“I had three calls on my machine at home from S&M clients,” Steve told them, causing a volley of looks between them all. Hungry looks.
“What did they want?” Bunker asked, and to that question Steve preceded his answer with a smile that swelled upon his face.
“They want their money to follow us.” But after a second he decided to clarify, and set his happy gaze upon one of their number in particular. “To follow Jay.”
Bunker thought about this for a moment, a slight bout of puzzlement rising. “How’d they get your number?”
“Money gets what money wants,” Jude explained, then put glass to lip and savored a slow taste of Jack. He had for some reason decided that, from this night forward, they would drink only whiskey, only Jack Daniels, and nothing else. Some sort of marker of their beginning, the others figured, and so they that night they were all in possession of medium sized glasses filled to various levels with the sweet brown taste of Jack.
“No shit,” Steve agreed. “And there was plenty of damn money on that tape, if you know what I mean.” They didn’t, so he filled them in. “One of the messages was from Teddy Malone.”
“Teddy Malone?” Bunker said, shocked in that way one might be when the lottery numbers were announced and sounded pretty damn familiar. “Teddy Malone?”
Jay’s look bounced between Jude and Steve, both of whom were grinning like cats who’d just discovered the land of wingless birds. “So the talk wasn’t just talk.”
“No it wasn’t, buddy,” Jude said, taking another sip. He was drinking different now, Jay thought. Not as hard, not as fast. Now it was almost an act of contentment, an expression of satisfaction. “He’s the kind of client Mitchell would have handled himself.”
“Mitchell can hardly handle talking and thinking at the same time,” Jay exclaimed calmly, though he could have shouted and the outburst would have been lost in the pulse of the music. Latin tonight, he thought. Steamy, sexy rhythms that hinted at wonderfully obscene activities to be shared by man and woman. Or woman and woman, he corrected himself, spying Christine Mellinger and her obvious interest in the happenings on stage. Spying that and, as her head turned toward their table, the look upon her face and in her eyes that, itself, suggested activities that could get one arrested in certain Southern states.
“Well we
can
handle him,” Jude assured his friend, then went on to share what he knew of Theodore Travis Malone of Boston, Mass. What his businesses were, his family ties, social and professional standings, estimated net worth, all information drawn on ‘sources’ which Mr. Jude Duffault referred to frequently but never saw fit to identify. But it was information that whizzed by Jay’s whiskey-flushed ears without taking hold because he was, at that very moment, otherwise engaged.
Engaged in a bout of eyelock with Miss Christine Mellinger, breaker of hearts and maker of hardons. It was probably just a second, Jay figured, maybe just a split second, though it was seeming a lot longer than either. A lot longer. A glorious few seconds or minutes or hours it was that her gaze lingered, and lingered upon him. Locked with his. Saying nothing, but also saying...something. Something remarkable simply by the fact that it was
her
playing eye footsies with
him
.
And then she was looking no more. Her head turned, back to the stage, those eyes sampling Buffalo Kabuki’s main course once again.
“Yo, farmboy.”
The nick drew Jay’s attention back to his buds. “What?”
Jude looked past Jay to Miss Plastic Fantastic herself, then right at his friend, a hint of annoyance clear in his stare. “I thought we were here to talk about making some green.”
“We’re doing that,” Jay said. “Aren’t we?”
“Some of us are,” Jude parried. “If Bunk and Steve can keep their eyeballs off her for one night, maybe you could?”
The man with the Midas touch or not, Jay knew his friend was right. Sure, he was the reason they were here, but they had all quit their jobs, not just Mr. Hot Shot. Steve and Bunker and Jude had all taken big old fucking leaps from a place where safe paychecks came with precise regularity every two weeks, and they had done so because of him. To be with him. To be together. What was it Bunk had said as they strolled out of S&M’s fourteenth floor office for the last time? What name had he given them? The Green Machine? Yeah, that was it. The Green Machine indeed. That was exactly what they were.
Correction, Jay realized. What they were going to
be
. So it was time to get serious.
“Right,” Jay said, signaling that he was a hundred percent present and accounted for. He took a healthy drink of Jack, knocking maybe ten percent off his attentiveness with that step toward the night’s inevitable state of drunkenness, and sneered dismissively in Christine Mellinger’s direction. “Fuck her. Let’s get down to it.”
And down to it they got, hashing out a rudimentary plan of action. Naturally, they first discussed the split of all moneys earned—four ways, evenly, it was agreed (or ‘fifty, fifty, fifty, fifty’ as Bunker put it, his own drunk coming on strong already). Next they divided up the responsibilities that would come with running their own firm. Steve and Jude would be the front men, the glad handers, the ass kissers, the cold callers selling a very hot product. Bunker, he would handle the research, research, research (some S&M lessons had been learned, and learned well), and would do everything necessary to support the Green Machine’s money making engine, Jay, who would work his magic (though no one put it that way, they were all thinking it) the way he’d been working it for nearly a month now, without fail. And they talked about clients, those that had indicated their desire to follow the Green Machine, and those who would be made to see the light. Raiding, they were clearly talking about, a practice not only frowned upon, but one that the boys knew could bring the broker’s best friend and worst enemy into the picture: lawyers. But, they all decided, fuck it. People had free will. If they wanted to dump S&M, or any other broker on the Street, it was their God given right to do so, and more power to them. So that issue was put aside, and for a moment it was thought that all had been discussed. But it hadn’t.
“You are forgetting one little detail, gentlemen,” Jude informed them. “We have a ready client list to get us going. We need a place to service these enlightened people who will bring us their money.” He emptied his glass with a long, slow sip that seemed a hyphen in the conversation, not a period, and held his empty high in the air to call the waitress over. “And I, gentlemen, believe I know just the place.”
Curious, glassy looks bounced around among them, but it was Jay who finally asked the question. “Where?”
Suzy got to their table before Jude could answer, though he seemed in no hurry to do so in any case. He seemed, in fact, the almost giddy keeper of some great surprise, some fantastic irony, and it was with a Cheshire Cat grin that he looked to pretty little Suzy and said, “One bottle of Jack to go.”
She smiled back, apologizing with a fence of bright white teeth. “We can’t do that. Sorry.”
Jude said nothing at first. He simply nodded, as though accepting the reality of liquor laws without argument. But he was not accepting of said realities, not in the least, and this became apparent when he his hand disappeared into his pocket and quickly reappeared with a C-note, which he laid carefully on Suzy’s tray. “That, baby, is for the bottle. Its twin is in my pocket just waiting to be reunited with his brother. I think from that you can figure your tip.”
Suzy eyed the money, then Jude, then the three fellows with him, then the money again for a very brief moment before taking the first twin and folding it as she stuffed it down the front of her skimpy red panties. “Get his brother packed,” she told Jude. “I’ll be back with your bottle in a flash.”
“Take your time,” Jude said. “You look good going as well as coming.”
She flashed Jude that super sincere smile, the same beam of glee she’d aimed at Jay that night he’d learned and forgotten her name., though this time he was not quite as drunk—not yet, at least—and in that expression of hers that had looked so sweet through a whiskey haze, he could see the bitterness that booze had conveniently twisted in service of its master. She was not as she had seemed, Jay realized, and so now scrutinized what else about her that had enticed, glimpsing her pretty little face as she turned and moved away, and what he saw was truth. Pretty little Suzy was not so pretty, and the wiggle that had stirred in him the things that would stir in young men now seemed to trail her like some bad imitation of a streetwalker’s mating call. It was made to order, suggestive, inviting. Vulgar, he thought now, and finally looked away and to his drink, which he stared at for a moment before downing what remained of it fast enough to bring an instant flush to his cheeks. What was the bumper sticker he’d spied on a weathered young woman’s red sports job once?
Drink ‘til he’s cute...
Damn if that wasn’t a plan, he wholeheartedly concurred. Liquor yourself up enough and
anything
could be made to look pretty damn good. Anything at all.
“Jude,” Bunker said, leaning (or maybe ‘tilting’ now, as things were) toward his friend. “That’s two hundred fucking bucks you promised her!”
“Bunk, we’ll be wiping our asses with hundreds in a few weeks,” Jude told him, with such pure confidence that Bunker backed away after a few seconds, smiling and nodding. Jude then looked right at the magic man himself and asked, “Isn’t that right, Grady?”
“Fuck yeah,” Jay said, knowing Jude was right. Knowing this all was right. Right as rain, and wasn’t that strange? he found himself thinking as Suzy snuck the bottle back to them in a bag and got the rest of the biggest fucking tip she’d probably had in her life. Strange not because of how it was happening. Or why. No, strange simply because beneath all the queer events, beneath all the knowing, somewhere deep, deep down in the bowels of the infinite universe where things were set to spinning, where things began, the undeniable understanding had suddenly risen in Jay that all this was supposed to be. That this, this wonderland of wonderlands, was the field upon which his destiny would be realized.
It was fate. His fate. And a pretty damn acceptable one at that, Jay thought, smiling big and wide as they all rose and moved as an unsteady unit to the door.
The space was huge, and raw, and empty. The floor was bare and hard, and the walls were scabbed with pieces of some covering that had not been so completely removed. Dead lights hung from the ceiling, as did the occasional tile, exposing the netherworks of ducts and wiring above. It was a wreck. And it was perfect.
“What do you think?” Jude asked them, his arms outstretched toward all corners of the space, the bottle of Jack strangled by the neck in one hand.
Steve turned slowly around, taking the whole place in. “This is really big.”
Jude passed him the bottle, and he took a swig. “This is fucking
huge
, Steverino.”
“How’d you find out about this?” Bunker asked, taking the bottle from Steve and downing a swallow as well.
“Let me guess,” Jay said before Jude could answer. “Sources?”
Jude snatched the bottle of Jack from Bunker and handed it to Jay. “Could be.”
Jay drank, and scanned the space, the only light that which was filtering in through the massive bank of windows spanning one full side of the area. Plenty of space, he thought. More than plenty. Room to grow, even. And all a place they could call their own, make their own.
“Oh,” Jude said excitedly, heading for one corner of the space and beckoning his buds to follow. “Over here. Over here.”
They went to where he stood. He took the bottle back from Jay and drew long on it. When it came away from his face there was a smile as big as the crescent moon upon it.
“What?” Jay asked his madly grinning friend, thinking he had two of those now...if this expression never left Jude’s face, for some reason.
“The spot, boys.”
They looked at each other, then Steve asked, “What spot?”
Jude jumped up and down on the solid concrete floor. “Does anyone know what is right below this spot? Right down there?”
“What?” Bunker bit.
“The fat man’s office,” Jude told them, then exploded into laughter.
“Fucking A,” Steve commented, shaking his head and grinning wide himself now.
“We’d be right above the fat fuck’s head!” Jude said with glee, then roared some more, almost doubling over.
“You are incredible, Duffault,” Jay said. He took the bottle of Jack and drank from it. “Incredible.”
Jude fought the mirth down. “It’s my way, buddy boy. You got your talent, I got mine.”
“Speaking of talent,” Bunker began, “just how did you get the guard to let us in the building?”
“Money, money, money,” Jude answered. “Plus he hates Mitchell’s ample guts. I guess the Old Man treated him like some thirties-era doorman once too often. ‘Hurry, boy.’ ‘Get that door, boy, God dammit!’“
Steve was nodding. “I heard him say shit like that, just like some
Vuh
ginia plantation master talking to a slave.”
“Son of a bitch,” Jay said in admiration of his best bud once more. “You sure you need me, Duffault? You got plenty of your own moves.”
Jude reached out and took the bottle with one hand, and put the other on Jay’s shoulder as he faced him. “I need you,” he said with mock, almost weepy seriousness. “Will you marry me?”
They broke into laughter which rolled on, settling to chuckles and smiles as they wandered back to the center of the space. There Jude took the Jack and put the bottle on the pitted floor. “Right here is where it goes.”
“What goes?” Jay asked.
“The desk. Our desk. A big X.” He nodded to them, to himself, signaling that this was all for real. Really damn real. “X marks our spot.”
They all agreed without having to say a word. The Judester had done it again. An X for a desk. Cool it was, man. Mucho cool.
“So we can get this place?” Jay asked.
“With people like Teddy Malone on our client list we can,” Jude told him. “And fuck those hovels we’re in now. Find yourselves Realtors, boys, ‘cause we movin’ on up!”