nice nose?”
“It has a quality about it. Makes you look full of mischief.”
“Maybe I am,” Amber teases.
“I don't doubt it,” Michael says. “Maybe the mischief came before the nose, and the nose grew out of it - kind of like Pinocchio.”
“Pinocchio already had a nose.”
“Really?”
Changing the subject, Amber asks: “So, what do you do - for a living, I mean?”
“I'm a freelance photographer,” Michael replies.
“I'm impressed.”
“That's what brought me to New York. I'm due to meet a client tomorrow. So far, I've only spoken with her on the phone.”
“I see.”
“Fits with my lifestyle. I get to travel, be my own boss, meet interesting people. It's good money, but the hours can be a grind - and I prefer to work nights.”
“Understandable.”
"I have a friend," Michael explains. "She's a pharmacist. Prepares a special cream for me that helps with the sunburn if I get caught out on those extra sunny days."
"Impressive friend," Amber says. "Those extra sunny days can be killer. She's very understanding of your condition. You mean a lot to her, I take it?"
Playfully avoiding that last question, Michael says: "I told her I have a rare disorder - which I do, when you think about it."
“Oh, I dunno,” Amber says. “It's not so rare.” Silently acknowledging the fact Michael avoided her question, she steers the conversation back to photography. "You ever do gothic shots? Old ruins ... cemeteries covered in fog?”
Michael can't help but smile. “More often than I care to admit.”
“God, you're so clichéd.”
“I know, right. What about you? What do you do?”
“I get by on looks.”
“
Looks
.”
“Uh huh. You'd be surprised what men are willing to do for a beautiful woman.”
“I doubt I would,” Michael replies. “But I admire your honesty.”
Amber purposely runs a finger around the rim of her cup again. “I believe the technical term for what I am is
leech
, or something to that effect.”
Michael holds Amber's gaze, but says nothing. He's enjoying this funny little game she's playing; the waltzing around the obvious, yet gradually getting there anyway.
“So,” Amber says, flicking her hair over her shoulder, “you have a second name, Michael?”
Amber's flick of the hair doesn't escape Michael's attention.
Such theatrics
, and clearly an attempt to distract him from her ongoing intrusion into his personal life. Still, he's having fun, and decides to dance with her a little while longer.
“Does it matter?” he asks.
“I suppose not,” she replies.
Amber rests her elbows on the table and looks to the window. She sees the diner's bright interior reflected in the glass. She also sees her own image staring back at her. She feels disconnected from it, like it isn't even her. So many lifetimes, so many different personas. She barely knows who she is anymore. She looks at Michael's reflection and notices he's staring at her. She imagines she can feel his gaze, stripping away her layers as effortlessly as peeling an onion.
Suddenly, she feels vulnerable. This vulnerability, however, is turning her on. She sits up straight and crosses her legs. “What's your real name, if you don't mind me asking - your original one?”
“It's old sounding,” Michael replies. “Much like yours, I'll bet.”
She presses him: “
And
?”
“Levagnion.”
“
Levagnion
...” Amber seems to relish the sound of his name passing her lips. “That's a helluva name.”
“I didn't choose it.”
“Well, I like it.” She outstretches her hand. ”I'm originally Amara. Pleased to formally meet you.”
Michael takes her hand. “Amara's a beautiful name – still sounds very modern. I think I met an Amara once, a very long time ago. Can't recall where or when, exactly.”
“Well it certainly wasn't me," Amber says. "I'd have remembered you.”
“I'll take that as a compliment,” Michael replies.
Amber smiles. “Speaking of names, I'm feeling like a change. Thinking of trying out Erika, or maybe Angelica or Rebecca. Or perhaps I'll go back to being Alyssa. I liked being Alyssa.”
“You like names that end with the letter 'A',” Michael observes.
“You noticed that,” Amber replies.
Michael sits forward in his chair. “What else do you like?”
Amber rises from the table
and
to the invite. “Apart from fucking on rooftops?” She puts on her jacket and picks up her purse. “Come on and I'll show you.”