00:45 am
...
Screwball swigs out of a bottle of cheap wine and belches loudly. “Why the hell we always hanging out in the churchyard at Old Saint Patrick's?”
“I like the dead,” Wiley replies. “They don't gimme any grief.” He stubs out his cigarette on one of the gravestones then flicks it away.
The supposedly haunted cemetery is surrounded by a wall at least ten foot tall. Wiley can't imagine how it was ever remotely effective. Despite the size of the wall, despite the iron gates at front of the property, this place isn't at all difficult to get into. The cathedral, itself, evokes conflicting emotions within him. On the one hand, it was his sanctuary on many an evening; a place to escape his old man, and to draw closer to his real father and savior, Jesus Christ. On the other hand, he now associates the place with that need for escape, and the despairing feeling which accompanies it.
He turns his attention to the tenement block across the street on Mulberry, where he still lives with his forty-eight year old mother. He still dreams of making enough money, of being a success at something -
anything
- to get them out of there. Notwithstanding the fact the apartment is too small (you couldn't swing a cat in there without completely redecorating the walls with it), he swears he can smell his old man of late. The reek of an unknown specific brand of cheap aftershave mixed with Scotch whiskey is unmistakeable; like a signature from Hell. He even considers it might be his old man's ghost come back to haunt them. He wouldn't put anything past the bastard. Not even death.
Wiley has mixed feelings regarding the neighborhood he grew up in. Things are gradually changing, in part, thanks to various regeneration projects. Those behind such projects like to call it 'progress', but it isn't progress for everyone. It pushes up rents - meaning a lot of people who have lived in the neighborhood all their lives are forced to move out - and attracts middle-class vermin. He likes to think of this vermin as fakers. Their smiles are fake, their lives are fake, and even their orgasms are no doubt fake. He loathes the sight of them, and everything they stand for.
He turns his back to the tenement view and touches the small black crucifix hanging around his neck. He'll get himself and his mom out of here yet.
He still has faith
.
Len sits under a fairly large tree, snapping twigs.
“Both my parents are dead,” he tells them.
“We
know
,” Screwball says. “That's why you're so fat and fucked up.”
“Is not,” Len replies. “I'm fat cuz I eat a lot, and I eat a lot cuz I'm unhappy.”
Kobie throws a peanut M&M at Len. “You're fat cuz you eat shit all the time.”
The M&M bounces off Len's head and lands in the soft grass. He makes a distressed sound, like he's just lost a hundred bucks, and frantically searches for it.
Screwball takes another swig from his bottle, then starts to violently splutter. He staggers over to one of the larger gravestones and hurls all over it. “Ugh ... went down the wrong pipe.”
“Fucksake,” Kobie says, “show some goddamn respect. Can't believe you're throwin' up on dead people.”
Screwball staggers over to Kobie. “I'm throwin' up on their stones, not them.”
Kobie pushes him away. “Git the hell off me.”
Screwball just about manages to remain on his feet, then points at Kobie and starts to laugh. “Man, you're so black under that hood all I can see is your eyes.”
Kobie reaches out and grabs himself a fistful of Screwball's Yankees jersey. He pulls the Texan so close he can smell the booze on his breath. “Don't you dare go racial on me.”
“I ain't no racist,” Screwball protests.
“Goddamn hillbilly.”
“Hillbilly? I can't even play banjo, so quit your rappin'.”
“There you go again,” Kobie snarls.
In a futile attempt to hide, Screwball reaches up and pulls the tip of his baseball cap over his eyes. “Wish my folks never moved me to this god damn jungle –
shit, I never meant that one
!”
Kobie raises a fist and prepares to pummel Screwball. “Okay, now you crossed the line!”
Wiley approaches the feuding duo. “Knock it off, girls.”
Despite Wiley's words, Kobie still considers turning Scre
wball's face into hamburger. After a moment’s thought, however, he decides against the action and releases him.
Screwball straightens out his jersey.
“You've had too much to drink.” Wiley snatches the wine bottle from Screwball's hand.
Screwball protests, and attempts to reclaim it.
Wiley holds the booze out of reach. “Stan ... I won't warn you twice.”
Wiley just called Screwball 'Stan', which means a line has been drawn that's not to be crossed.
Screwball twists his baseball cap back to front and shrugs - “Whatever” - then walks away on faltering legs.
Wiley sniffs the opening of the bottle ... then pulls back sharply from it. “Fucksake, what the hell is this? Smells like floor cleaner.”
“It's probably moonshine,” Kobie says.
“That's the
goood
stuff,” Screwball sings. He steps behind a medium-sized gravestone and stops there. Moments later, a spattering sound can be heard and wisps of steam rise into the air.
“What the hell,” Kobie says, “he's takin' a piss on someone's grave.”
Wiley empties Screwball's bottle of toxic waste onto the grass then pulls something from the back pocket of his jeans. “Any of you guys got a MetroCard?”
“I got one,” Kobie says. “It's good for a few more days. My grandma lives over in Queens. I like t
o keep an eye on her. She almost brought me up.”
Len picks himself up. “I don't got one.”
“That's because you don't go no farther than the candy store,” Kobie says.
Len says nothing, merely scowls.
Screwball carefully pulls up his zipper; doesn't want to skin a rabbit; hurt like hell last time.
“Where you get the card?” he asks Wiley.
“Where d'you think? I bought it. Some of us have a job, even if it is a shitty one.”
Screwball flips his baseball cap again. “You never said what you do.”
“It's not important,” Wiley replies.
But it is important. Work is money, and money pays bills and allows him to buy things, however paltry. But there's no way he's ever going to tell any of them he works in a florist shop, doing faggy stuff like helping to display flower arrangements. That would be as bad as admitting you like to wear your girlfriend's bra and panties - not that he currently has a girlfriend. He's still working on that one.
“So what's the plan?” Screwball asks. “You gonna take a ride on a bus somewhere?”
“More like a train,” Wiley replies. He elaborates: "The cams at Union Square station ... they don't work - least not right now they don't.”
Screwball's face glows with delight at the prospect of non-functioning cameras.
“How the hell you know this?” Kobie asks. “I ain't doin' sumthin dumb only to be caught on tape.”
“Remember little Joey Costa?” Wiley asks.
“Yeah,” Kobie says. “He was a greasy little fuck - probably still is.”
“Well, I bumped into him early today,” Wiley says, “- and yeah, he's still a greasy fuck.”
Screwball finds that amusing, and starts to whoop it up real loud.
“Anyway,” Wiley goes on, raising his voice above Screwball's, “his old man works on security at the station, and Joe was tellin’ me that some of the equipment over there is temporarily out.”
“I was down there today, used the Broadway line,” Kobie says.
“Well, apparently the cams were out,” Wiley replies, “and probably still are.”
Len looks confused. “So what are you saying? That we can
do stuff
and not be caught?”
Wiley adopts his most devious grin. “That, Lenny, is exactly what I'm sayin'.”
“Count me the hell in!” Screwball hollers.
Kobie, however, doesn't look quite as sold on the idea: “I dunno, man.”
Wiley puts an arm around him. “We just fucked over some guy and you're worried about this?”
Kobie feels like reminding Wiley that, technically, he didn't fuck anyone over, that all he did was shift a body. “That was different. No one could see us. No cameras there, workin' or whatever. I'm all up for doin' crazy shit - you know that – but I don't wanna walk into no bear trap.”
“Nobody wants caught,” Wiley assures him. “But I swear to you, they're out - actually...” He fishes in his pocket and produces some bills. “I'm so positive we're onto a winner tonight, I'm gonna put my money where my mouth is and pay Screwball and Len's fares. We got nuthin to lose and everything to gain.”
“Wow,” Len says. “Thanks, Wiley!”
Screwball starts doing something that resembles a Red Indian dance, then falls over his legs.
Kobie looks at his feet, thinks things over for a few moments. He could certainly be doing with scoring some cash, through fair means or foul.
“Okay, let's do this then,” he finally says.
Wiley slaps Kobie on the back. “I knew you wouldn't let the team down.” He slips his MetroCard into his rear pocket. From the corner of his eye, he sees Screwball rising to his feet. “Okay guys, let's get outta here the same way we came in, get this night properly underway.”
*
They've been tracking this one guy for the last five or so minutes; spotted him soon after leaving the diner. He's clearly a bad apple. Amber already would go as far as to brand him a serial rapist. Not only can she sense it from him, she can smell it.
They make their way along East 8th street, hanging back and attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible. The guy they're following doesn't look particularly threatening in his pressed white shirt and slacks, but then, perverts don't exactly come with a warning emblazoned in bright neon above their heads.
The creep is tailing a young woman wearing a green kimono-style top, leather knee-high boots and a tight black skirt so short it could double up as a belt. Where the hell she's going is anyone's guess, but judging from her unsteady gait, it's clear to see she's not long stepped out of an establishment with a liquor license.
She stops at the corner along Broadway. Under the radiance of the streetlamp, it becomes obvious she's a particularly attractive girl. Dark-skinned with an hour-glass figure and a mane of shimmering black hair, she's both imposing and vulnerable in equal measure.
She glances over her shoulder - perhaps instinct telling her something's not quite what it seems - then pulls on the black cardigan sweater she's carrying.
Whatever the reason for the girl's glance, the man pursuing her isn't taking any chances. He stops outside of The Bank of America, gets down on one knee and attends to an apparently loose shoe lace. And now he's looking over
his
shoulder, perhaps also getting a tingly -
something's-not-quite-right
- vibe.
Even though there's nothing to suggest they're partaking in their own little stealth mission, Amber goes on the defensive and pushes Michael against a wall.
Michael's a little taken by the move, but isn't complaining. He eagerly meets Amber's moist lips, and slides his hands inside her leather jacket and around her waist.
“Who says we just let this guy be,” he says in between a mouthful of warm tongue.
“He's going to attack the girl,” Amber replies softly. She starts nibbling on Michael's neck. Her hand finds one of his shirt buttons and pops it open. Then it finds another one. And then another. Moments later, that very same hand is slithering around a tight lower abdomen.
Michael immediately feels a physical response stirring down below. “It's not our problem, though - the girl, I mean.”
“I'm still hungry,” Amber purrs, and pushes her tongue past Michael's lips.
Eventually coming up for air, Michael gasps: “You're not making this easy.”
Amber steals a look to her left. The girl is making her way into the road and the man is still feigning shoe lace attendance. Turning back to Michael, she says: “That little snack at the diner wasn't real food.”
“I worked my stomach for years to be able to hold and digest that stuff,” Michael says. “I actually quite enjoyed it.”
“Me too, but we're not like other people. We can't live off it.”
“I know that, but-”
Amber grabs Michael's crotch and squeezes. “Tell me you have some balls and that you're not one of those whining blood substitute pacifists.”
Michael gives an infelicitous shrug. “Well...”
Clearly disappointed, Amber steps back from Michael. She glances quickly to her left again. Her hair whips round and hits him in the face. “He's moving, come on.”
Michael considers telling Amber he's not a faucet she can turn on and off whenever she pleases, but opts instead for shutting-the-hell up.