lagilman | Leading into the Weekend...

Eventually, the wise writer gives in, says fuckit, and writes the story, no matter what. Because the voices, they Do. Not. Shut. Up.

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My back hurt, my horns itched, and I was pretty sure that burrito for lunch had been a mistake. “You’re bluffing,” I said.

“Danny, oh Danny.” The miserable fucker had the balls to smile at me. “You know I never bluff.”

It was summer. Some places in the city, summer’s nice. You get out by the water, maybe Orchard Beach or Coney Island, or even the Seaport if it’s not too crowded, and the salt air and breeze touch your skin and you’re seventeen again. And the Green, what humans called Central Park, was a blessed respite, even on the worst days.

But inside, locked within the henge of buildings that reflected heat and cast it back to the pavement, and shoved it up into living tissue, summer was miserable. I wanted to be somewhere with clean air, cold water, and a colder beer. Instead, I was stuck on a park bench in Midtown, watching tourists pile on and off those damn tourist buses.

The last round had been a mistake, last night. So had the first round. I’m not much for drinking – my years on the force showed me how badly that could go wrong, and my father’s genetic inheritance makes me prone to…overindulgence. But an old friend was getting married next week, and the least I could do was go along with the bridal shower, make sure nobody got in trouble.

Everyone, of course, had. And now I was paying for it. At least the sweat was soaking the toxins out of my system, right?

Romeo, next to me, smiled again. His teeth were perfectly capped, his skin naturally tanned, and his eyes flat and ugly as the pavement. His hands rested on his lap the creases of his pants perfectly pressed.

“So, if you’re willing to negotiate, I think we can come to an amicable position that leaves everyone satisfied.”

One of the double-decker buses I’d been watching pulled up and disgorged its passengers, overwhelmed families tumbling off onto the sidewalks, fanning themselves with cheap folding fans, hats, and tiny powered fans, their faces red with sweat and bright with excitement. Mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, young lovers and a gaggle of girls, and wait for it, a pack of teenaged boys, clearly out on a lark, not minding the heat. Sixteen, tops. They came off the bus last, clearly already looking for their next big thrill.

“Danny? Can we talk terms?”

I saw him then, oozing his way through the crowds like a proper snake, eyes beady and tongue practically scenting boy-scent in the air. Another two-three minutes, and he’d be on them, dropping lures and seeing what he could catch.

Not this time, I thought, standing up.

“Danny.”

My fist was almost an afterthought, hitting Romeo a solid three-quarter blow on his perfect nose.

“The photos haves already gone to the PUPs,” I told him. "You’re going to have to negotiate with Venec. Have fun with that.”

I walked off, my gaze focused on my prey, Romeo already forgotten. I moved through the crowds, aware that I was getting looks as I went. Tourists always looked; the Department of Tourism should send me a check every month. I had an actor’s face, a friend once told me, and I’d be cast as Every New Yorker Ever; sardonic, weary and just a hint of amusement left in my eyes. The bastard love child of Jimmy Stewart and Woody Allen.

...

*cackles madly*

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