Winners (10 page)

“Yeah?”

“Nah, I didn’t tell him that. I should have. Sometimes I do. Fuck. I’m in it. I’m definitely in the soup. But I’m not a cheap bastard. Therein lies my chance at redemption, I guess. Pretty good pot, huh?”

“Yeah,” Shane says. “It’s pretty good.”

Outside, on the street, a thumping Doppler bass whips by them from a passing car, a tiny thread of reality working its way into their stoned little alley.

“I was a communist for a semester in France. Everyone should be a communist for a year or two. You’re here with a wife or something, I guess.”

“Right.”

“Ah. Because there are three particularly hot French chicks in there right now, we could go get ’em. But you already got one.”

“Yeah. Not French.”

“Probably hot though.”

“I think so. What was it like being a communist.”

“Oh you know, I ended up feeling like a tool. You get older and it’s kind of ridiculous.” His voice turns unexpectedly grave. “You cannot get anything done. So it’s like, do you want to actually accomplish something or just get high and fuck hot French girls and complain.” The joint has been burning slowly, unnoticed, and now he licks his fingers and pinches it out with a fleshy hiss.

“Doesn’t sound so bad.”

He squints at Shane slightly, and hesitates. “You know what I mean. Eventually you have to really do something. You need a drink.”

“I know I do.”

“Right.”

The man tries the door, pulls it first, then kicks it karate style, with violence. But it doesn’t budge and Shane follows him down the alley to the street to circle back in the front way. The Chinese dragon has disappeared. Across the street two scruffy young kids smoke cigarettes in front of a neon-signed bar, watching them. One of them points and the other one laughs, as Shane follows the man inside to walk the walk of flags again.

At the end of the hall, Shane pauses near the orange and white flag with the tree. “Do you know what flag that is with the pine tree?”

“It’s a cypress. Lebanon. Next year they say they’re going to open an office in Lebanon, can you believe it? All these ridiculous places. It’s so great.” The man waves his fingers at the unfamiliar-looking flags. “Thailand, Russia. Totally berserk.”

“That’s Russia? It’s red white and blue.”

The man laughs. “I don’t remember your name.”

“Shane.” He puts his hand out but the man ignores it, moving ahead to the door where he pauses in the threshold, poised to enter the crowd and sound.

“It’s always a treat to find an outsider,” the man says. “In a sense, you’re the only one here anyone can really relax and talk to. Because you don’t matter, or care.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, then extends his hand, you first, ushering Shane towards the bar.

At the bar Shane leans in to get their drinks, but when he turns around the other has disappeared and instead there is Lou. She plants an excellent kiss on his cheek, sniffing quickly at his mouth to collect information.

“Did you miss me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“I stepped outside with a communist.”

“I know.”

“You’ve had your people watching me.”

“I’m in the loop. He’s not much of a communist.”

“He goes to your gym.”

“Yes he does. How do you know him?”

“I don’t exactly. Not even his name. He went to Cal.”

She nods. “That’s David Fulton,” she says, as if the words mean something by themselves. “He owns this company. He owns quite a lot of companies. Your new old friend is some of the biggest VC money there is.” He nods but doesn’t convince her. “He’s like,” she tries again, “he’s like the Michael Jordan of venture capital. What’d you talk about out there?”

“Marijuana, I think. Greed. I’m not sure.”

“The man’s worth at least $400 million. Personally.”

“He smokes really good pot personally, too.”

“Sure. How funny. You of all people. What’s he like?”

“Talkative.”

“Oh come on.”

A new band is starting up, something rich and Latin, with horns and an active squad of percussionists. Trumpet, congas, a drum set, cow bell, wooden sticks. The singer has a strong voice, ready to party and mournful at the same time. Dance now because you are all of you going to die.

“They won a Grammy last year,” Lou says. “But no one’s heard of them. I don’t think Fulton likes this company much. Elvis Costello played a launch last week. A month ago he had James Brown.”

“I was there!” CEO Sloan has sauntered up beside them, his loud voice competing easily with a trumpet in progress. “People were going nuts. You didn’t come.”

“No,” Lou says. “But Shane’s new friend did.”

“Now who could that be.”

“David Fulton.”

Sloan turns and examines Shane closely as if he is a precious stone suddenly for sale. He checks back to Lou to see if she’s kidding. “Really.” Sloan’s eyes quickly scan the room for the suspect. “How do you know him?” His voice sounds higher now, permanently raised in question.

“They were getting high in the alley.”

“Just the two of them?”

“It figures, doesn’t it,” Lou says. They both shake their heads in mild amazement.

“The man is wearing like an $80,000 watch,” Sloan says.

“Guess I should have mugged him. While I had the chance.”

“You rarely see him out,” Sloan whispers loudly. “Reclusive. I mean, he doesn’t seem to like very many people.” He has a hand on Shane’s shoulder, palpating him slightly. “Maybe you could introduce us. We’ve been trying to get in bed with him for a while.” He is saying something else, but the hand is the only thing Shane notices. Lou notices too, takes Shane by the arm and starts to lead him away. “A dance!” she says, tossing the words over her shoulder at Sloan like a wedding bouquet.

They take a few steps towards the theoretical dance floor. No one is dancing. Everyone is talking louder and louder to make themselves heard over the percussive din, moving away from the band. He puts his drink down carefully and wraps a hand around her waist.

“We don’t have to,” she says.

“Don’t we?”

They dance. His feet feel like enormous ski boots but he doesn’t care. The music is made for this. He spins her, raising her arm, pushing her waist, turning her body in Olympic rings across the floor. People are staring, sort of, he thinks Lou might whisper halt but instead she throws her head back, shimmies her narrow hips, bares her neck and wrists. They must be terrible but the singer is cheering them on, looping the song again to make it last. He can feel the sweat beading on his forehead as the horns wail and for a moment it all comes together. The band is wailing in a wild crescendo, an enormous octopus banging cymbals, triangles, tambourines, anything noisy within its reach. The trumpet screams, he spins her one last time and she dips low, flashing panty for all the world to see. He lets her fall and fall and then catches her inches from the floor, her body feeling weightless against his fingertips. A few people applaud. The singer nods at them, pleased, launching quickly into the next song.

“Oh my,” Lou says.

He lifts her upright and finds his drink. “I could dance with you again,” he says. “I could dance or drink or take you home to make babies. I could do any of that.”

“You and your babies.”

“They’re gonna be so damn cute.”

“Yes,” she says. “I know.” He feels like they’re in Paris, or Rome, somewhere they’ve never been. She glances over his shoulder. She smoothes her hair back into place and he follows her eyes to the darkish corner where David Fulton is standing silent with two other men, holding empty drinks.

“But before the babies,” Lou says. She’s looking at Shane seriously, now, her green eyes flitting almost grim between his eyes and mouth and hair. She catches herself, flashing him her fish face and crossing one eye then the other, a self-trained childhood trick. “I know it’s horribly gauche, dahling, but you must introduce me to that man. Really.”

He smiles at her show. “I don’t even really know him.”

“Make me a hero,” she whispers. “I promise Sloan will never touch you again. Then we can do whatever you want.” She jogs her eyebrows, mock lascivious.

“Okay. What do I say?”

Fulton swivels smoothly toward them as they approach, as if he’s been expecting him all along. “Bravo,” Fulton says. “Now it’s almost a party. You’re not leaving, are you? Is this your wife?”

“Here she is. David, right? This is Lou.”

“Shane was bragging about you outrageously,” Fulton says. “Little did I know he was being modest.” Lou smiles, accepting the compliment with her head and nose and neck. Shane is a little bit surprised to hear Fulton say his name. The man’s voice sounds different now, more calculated, as his mouth forms each word like soft soap bubbles and lets them float into the room. “Are we allowed to say we’ve seen each other before all sweaty and panting in skimpy gym clothes?”

“I think so,” Lou says. “I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

“Deal.”

“It’s a wonderful party,” she breathes, “once again.”

“You must keep dancing.”

“I got you a drink,” Shane says, “but I believe I drank it.”

“Good man. You’ve got a keeper there,” he tells Lou. “I really like this guy.”

“Me too,” she says.

“May I ask a favor?”

“Please,” Lou says.

“I have to leave,” Fulton says. “Will you loan him to me for another drink?”

If she’s surprised she doesn’t show it. “I suppose. Can’t be selfish, can we?”

“Great. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about,” he tells Shane, giving him that basketball look again.

“Me?” Shane feels a strange pressure in his head, a sensation that something else might happen. Lou stands there beside him, the hair on their arms just touching, waiting for him to say something. “Sure,” he says.

“Fantastic. We’ll take good care of him.”

“I’m sure,” she says, smirking proudly at them both. She goes up on tiptoes and kisses Shane on the cheek. “Have a good time.” Together Shane and Fulton watch her go.

“You game?” Fulton says, smiling with mischief in his eyes.

“I guess.” He’s not exactly sure what’s happening, but Lou is happy, he’s happy, everyone seems happy. He can keep drinking, dancing, saying yes. He doesn’t want to do anything to stop it. “Long as it’s worth the interrogation I get tomorrow.”

“Right.” Fulton raises his hand, points around the room, magically collecting sheep. “Let’s blow this Popsicle stand. I got just the place.”

“Oh I believe you,” Shane says.

B
Y MIDNIGHT THEY
are in the heart of the city, watching strange women dance and remove their clothes. The place is famous, but in all the years of bachelor parties Shane has never been here. In addition to the standard stage and table routine, this club boasts a pornographic funhouse, zoo, and circus of naked women in action: soapy good times in the shower room, interactive flashlight games at the lesbo slumber party, athletic prowess at the dildo Olympiad. Fulton pays for everything, laughing, throwing his arm around one buddy and then another, throwing his arm around Shane, hooting at the girls like a corporal set to die tomorrow. Shane doesn’t mind, nothing really bothers him right now as he glides across a calm and drunk plateau where time and place are no longer problems to be solved.

They finally come to rest in the main room at a table, with him and Fulton watching the show while two guys named Dan and Matt argue about something or other. An Ed sleeps comfortably in his chair, dreaming beyond the argument, the music, the flesh. The place is packed. Everyone seems happy, even the girls. You can feel the money seeping through the room like snowmelt.

“Is this what you wanted to talk with me about?” Shane says, as a new woman steps on stage, striking a modern dance pose, hands gripping the pole behind her head.

“Sure,” Fulton says. He points at the dancer. “Exactly.”

The music starts. Shane watches the muscles in her arms stretch taut. She kneads her enormous perfect breasts as she thrusts against an invisible man in front of her, first circular and then pistonal, as the music moves to a frenetic flutter. The invisible man really has her number, and she comes volcanically, the long hair sweeping wild across her shoulders, her back and neck, as she slips seamlessly into the gentle, longing, post-coital dance for more. Sinking to the ground and slowly spreading her thighs wide. It’s her job, but still, he thinks she looks like an A-1 fuck, has won his hard-on fair and square despite the alcohol, the arguments of Dan and Matt, despite the absurdity of strip clubs.

Fulton nods, leaning in and taking a deep breath. He spreads his hands out on the table, steadying his wide shoulders, bracing for conversation. “So does she have it? Or doesn’t she?”

“I’d say yes,” Shane says.

“I’d say no. The motions are there, but she’s not a real.” He makes a fist and frowns, making a mild grunting sound. “You know.”

“No.”

“Come on. You’re observant, you’re a watchful guy. You have your own system, yeah? of seeing through someone’s surface and deciding what they really are.”

What do you know about me, Shane thinks. “I guess I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“No, you were thinking about her tits, we all were, thank god. But let’s go back to your system for a second. I’m interested in how you do this.”

Shane looks at the woman stepping off the stage, pausing to talk to a nearby table. “I don’t know. You go first.”

Fulton laughs. “Let’s see,” he says. “She’s sort of caught in a no-man’s land. Usually people run mainly on instinct or psychology or some fantastic mix of both. She’s neither. Not unhappy in any productive way. Judicious in the way she looks around the room, but she’s not really looking for anything. She’s bland but she doesn’t quite know it. Now you, how would you get to her.”

“Me? I wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t either.” Fulton waves his hand and Shane turns to see the woman in question stepping toward them. She leans over Fulton, who holds her shoulder gently and whispers something in her ear. She laughs, whispers back. He is one of those guys who knows how to talk with strippers. Soon Fulton points and nods and she is on Shane’s lap, her fingers stroking the back of his neck, her breasts bobbing slowly in front of his nose. Her pelvis seems to float on some kind of magic steady-cam technology. Her mouth hovers over his, whisks past his eyes and ears, lips and tongue suggesting terrible things. Shane shakes his head and wedges his hands under his thighs, trying to keep them to himself. She grabs his head and presses it against her breasts and then Fulton shoos her away, slipping her cash as she drags a finger along Shane’s thigh and moves on.

“No, huh?” Fulton shakes his head.

“You coulda fooled me.”

“Come on,” he says, “you knew. You can tell a real cunt the moment she steps in the room. I see the way you handle people. I know you know more than you let on.”

“We must be drunk,” Shane says. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then we’re not drunk enough,” Fulton says. He raises his hand in the air. “We need more drinks here, stat.”

Their waitress, however, is nowhere to be seen, and Dan and Matt begin to explain about poor service here, at times. They know, they were here just last week, turns out, the two of them with a big crew.

“It was pathetic, Schultzy was just lobbing money around and no one had an ounce of respect for the guy. There must have been ten of us with him, gonna show us a rock ’n’ roll time, what a good guy he was, and we’re all just walking up to him, ‘Hey, dickhead, give me another couple hundreds, this girl wants to rub her tits in my face.’ And he’d just hand it to you.”

“Pathetic.”

“Loser.”

“No kind of money is going change that.”

“Better than sitting in the house,” Fulton says. They are watching a new redhead with world-class legs in front of them, sink to the ground, mount an imaginary object, give it the business. “Better than the hoarding masses.”

“You would have loved it, man,” Dan says.

“He’d rented the big Humvee limo.” Matt points at his own chest. “We took it. Ditched him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, was great, he went back to a private room and we got up and jumped in that bad boy and had them drive us cross town.”

“You guys suck.”

“The best part is he came and found us. We were over at Z2 and he shows up, all laughing like he’s a good sport about it.”

“Yeah like, ‘Good one, guys.’”

“And Ed, you know Ed when he gets going, he just keeps twisting the knife, he’s like, ‘Dude, get us a private room upstairs, get us some coke, get us some this.’”

“And he did.”

“Of course he did. What a joke. He had no idea, like, how to go about it. Made a fucking fool of himself. Must have dropped ten grand. More.”

“They should take equity,” Dan says, looking around appraisingly. “Couldn’t you see it? Some canny high-class whores in this town who don’t need the cash, pick their customers company by company, pussy for shares?”

“Sure it’s happening.”

“Would make sense. If anyone needs early retirement.”

“Least scalable profession in the world.”

The waitress who finally comes over to get their drink orders looks familiar, and as she pulls within range Shane realizes he knows her.

“Tanya,” he says, before he can think better of it. It’s been about ten years since she dated Jimmy but he still recognizes her.

She looks at him blankly, then nods. “I know you.”

“Jimmy McCarthy’s brother.”

“Of course.” His companions are looking at him with something new, now—hard to tell if it’s respect or amusement or both. “How is Jimmy?” If she’s embarrassed she doesn’t show it at all.

“He’s same old Jimmy. How about you?”

“Oh, you know.” She rolls her eyes to the room around her, shrugs her shoulders, smiles. “I’m in transition.” She has a pretty wonderful smile.

“I hear you.”

She glances around the table at the others before settling on Fulton. “Hey there,” she says, giving Fulton one of those smiles too. “How you been?”

“Super,” Fulton says.

“Good to see ya. What’s everyone drinking?”

“I think we’re still tequila, is that right?”

“I can’t drink any more tequila,” Matt says. “Gimme a Heineken and a water.”

“That for everybody,” Fulton says. “And four shots of the best tequila, too.”

“Are you looking for a job?” Dan reaches out and runs his fingers lightly up her arm, and she pulls it back, glancing at Shane.

“Hey,” Shane tells Dan, and the guy removes his hand, still looking intently at her face.

“I have a job.”

“I mean, in transition, I thought. Well I thought you might be interested in a highly opportune opportunity.” Dan sounds pretty drunk, all of a sudden.

“No, thanks,” she says sweetly, although there’s just a hint of curiosity in her face. She holds his glance for a second and then ditches him, moving away to get their drinks.

“Don’t be a dink Dan,” Fulton says.

“Trade shows,” he says. “These girls rock the house. Is she smart?” he asks.

“She dated my brother, she can’t be too smart.” Shane wonders how long it’s been since someone punched Dan in the mouth.

“It doesn’t really matter. You ask her,” he says, leaning heavily in Shane’s direction, breathing alcohol in his face, “Seriously, she can make good money doing the trade shows. There is no substitute for putting a hot chick with gazungas at the booth. Trust me. I been to a shit load of shows, and they are all out sausage fests. Free crap and hot chicks, that’s what it comes down to. Fortunes have been lost and made on racks like that.”

“I bet she pulls down more here in a couple nights than she would doing a week of trade shows.”

“Fuck that. There’s not company one out there that isn’t loosening its belt, so to speak.” He laughs at his own little joke. “That bod, she can talk a bit, she names her price. I know a dozen startups trying to bust out that’d take her on. Guaranteed she could work it into a nice trade show consultant racket.”

“Unless she’s cutting deals here on the side,” Matt says.

“Fuck,” Dan says. “You want to cut a deal on the side, you cut ’em better at a trade show. You think there’s money here? This year in Vegas, I’ve never seen pockets so deep.”

“You know what?” Shane says, rattling the ice in his empty drink, waiting for the next. He finds Dan’s small young blue eyes and takes a moment to look inside. “You are really starting to annoy me.”

The guy looks at his buddy Matt and then back as if seeing Shane for the first time. “Right, she’s your friend,” Dan says, smiling. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just thinking out loud.”

“Come on though,” Matt says, “it has to be a better job than this.”

“That’s all I’m saying,” Dan says. “It’s no joke. Listen, I’m not sure what you do, but there really are secretaries at Yahoo who’re millionaires now. Millionaires. I don’t know why anyone wouldn’t at least try to get in on it while it lasts. This,” Dan says, waving his hand around, “this ain’t going nowhere.”

“I think his point is,” Fulton pitches in suddenly, “why don’t you guys ever shut the fuck up? You see what I’m talking about?” he says, gesturing at Shane with sympathy. “These guys think they’re businessmen, and they can’t read people for shit, they don’t even know until you’re about to shove their drinks up their ass.” Matt and Dan laugh. Fulton lowers his voice so they can’t hear them. “Next time just do it. I’m serious, just fucking do it. No one lets their instincts call the shots anymore.”

Tanya returns to the table. When she leans over his shoulder Shane can smell her perfume and a salty patina of youthful sweat.

“Won’t you join us?” Fulton asks her. “A quick drink with old friends.”

“I’d love to, but.” She smiles at Shane. “I’m almost off, maybe I’ll get a chance before you go.”

“That’d be nice,” Shane says.

“It sure would,” Dan adds as she retreats.

“Cheers,” Fulton says to Shane, clinking tequilas with him.

“I’ll drink to that,” Matt says, shooting his down the hatch.

Shane shoots his too and then takes a long pull on his beer. What does Lou think he’s doing out here? Her clothes are lying in a runway across the bedroom floor, his wife naked and at rest in bed. Deep in dreams, her breath deep and slow. He gets up and walks carefully to the bathroom and then back to finish his drink. It’s been too long since he’s had five six drinks too many. It has to be done. It’s good for the mind, a rare storm that reshapes the river and shakes dead limbs off trees. Excess is important. Strippers are stripping. Ed is awake now, grumbling about the lack of drugs.

“There’s probably about five dudes within a block of here selling crack,” Fulton says.

“Where are we, anyway?”

“Tenderloin,” Shane says.

“I’d come with you to buy crack,” Fulton says, “I really wouldn’t want to miss that.”

“Yeah,” Ed says unhappily. “Tenderloin’s right up your alley.”

“Come on. Let’s do it.”

“Let’s do something,” Matt says. “This is lame.”

Fulton nods, grimly, and they all rise to leave, Fulton lingering behind to settle up. Outside, Fulton’s big black BMW is waiting for them, the chauffeur stone-faced patient inside. They sit in silence, waiting for Fulton. When he finally emerges he has Tanya and another woman in tow, the three of them enjoying an unheard joke as they pack into the car. It’s cozy in there. Tanya sits on Shane’s lap. He hopes he’s drunk enough.

“Where we going?” someone says.

They drive into the middle of nowhere, down near the abandoned docks off Third Street where suddenly a club appears, filled with hipster kids. It’s too loud in there to talk but Tanya tries anyway, giving up when Matt whisks her away to dance. Fulton follows with her friend, leaning down to shout in Shane’s ear, “DJ Crackhead’s in the house!” and Shane doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean but sits drinking by himself, watching the world have a vigorous good time. Dan and Ed are off looking for more girls and maybe coke. The bar stops serving alcohol and the music turns up another notch. He wanders off to wait for the bathroom and when the door unlocks and opens, out tumbles Fulton with a very young Asian guy, laughing and slapping hands lightly as they part. Fulton winks at Shane, raising his eyebrows in silent question, but Shane brusques by him, pretending not to notice.

When he gets back Fulton and Tanya are tearing it up on the dance floor, both waving at him to come out but he finds his seat and stays absolutely put. Fulton swings into range, otter-slick with sweat. “How you doing?” he yells.

“I’m pretty fucked up.”

“Good,” Fulton shouts. “We’ll load up on girls and drugs and head back to my place. I’ve got some great scotch. This place is horrible. My friends are assholes, don’t you think?”