The 25th Hour (15 page)

More than anything, Slattery doesn’t want Naturelle to think he’s a fool. It’s not that he wants to steal Monty’s woman, he just wants to fuck her, one time. For years he has been subjected to her body, in a bikini at Jones Beach, in torn jeans in downtown bars, in black bicycle shorts in Central Park, in tight dresses in dance clubs. When Naturelle dances, Slattery tries not to watch.

One time he was playing basketball with Monty in Riverside Park. Slattery has always been a proud athlete; he does not enjoy sports he has no talent for. Still, he played hard that day, jogging to his spot under the net after each change of possession, grimly elbowing anyone who stood too close. All the men were shirtless, playing or waiting on the sidelines for the next game. The women stood on the perimeter of the court, fingers locked in the chain-link fence, chattering over the drumbeat of bouncing balls and skidding shoes. Naturelle wore a skirt so short that Slattery wondered why bother with a skirt. ‘That skirt’s out of hand,’ he said to Monty. ‘I can see the bottom part of her ass.’ Monty just shrugged. ‘I can see your belly button,’ he said, pointing, and Slattery stared down at his outie.

Naturelle takes another drink from Jakob’s beer. ‘What are you thinking, Frank?’

Slattery cracks his thumb knuckle. ‘Just wondering where the man is.’

‘Like he’s ever on time?’

‘He better be on time tomorrow,’ says Slattery. ‘If you don’t show up when they tell you to show up, it’s a felony.’

The fly hovers near Naturelle’s face; she purses her lips and blows it away. ‘He will. It’s his dad’s bar otherwise.’

‘How’s his dad doing?’ asks Jakob.

‘He looks like he’s aged twenty years the last few months.’

‘I always liked him,’ says Jakob. ‘He was always really nice to me. God, he’s had it hard.’

Naturelle nods. ‘This is a horrible thing to say, but I don’t think Mr Brogan’s going to make it seven years. He has nothing left.’

Slattery knocks three times on the seat of the bar stool. ‘Look, what are we doing? Sitting around talking about how sad it all is, what’s the point? It’s reality. Our boy’s got ten hours left; what are we going to do, sit around crying, holding hands?’

Naturelle rises from her stool and smooths down her dress. ‘All right. Give us some more sex tips, that’ll cheer things up. Which way is the bathroom?’

‘Very funny,’ says Slattery.

‘All the way back,’ says Jakob. They watch her walk past the dart players, who elbow each other and laugh as their leader mimes taking a dagger to the heart. Good-looking women are uncommon in the Bug Bar.

‘I bet
she
cries after doing it,’ says Slattery, staring intently at the dart players, who resolutely ignore him. He raises his empty glass to Jody again, but Jody is watching someone enter the bar. Without turning around he knows that Monty is here at last. Women are always watching Monty enter rooms.

Jakob and Slattery rise and take turns embracing him. Monty’s face is flushed from the cold, his watch cap and camel’s-hair coat dusted with snow. His arms around his friends’ shoulders, he smiles at Jody and orders three Jameson’s.

‘Nat’s in the bathroom,’ says Slattery.

Monty nods. ‘You been here long?’

‘Nah.’

‘They’re throwing me a party at VelVet. We ought to go over there pretty soon.’ Monty releases his friends and scans the faces in the barroom. ‘What is this place?’

‘Frank wants to be a redneck,’ says Jakob. ‘He comes here and whistles Dixie while he’s peeing.’

Jody lines up three glasses of whiskey. ‘You guys ought to come by on Sunday for the Super Bowl. We’re setting up a big-screen TV. Linda has a cousin who plays for the Packers. He looks just like her, except he’s six hundred pounds.’

Slattery rubs the calluses on his palm and Jakob stares silently at the floor.

Jody laughs. ‘You don’t have to come. I was just saying.’

Monty claps his hands together loudly. Everyone stares at him. He takes a cocktail napkin from the bar and wipes the crushed fly off his palm, then balls the napkin and tosses it into the wastepaper basket below the cash register. He smiles and lifts his glass to Jody. ‘Fuck Sunday,’ he says, by way of a toast, and drinks his whiskey down.

Fifteen

‘The whole city came out to say goodbye,’ says Monty, stepping out of the taxicab.

A roiling mob occupies the block, hundreds of teenagers camped out before the massive red doors of VelVet. Clots of smokers lean against the building, sheltering their lit cigarettes from the falling snow, cupping their palms to block the wind. Others sit on parked cars, drinking beer from forty-ounce bottles in brown paper bags. None of them are dressed properly for the weather, and none of them seem to care.

‘You’ve got a lot of young fans,’ says Naturelle. ‘I think we’re the oldest ones here.’

‘Wait here a minute,’ says Monty, and he slips through the maze of bodies and faces, boys and girls semi-engaged in languid, broken conversations.

‘Tosh is having people over, but it’s Tosh . . .’

‘I know. I hate that look. She’s always giving me that look . . .’

‘ . . . already six inches. Seb’s talking about boarding upstate tomorrow . . .’

‘I bought the first one. That’s more jungle. He’s not so jungle anymore . . .’

‘That’s good green. That is good green . . .’

‘The R train is hell, man. It’s like pioneer days. I’m riding that shit for weeks before I get home . . .’

Monty makes his way to the velvet ropes. A pillar of a man wearing the exact same camel’s-hair coat as Monty is checking names off a clipboard.

‘Nice coat, you bastard,’ says Monty.

The bouncer frowns, looks up, and breaks into a broad smile. ‘It’s the man. The man has arrived. Wearing my coat.’

‘No, no, no,’ says Monty. ‘My coat. I bought this two years ago.’

‘What’s that, the Woolworth’s special? It came with a set of flatware?’

‘Khari, my young Negro friend, this is a Paul Stuart coat. Maybe you heard of Paul Stuart. That’s the store you can’t get into ’cause they take one look at your polyester-blended ass and laugh you back to Queens.’

Khari smiles. ‘I hope you got some seven-year mothballs for that Paul Stuart coat.’

Monty hesitates and then laughs, deciding it’s better this way; he’s sick of being around people who treat him as if he’ll die in the morning. ‘What’s with all the kids?’

‘I’ve been seeing some serious fake IDs,’ says Khari. ‘This one punk had it perfect, New York State license, everything legitimate but for one thing; it said he was born in 1947. I look at him and I’m like, “Buddy, no way you are fifty years old.” And he just says, “Goddamn, every time. The fucker got the numbers reversed.” It was supposed to say 1974.’

‘What’s going on tonight?’

‘The legendary D. J. Dusk is spinning wax. My homeboy from Hollis. Boy’s seventeen years old. He gets the girlies moving. But yo, they got the VIP room set up for y’all.’

‘I’ve got my people waiting on the street. You want me to bring them through here?’

‘Nah,’ says Khari. ‘Bring ’em over to the avenue entrance. You know where I’m talking about?’ He flips the walkie-talkie and catches it in his giant palm. ‘I’ll tell them you’re coming.’

‘Thanks, Khari.’

‘You got it. When you going in?’

‘Noon.’

‘Otisville, right?’

Monty nods.

‘Uncle got any people in there?’

‘No one worth knowing,’ says Monty.

‘My boy Etienne’s at Otisville. Remember this name: Etienne Michaux. He’s got sway in there. You going to remember that name?’

‘Etienne Michaux. What is he, Haitian?’

‘Nah, he’s from Paris. Tell him you’re friends with Khari. He’ll set you up. He’s in tight with the screws.’

‘The screws?’

‘The guards, man, the guards. The federals, they run a nicer place. Lot nicer than State.’

Monty smiles. ‘I’m a lucky kid.’

‘Luck of the Irish, right?’

‘Luck of the Irish.’

Khari grips Monty’s shoulder. ‘Listen up – don’t lose your temper unless it’s time to lose your temper. You hear?’

‘All right,’ says Monty. ‘I’ll see you around the way.’ He slides back through the crowd and signals his friends to follow him.

Jakob steps onto the sidewalk and maps out his route. He watches disdainfully as Slattery lowers his head and bulls forward, forcing the youngsters to step aside as he crashes through them. No style, thinks Jakob. The tragedy of it all, he decides, is that nobody appreciates my one great talent. He cannot remember ever receiving a compliment for his pedestrian maneuvers. Tonight the level of difficulty is considerable: four drinks (six if you count the two with LoBianco), a packed sidewalk, slippery snow that makes lateral movement problematic. Monty is a good walker; Jakob can admit that. Monty is elegant. But it’s obvious that Monty never really thinks about his walk; it’s all instinctive. Naturelle drafts on Slattery; she lets him break through the mob and then follows him down the cleared path as the teenage boys turn to look at her. Jakob paces carefully after them, circling behind a stoned, swaying girl who holds her mouth open to the sky and tries to catch snowflakes.

‘Hey, Elinsky! Mr Elinsky! Hey!’

Jakob freezes for a second. Nothing good can possibly come of this. He keeps walking.

‘Elinsky! Ha, it’s Elinsky!’

A hand catches his sleeve and Jakob is forced to turn around, forced to stare into the unnaturally shining eyes of Mary D’Annunzio.

Jakob says, ‘Oh.’ He comes very close to saying Oh, no, but closes his mouth before the
no
can escape.

‘What are you doing here? God, I didn’t know you ever left the school. I thought you had a bed down in the boiler room or something.’

Jakob’s mind rifles through possible escape plans. He considers using
I am not who you think I am; I am the twin brother of Jakob Elinsky
– but the last time he tried that line nobody believed him and he ended up in worse straits.

‘Mary D’Annunzio,’ he says, stalling for time. She wears a pair of old-fashioned dark denim jeans, the cuffs rolled up over her black boots; a fake raccoon-fur coat; and no hat, her wet black hair snaking across her forehead and neck. Black trails of eye shadow stain her cheeks.

‘Mary B-plus D’Annunzio, that’s me.’ She misreads the look of terror on his face and adds, ‘I’m kidding, it’s not a big deal. It was kind of a crappy story, actually.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ says Jakob. ‘I’m here with friends.’

‘Yeah, that guy who was talking to the bouncer, right? He knows people, huh? What do you think, could he get us in?’

‘Um, I don’t—;’

‘They’re not letting anybody in right now; they say it’s too crowded already. I have to get in there. You’re a fan of Dusk?’

‘Sure.’

‘He’s the absolute truth, right? He is so truth. I can’t believe you’re into Dusk! No offense, I mean, but I thought you were more into flutes or—;’

‘I think Dusk is very good,’ says Jakob, ‘but I like his earlier stuff better.’

‘His earlier stuff?’

‘Jake, what are you doing?’ Monty has circled back and now motions for Jakob to hurry up. ‘I’ve got a guy holding the door for us.’

‘I’m Mary D’Annunzio,’ she says, not letting go of Jakob’s coat sleeve.

‘Great,’ says Monty. ‘Come on, buddy, let’s go.’

‘I’m with Jake,’ says Mary, resting her head on Jakob’s chest. ‘We’re lovers.’

Jakob closes his eyes.

Monty grins. ‘Is that right? I didn’t realize you two were lovers. Well, come on, plenty of room inside.’

‘Wait,’ says Mary. ‘I’ve got three friends.’

Monty stares at her. ‘You’ve got three friends? What are you, retarded? You want to get in or not?’

‘All right,’ she says. ‘Better one than none.’

Jakob’s eyes are still closed.

‘Let’s go,’ Monty tells her. ‘Get your lover moving and follow me.’

‘They’ll catch up,’ says Naturelle, leading Slattery up a flight of stairs.

‘You know where you’re going?’ Slattery carries both their overcoats draped over one arm.

‘I’ve been here too many times,’ she says. ‘But they play good music.’

Slattery commands himself to keep his eyes on the stairs and off of Naturelle’s silver-clad behind. On the third flight of stairs he disobeys his orders for a moment, and then he is lost, everything in the world falling away from the beautiful shimmer before his eyes.

‘Monty’s acting strange,’ says Naturelle.

‘Yeah.’

‘We’ve got to keep an eye on him. Okay? Frank?’ She turns around and stares down at him. He looks up at her and smiles. ‘Are you listening to me?’

‘Keep an eye on him. Right. Why, what are you thinking?’

She shrugs and continues climbing. ‘He’s just acting really strange. You don’t think he’s acting strange?’

‘He’s going to prison in a few hours, Nat. How do you want him to act?’

‘I want him to act like he’s scared.’ She leads Slattery through a gray steel door and the music washes over them, a wave of bass. They stand on a long balcony fifty feet above the dance floor; they grip the railing and stare down at the writhing mass of people.

‘I’ve never seen it this crowded,’ says Naturelle. Slattery shakes his head, unable to understand her over the music. ‘Here!’ she shouts. ‘This way!’

He follows her to the end of the balcony, down a short flight of stairs. A man with a terrible burn scar across one side of his face, the skin unnaturally taut and glistening with ointment, stands in front of a velvet curtain. He smiles as they approach, bends down to kiss Naturelle’s cheek.

‘Where’s the man?’ he asks, shouting into her ear.

‘He’ll be here in a minute! Oscar, this is Frank!’

Slattery and the bouncer nod at each other. Naturelle pushes aside the curtain and leads the way into the empty VIP room. ‘I guess we’ve got the place to ourselves. It’s a little quieter, anyway.’

‘What happened to his face?’ Slattery whispers.

‘I don’t know. I asked Monty and he says, “He burned himself.”’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s like, Thank you, Montgomery.’

Slattery hates nightclubs. He hates the ultra-hip kids who weigh ninety pounds and smoke unfiltered cigarettes, hates the bathroom scene where men stand for ten minutes before the mirror, pomading their hair, inspecting their smiles, adjusting the crotch of their pants. And, looking around, he hates this VIP room. The walls are covered with crushed red velvet. The couches are upholstered in red velvet, the overstuffed chairs are upholstered in red velvet, the carpet is red faux-velvet. A small bar in the far corner is wrapped in red velvet. A pale woman in a green dress stands behind the bar, waving to Naturelle. A black steel question mark hangs from the ceiling in the center of the room, the period dangling seven feet from the ground. D. J. Dusk’s pulsing beats pour from speakers bolted to the walls.