I.
He gave in around suppertime as evening colored the sky dark when his female friend, a companion he had unexpectedly hung out with all day, talked him into taking her to a Saturday evening church service. Having endured late morning and afternoon reassurances of 'God, it won't be that bad' that led to a rambling tangle of traffic crossovers, hurried stop-bys, rushed pick-ups, bloodhound hunts for premium parking at a steamy mall, texts and tweets, then more texts, cell phone ringtones, unscripted conversations with her home girls (usually marked by impromptu exclamations of no-way, bitch, and not my prob, homes!, and get the fuck out), and finally close calls with two very ill-tempered, and unleashed snarling canines near a bicycle rack, their teeth bared, hirsute tails swishing ominously, he was quite ready for an uneventful, calming break.A quick ride out to a nice place on the Jersey shore, after their mall trek, had sounded like a righteous and relief-studded choice. He could almost taste a stout and foamy ale from a chilly bottle or a double shot of Irish whiskey on the rocks for starters, chased by a German lager or, whatever, all of the above.
Once they arrived at Cheevers' impressive crash pad, instead of Dani Packer's more modest living quarters, she started to coax him again.
'If we can just do this one, last thing we'll be totally done. No more stops,' the girl claimed. After a quick round of drinks she began to plead with urgency for Rock to take her to a nearby beachfront chapel in an area called Elysium Village. Dani had inconveniently taken herself out of the designated driver picture.
'Need you, chief. Now, really, dearest. I gotta be there,' she stated edgily.
Then she added, 'I swear. We can let it all go after that. Chill the evening away, sweet stuff. For the whole, long evening. You know that I mean it. We can stay out here if you want. Cheevers won't care. He's coked to the gills or drunk like always anyway. The, the whole evening will be ours -- chilling. You know what that could mean, don't ya, baby?'
He thought about that. He felt annoyed. Her tone was strident, with a dash of demand. Yes, he had trouble telling women no. Indeed he did. He soothed himself with a passing deception -- being apparently the big chief in charge, and apparently a babe too -- that he absolutely indeed got it, or so he parried back to his female companion with feigned understanding. Actually he did not grasp at all the veiled implications of the new girl's offer of a whole -- and surely the deal would change after the chapel. A whole lot would change most likely. She was like that. Suddenly he conjured the image of a gleaming red apple in an open, dainty palm enmeshed in lush, green thickets in a garden. Rock reached for it. A slicing sensation, karma to the core, slipped through his abdomen. He was surprised and that he had uncovered, actually, so very little about this exasperating young woman who had so recently slid into his life. Yet he felt something else too, the rule of attraction.
As they stood on the breezy veranda of the shore house, a third or perhaps fourth United jet in a row glided overhead, engines roaring in its wind churning climb-out from the airport, freeing itself from the bonds of earth, cut from its earthly moorings, a solitary spirit tracing its arc toward ocean darkness. Though a hundred roaring plane engines must have soared over them that day, the young man now noticed the jet age's make or break cry in the smoggy sky for the first time. He longed to be belted securely into a spacious and silky First Class seat up there, a potent drink nestled in his damp palm, heading for some hedonistic retreat on the earth's edge.
This was the first time he had lingered with another person his age for hours, with no particular agenda, on an off day, for a long time. Somehow he had spent it with this girl. His ambivalence about what to do next made him feel a dull ache all over. Once the last grumbling mall dog and the fourth or fifth nip/tucked, 'get out, Rones' bleached blonde homegirl had faded away into a sunbaked parking lot as big as the Sound, he had driven them from the mall swiftly out to Cheevers' big getaway instead of Dani Packer's little one, it being the home of one of the frenetic Jersey Shore partypaloozas that burned bright each Saturday and Sunday, often cranked up to a piercingly high volume, a place much preferred by Rock's co-workers to the boss' weekend retreat over on Long Island. He accepted that Rona had cajoled him into this visit. Once partygoers slipped into, then nuzzled down, in there on Friday night or Saturday, the young decompressing professionals' weekends could literally be seen wafting through the thrown-open windows toward the choppy sea in crazy, gray wind whirls of marijuana smoke, snorted up powdery through thin tubes that scraped across the surfaces of shiny mirrors on coffee tables, or blissfully slept off in quiet oblivion without a twitch or murmur. Then at a certain moment on Sunday about 5, everyone in Pavlovian syncopation began at once to rise like brittle mummies from graves and enact a sudden, Sunday grab, stuff, and hustle process so they could drive hectically down the old shore highway in expensive foreign cars veering toward Manhattan and Brooklyn.
These beach house marathons were ordinarily packed with slightly geeky young adults -- an info/techy class of newcomers to the City. Many of them partied by passing lonely, button-lipped and Xanaxed weekend hours on the craggy eastern Shore obsessing about fashions in magazines, hairstyles, Facebook likes and dislikes, ceaseless texting and tweeting, re-tweets, cellphone calls, substance supplies, their weight, the latest consumer toys, reality TV programs, more texting, selfie pics, imported autos, hair gels, more texts, tweets, and retweets, and the frantic in's and out's of personal relationships. On occasion, a straggling middle-aged survivor of The Great Recession or some other socio-economic calamity -- aging paloozers in their older 30s, their 40s, 50s, and even the rare silver fox from the Mad Men era, guys clueless about how and when Wi-Fi works and the merits of 4G for smartphones -- wandered text and twitter free about the perfectly furnished rooms, intense green lawns, wading pools, and cabanas in Paloozaville.
Rock was teetering, falling, a little. He found this both upsetting and disappointing, and invigorating, at times. She had persuaded him to engage in many things, he believed. Mostly the going's on had been innocuous. Yes, he had played along, willingly cooperating in some circumstances just to get along despite her persuasive wiles. Yes, that was correct. That was what had happened, exactly. He told himself this was no biggie since he had had nothing better to do. Yet the price to continue this dance might get costly, he thought. Ya know how it goes, babe? Don't ya?
Once they had parked out at Cheever's impressive shore house, they admired its sturdy hugeness while standing by Rock's vehicle.
Rock grabbed a button-up plaid vest from the back seat. It made a nice fit over this linen white shirt. The shore was breezy as dusk came on.
'Do you want your purse or anything before we go in?' Rock asked Rona.
The large purse was a handsome, alligator leather bag with a finely crafted shoulder strap and a shiny gold buckle. It had cost some guy a large lump of cash, Rock thought. He had noticed right away when the met up that day. The purse had been locked in the trunk of his ride ever since. Even while at the mall, it remained there. She had carted her ID, some plastic credit cards, a comb, and a wad of bills all day in her midnight, tight black pants. She tucked her iPhone into a little pouch pocket on her right hip. Gleaming black and gold Coach sunglasses were clipped to her black long-sleeved blouse, which was accentuated by a high collar.
'No, just leave it in the trunk. I won't need it now. Sweetie, when we get . . . , ' she stopped abruptly, bit her lower lip painted pink with gloss, and peered up at him quizzically.
'Whatever you say, babe,' he shot back absentmindedly. 'Wait, when we get what?
'Nothing. Oh. It can wait,' she replied with a shrug.
They scanned the outdoor portion of the party scene. The house and the grounds were populated with sluggish people, most of them displaying late afternoon, glazed-over stares. Rock and Rona recognized a few of them from their intense workplaces, but in the waning Saturday light -- fogged by a haze rolling in off the ocean waters -- this casual crowd resembled a lost tribe of avid slackers and Woodstock nomads. Soon they discovered that the one girlfriend that Rona had expected to (and needed to) meet up with here was posed in a tight fetal curl-up, still dressed in her tailored Ann Taylor lawyer clothes, whisps of powdery white clinging to her nostrils, in a profound sleep on an elegant futon atop the villa's windswept veranda. Apparently she had chased her cocaine with a few hastily downed Ambien tabs in a Jack Black tumbler then just dropped. A gray-bearded man -- a stranger to Rona and Rock -- slept facedown on the wood flooring next to her. In one hand he loosely clutched a drained Sam Adams bottle. His other arm laid slackly on the futon. He wore coordinated Tommy Bahama beach clothes and shiny brown topsiders, like the silver foxes often did here, an aging and played out Thanatos to the young woman's Hypnos. Rock had a strange feeling that the old man was just pretending to be asleep.
Rock walked inside Cheevers' mansion. He search for the pantry. He then sighed with pleasure as he poured, at last, yes indeed, at last, the Irish whiskey double about which he had daydreamed. He tried to hand a cold Rolling Rock beer to his frowning companion. Rona waved it off. She snatched a small bottle of cold water from a cooler with ice. He had never seen her touch an alcoholic drink.
 |
| Hypnos and Thanatos |
'Damn it. Danielle! How could this happen? Somebody's capped her,' Rona said angrily.
'What? Capped? C'mon,' Rock replied.
According to the gameplan, this was to be the point where Rock's part in this play stopped and he dropped Rona. She had been silent about what the girls would then do, though he now sensed there had been an Act 2 that had just gone off the tracks. Not his problem, he reminded himself. Yet he felt a wave of stomach-churning anxiety, like a red flag aflutter on a stormy stretch on a seafront.
'Crap. She's totally out of it. Damn, Dani. Well I guess I really need to talk with you after all, Mr. Man. Something big here, very hot, so will you listen up?' she asked
'Did you see our host, Cheevers, out there? Man don't turn your back on that dude today. A total CryptKeeper,' Rock noted.
Cheevers was the performance and numbers superstar of their finance firm. Once a lowly novice penny stock analyst, he had quickly raced to become, at just under 30, the prince of the derivatives cons in greedy Manhattan. He held the management reins too of a bustling hedge fund with a sketchy rep but a massive money-accumulation strategy. Huge bucks gravitated to Cheevers and his conspirators. Team members grew rich in serving his whims and his ends. This beach house was but one of many opulent signs that signaled Cheevers' career successes and deceptions. Everyone who worked for him benefitted monetarily.
Yet Cheevers was always dangerous-looking even when suited up -- a skinny, scary ectomorph. His oddly bony skull and sharp and pointed extremities made him seem like a skeleton with sallow skin. He was neither verbally abusive or violent. But he had a long scar down the left side of his thin and hollow cheeks. It seemed that extensive plastic surgery had been required to put him back together. Often Cheevers came across as prideful, arrogant, and rudely jealous when at work in New York. Yet on weekends at times the man seemed pitiable, isolated, and very pleased to have other people around. He knew how to leave behind his ridiculously expensive Armani suits and $1000 shoes for the Shore weekends. Some co-workers gave Cheevers hidden nicknames -- Skeletor, Killer, Lurch. He had earned them all. His behavior was dogged, urgent, and as ruthless as a straight razor when doing his financial deals. Recently, when he caught sight of this Wall Street rock-star, Rock typically imagined the ferryman, Charon, in his mythic boat, silently, morosely rowing doomed riders over the darkened Styx.
Rona had not replied, so Rock downed half of a Stella Artois. He stared at a unique pennant of gold and blue hung above an expensive woodcarved side table. The fabric featured a dynamic lion brandishing a medieval mace, its head peering backward. The pennant wafted in the sea winds breezing freely into the pantry.
'Yeah?,' he replied as he swallowed a gulp of Jameson's. The liquor hit him hard below the belt. Rock was already outlinng his Rona-free options for the evening. But he sensed he'd never get to one of them.
'It's about tonight. Something Dani and I were gonna do. But, you see, lover, my homegirl's not going anywhere fast, so.' Looking away, she hesitated and laced her finely manicured fingers on both hands into an 'I pray thee' knot. 'Can we just, maybe . . . '
'Can we what?,' he interrupted, moving to pour another drink.
'I know we just got here, so,' she said barely above a whisper, eyes cast aside. 'But you're a good guy. You're my kind.'
An unknown voice shouted 'No effing way, dude. She didn't?' A loud peal of laughter sounded just outside the pantry.
'It's about going to church,' Rona let on.
'Get out! No way you just said that,' Rock replied.
'There's a little beachfront chapel down by Elysium Village. Point Pleasant Beach area. Before 7:00 I need you to drive me down there. It's right on the shore so. Somebody Dani and I know's gonna be there. This is important. Then we could have the whole evening left, hon. Together. I promise you.'
'Again with the whole, yes, of course,' he thought as he drained his glass.
II.
A few minutes later, atop the luxurious carpet of lawn, Rock's memory turned to how he had met Rona. Soon he was distracted by music coming from powerful, boombox speakers around the yard. It was "Kill and Run" in the seductive voice of Sia,
Interpret the eyes as they die.
Should I lie, should I cry?
Cheevers' expansive getaway now seemed more mired in a blanket of haze. The people who were still ambulatory moved more slowly than before, like a slo-mo interactive mural. Scenes and characters from The Great Gatsby, the movie Wall Street, Game of Thrones books, and Bret Ellis' Less Than Zero mingled about.
Rock looked north. Briefly he imagined a steep rock ledge from which white water rushes poured down to a Lethian sea. Quickly a Catcher in the Rye figure grabbed a little girl from plunging off the ledge. He felt troubled by the imaginary scene.
The boombox music continued with The Great Gatsby soundtrack. Rock searched the horizon for a pulsing green light.
Love is blindness. I'm so sick of it, I don't wanna see.
Why don't you just take the night, And wrap it all around me?
Now, oh my love Blindness,
Oh, I'm too numb to feel, Blow out the candle.
Blindness.
'If I call over to Rona, Oh Daisy, I wonder what she'd do?' he thought.
Rock studied a white and shiny, rumbling 777, with the new United livery, push up through the ocean haze. He suffered pangs of envy. Gray exhaust trails from the massive engines twirled in the ozone like a pair of fallen angels.
A few nights earlier, Rock had taken a calculating, high stakes walk over to the sumptuous and springy L-shaped couch, with the high backing and richly cushioned armrests, at Dani's modest beach hut. Dani Packer was the pretty, young lawyer now curled onto the lush futon on Cheevers' veranda, firmly embraced by dreamy, winged Morpheus. Rock assured himself he just wanted to say hey -- yes, all innocent enough -- to the mysterious new girl, Rona. The newcomer looked like she was from a foreign land. Yes that would be all. No more. He took a pair of cherry vodka jello shots to the big L so they could perhaps do them together. He tried to appear cool, confident, in command of all situations and circumstances. Yet his hands trembled slightly. His eyelids fluttered slightly when Rona first looked deeply into his eyes. Dani introduced them gamely but she slurred some of her words. There were traces of a grainy, white powder on her upper lip. Dani sniffed up hard and wiped her face. Her eyes and nose were glowing red. All of Dani's real friends worried about her drinking and drug habit, stoked by harsh and unforgiving days spent defending felons.
'Well, who and what do we have here, babe?,' the new girl asked.
Rock at first thought she looked very serene and sophisticated. Dark eyes, dark brows carefully shaped, and full lips with a ruby gloss. Smooth olive skin tone, like maybe 28 to 30 years old. She was good at extemporaneous conversation. What was that accent? Turkish? Cypriot? Israeli?
Rona politely said no to the jello shot -- and all alcoholic drinks thereafter. She worked on a bottle of spring water. When Rock asked her where she came from, Rona simply said 'Yerevan' without explanation.
Cheevers, Dani, and about six or seven others their age milled around. Rock stayed near Rona. Music played moodily. It was a quiet get-together. Rock made a mental note to learn all he could about Yerevan, wherever that was, some day soon.
*** ***
Two hours later, as they sat in glimmering moonlight on a nearby sand dune, Rock handed Rona Moros a crazily smoking and sweet-scented pot rollup that had jack-hammer crumbled all of the social cool he had imagined he had brought with him. Rock's hand still trembled a little as he passed the blazing weed, sparking and fuming like a tiny blowtorch, to a mildly buzzed Rona. She looked pretty in the moon beams, he thought. Those full, ruby lips tempted him.
She confessed to Rock that she wished to fit in better with the party people and the good times on The Shore with Killer and all the others. She also wanted to improve and succeed at her job. But Rona, an outsider and a mystery with a strange accent, felt insecure around most Americans. Her chances for acceptance in Dani's New York and New Jersey crowds were not great, she said. With the promise of a low-rung job as a bond analyst, Rona had relocated to Brooklyn a few months back. Rock asked her where she met Dani. Rona told him she got an MBA from Transylvania while Dani was studying criminal law there. She needed more friends, Rona went on. But she often felt hampered by performance anxiety and other stress. She worried it interfered with her social life. Her short history as a financial advisor in her previous workplace, and now her bond analyst job, demonstrated that she did not have that killer instinct for either situation.
Rock wondered what she thought about him. After another hit of the potent weed, Rona started talking about someone named Bronson. Rock did not want to hear about him. They fired up another joint. She squeezed a bottle of water with a twist cap in her hands. He sipped from a red Solo cup, Irish whiskey and melting ice. She explained that Bronson was an almost 30 shopaholic and internet addict living in Williamsburg, maybe a genuine hipster, definitely a gay person, constantly falling in and out of love with some new boy from LGBT rallies. Bronson was always lamely quitting Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr and was, yes, forever done posting a string of selfies on Instagram.
'Sounds pretty interesting,' Rock fibbed.
She explained that Bronson was a basically kind, articulate soul who was very willing to be BFFs with the girls from the Skeletor's outfit and Dani's law firm. He was faithfully there to go with them fairy protector-like wherever, whenever, in Brooklyn or over to Manhattan when a male presence was required, to leap headlong into gossip talk and mani-pedi treatments, and to be available online to text or Skype at 3:00 a.m. with an emotionally wasted female friend, like Rona or Dani with her drugs, who had been let down by or otherwise assaulted by life.
'You ever been really serious with anybody?' Rock asked.
She was silent. 'No, no, not really. Well, that's not true. Once I was. In deep. I was like get out. I just made some mistakes with that person. I could've killed. I was so pissed. But revenge, they say it's a sick game. You drive for revenge, maybe it feels good, but you're the one that gets burned more when it's all over. Anyway, I'm glad to be here now. I'm sorry. For going on so, chief,' she said. She glanced back to Dani's beach hut.
Rock sensed that she was getting toasted by the weed and not accustomed to it. The pot circulating this evening was certainly potent. He wondered how much of her stories he should believe. Rona had made him want to know more, dig more.
'You and Dani known each other long?' he asked, trying to sound casual.
"Besties since we began grad school. My blond and beautiful warrior queen, that's her. D's been my fairy godmother and Bron my knight shining on his war horse when times've been really bad. I shouldn't talk about this. But Bronson has a real problem with the American government. His father was murdered in Syria a few years ago. Dani and him are sure that Americans killed him to keep him quiet. She's looked into it with Washington. Bronson's a subversive. He's about taking it all down. He'll be ready when the time comes. So, Bronson's not his real name of course. He's getting to be a legend on the blogosphere and on an underground group's website. Some other sites too here and the Middle East. His father got all tangled up with the CIA or NSA or somebody, the eternal struggle, ya know babe?,' Rona said.
Rock frowned. "Wow,' he whispered. He could not think of anything else to say. He was feeling high. His mind whirled. Ocean waves slapped onto the beach, then slid away.
Later, while sitting alone, though he felt loaded, Rock attempted to assess what the cost of a relationship adventure with this strange, pretty, but challenging girl would be. The girl from Yerevan seemed -- he strove for the right label -- seemed designing. He barely knew her. But at times he sensed she was bending and twisting the truth. Hanging with her could be bad for his health. But maybe not, he shrugged. As the time grew late, Rock sidled up against Rona on the L-shaped divan. They sat near a sleepy, pot scented Dani Packer. Pristine shafts of Jersey moonlight and hypnotic shore sounds streamed like musical rhythms into the room. He wondered how deep the connection between Dani and Rona went.
'Don't get too close, sweet boy. I'm big trouble,' she teased him when he brought her a fresh water bottle. 'Besides I hear I'm maybe getting a big transfer. Not your fairy princess here. Not any way.' Her crimped smile was beguiling.
Despite the marijuana, he felt arush of agitation, and impatience. He had never like brushback pitches.
'You're the fresh face around here. Not much going on, right? So how about we get together to just hang out. Meet up or jet around some next Saturday. So, yes . . .?' he asked.
Rona blinked. Her glossy lips were moist. Once, twice more she blinked, nonplussed. Her mouth opened slowly. The plastic water bottle slipped from her palms. It smacked the tile floor.
'Uh-h-m,' she said. 'Well, what would you want to do exactly? I have to go with Dani somewhere around 6.'
He replied gamely, 'Well whatever. But if I told you, I would have to kill you.'
'Oh, sweetie, that's too funny. Too, too funny. Kill me?' She burst into laughter.
 |
| A Fairy with Heartfelt Malice |
III.
The moment had come. Nightfall was here. No time to falter. Every second would count. A one-way, roller coaster rush was on. Nicoletta turned away from him. She peered east toward her homeland. No time for feelings. No soft goodbyes. She shouldered herself out the car door. A raging sandstorm of anger seared her heart. It consumed her. A green light switched on in her psyche. It was time to butcher. No time to spare. As soon as she quoted Kanye, the burning need for vengeance had flamed in her. The hour of payback had come. She burst from his vehicle. 'That's it, chief,' she blurted. Nica pictured her coming manuevers. Race back to the open trunk. Pull open the Coach purse. Slip the freak, onyx morphmask tightly into place. Get the black, backing veil splayed down concealing her hair. Slide her finely manicured hands and supple wrists into tacky, black driving gloves. Snap the glimmering shades off her black blouse. Into the gaping mouth of the 'gator bag they'd go. Slam the disposable phone in there too. Her eyes burned. She tiptoed across a wavering tightrope. A wave of delerium hit. Nicoletta recognized this. A stunning feeling it was. She had suffered it before. A six-inch stiletto gets secreted in her cuffed sleeve. A loaded 9 mm. pistol , a Kel-Tec with an extended magazine, slides into her flexible black boot. The moment draws close. The jacked up trunk lid conceals her. The driver cannot see. He was pleasant cover. But no rock, a colorless chap she had thought. He'd obey her orders. 'Wait here, chief' she had spit out hotly. 'I'll be back. So . . . " Then she recited the magical words. No church in the wild lyrics. A hypnotic sensation engulfed her. Nica was all in. No time to dally. The torch had been ignited.
Cloaked in black, Nicoletta crouches. The fancy bag hangs from her shoulder. She crabwalks low across the beach road. Her journey toward home finally commences. It is 7:10. All churchgoers are inside. A yard sign lights up brightly in the dark. Point Pleasant Beach Chapel it announces. Her slamming heart skips a beat. Is he watching now? Was he confused in the dark, idling car? 'I'll be back.' Nica steals her way to a back pew. Unlucky observers will get daggered. But Nica would not return to him. Disappear in darkness was the plan. A back portal for her escape had been prepped. She wondered when clueless Rock would die. Tonight? Tomorrow? Dani would be punished. She had proved weak, unreliable. Their wet work suffered. Cocaine was cooking her. Dani had let Nica down. She'd be hunted. Dani would be hurt. She should run.
Head down as in prayer, Nica Levant lingers. The back pews are poorly lit. The scene-scouting had been good. Nicoletta's heart is thumping. The minister sermonizes. Let's go, dude, she twitches.
Adam slept. Then God took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh in its place.
Then the rib the Lord had taken He made into a woman, and He brought her to
the man. Adam said: “This is now bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she
shall be called Woman because she was taken out of Man.” Therefore a man shall
leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and they shall become one
flesh.
'There is a great lesson of faith in this,' the minister moralizes tediously.
She beckons to Jake then Amala. The traitors beam as they walk toward the sanctuary. 'Ama, you Eve,' Nica fumes. She had played the toothsome betrayer. She had proferred the fruit. She had deserted them. Ama spread the virus. Jake bit into the poison apple. They deceived the pact.
Nica creeps aisleward. She is behind everyone. She feels sucked as if by a magnet. Her black shadow sprints. Assembly members lean away. She leaps at Ama. The two merge bodily. Nica pierces Amala. The dagger plunges as deep as it can into her black heart. She twists the blade and viciously slices it sideways. Nica/Rona's clenched hand thunks on Ama's beautiful breastbone. Several of her fingers glide into Amala's center cavity as if compelled by a falcon lure. Blood spurts out violently. Horrifying, Nica thinks. She feels vindication. Shrill cries pierce the church's quietude. She has become like Cain. She has slashed and slain the deserving Abel. Vengeance, justice, jealousy roil her haunted psyche. Tears burn her eyes. Instantly, Nica mourns her once true love. Jake she loved once too. Such morbid folly. All so close, but turnedso wrong. Amala had decoupled the iron bonds. She purloined Jake. Scuttled the cell's orders. Grieving but justified, Nicoletta darts away. She spares the weakling male. Obey commands, soldier, she hears in her head.
Nica/Magda's dash to Philadelphia begins. The blast of a starter pistol echoes somewhere. Nica has memorized minutiae. Locate the car in the copse. Pry open the trunk. Peel off her dark persona. Drop the stiletto and 9 mm. in. Insert the Coach bag. Get disguised as Magda. Drive the log road. At 195-West, curve south. Book it, Nicoletta! Race them to PHL. As a platinum blonde she will emerge from a limo. Ditch the getaway wheels. Park it near Costco. 'What a dumpy stripmall this is,' she had said on first spying it. Secure the new passport. Nica had earlier gazed at her photo on the document . She is a knockout. Rona Moros has played well. But this is now Magda Agiri, power blonde wig and glossy lips. God, she kills. Magda will have thin, flat eyebrows. Hazel contacts float under classy Chanel lenswear. Make-up and wig go on in the limo. Magda will board Lufthansa, in Terminal C, 11 PM. She smiles. Nicoletta will evaporate. Again her handlers prove clever. Agiri. Her fake passport names always hold meaning. Soar to Frankfurt, girl. Imbibe sparkling water. Tilt back and relax. Race on to Istanbul. Savor the wheels up moments. No church in the wild, alright, alright, she muses. Momentarily, Nica is hit by a rush of panic and sorrow. This bloodlust for justice and vengeance surely will undo me! The startling church sign had lit up 'Betrothal Rite Tonite at 7! Amala and Jake -- Gen 2: 21-24.'
Let's book, girlfriend. Nica sprinted with abandon..
*** ***
Another thrumming 777 soared over. Nav lights twinkled like fairy's wings. Vectoring left, the plane slipstreamed East. A busy night for travel it was. Jet after jet climbed up. United's new motto echoed in his memory -- 'Forward, Together.' Barlow grew envious again. He longed to globetrot.
'Open the trunk,' she had commanded. 'I'll come back.'
He pondered still her parting words -- a lyric puzzle. Her eyes had gone hypnotic and flat. Yes, transfixed. Searing heat inflamed her complexion.
No sins as long as there’s permission
And deception is the felony
So never fuck with nobody without tellin’ me
. . . . Cause we were once a fairy tale
But this nightmare is farewell"
Rona's blast outward, a bird of prey swooping away, rattled him. 'Wait here, I'll come back' she had spat. Then she was gone, out the car's door. Her sudden disappearance mystified him. She crept back to the trunk. Barlow craned his neck. Rona moved furtively. Then a black shadow, like a large onyx crab, crawled across the road. The church sign flashed on without warning. This startles him. He catches his breath, then he reads the bumper sticker on the car parked before his:
He created them Adam & Eve, not Adam & Steve!
Barlow is seized by a hunch. He had had such thoughts before. His memory is suffused with the scent of potent weed. No doubt you have a gift, chief, she had once intoned, perhaps trying to con him. 'Don't come too close. I'm trouble.' He revs his engine. Her dreamy eyes had searched his while she licked her colored lips. He spins the back wheels while accelerating. Barlow is sure that Rona, or whatever her name is, and he will speak again. This might not be farewell. A part of him feels swindled. He could follow her as if he were tethered. Yes, after all.
IV.
The copse of trees was in sight. Nicoletta was flagging. Her lungs and windpipe were burning. She strained to spy the contours of the white car that should be there. Her tiny night vision apparatus helped. The adrenalized sprint left her winded. She paces rapidly. Nica has tossed, here and there, the bloody stiletto, the bloody gloves, the black hood, then the pistol. Where's that effing car?, she worries. A slim landscaper's path led off perpendicular to her route. Two roads diverged in a wood, she panted. Screams from the chapel slice through the air. From the corner of her eye, she senses a sharp, stealthy movement. Close by, a man has stepped from behind a hulking pine. He seems unarmed, dark-haired, in a glowing white shirt and plaid vest. He beckons to Nica.
'Oh holy shit,' she gasps.
Barlow calls to her. 'You need to come with me, Rona. C'mon. Now. What's the deal?' He sounds more authoritative, more in charge, than before.
'Not likely, sweet thing. Not going there.' Her accent was pronounced, from Turkey or Cyprus perhaps.
'What happened back there, Rona? C'mon. Let's go,' he demands.
'Amala has met Allah. The cheating bitch,' Nica smirks.
'And Jake has met Jehovah?' Barlow asks smartly. The question causes them to furtively smile.
'No games. I took her down. Cut her good. Got it, babe? Now I've gotta run.'
The horrifying truth sneaks up on him. He blurts out, 'Holy crap. For real? -- Who are you!?'
'Was exactly gonna be my question for you, Robert Frost,' she frowns. 'How'd you get here?'
For years, as a teenager, then as a young adult, Barlow found much amusement in the comic drawings of Spy Vs. Spy. In time he saw it was a parody of hardsore, opposing political stances. In time, he began to identify with the Grey Spy, a clever presence, who could outsmart the hapless, rigid Black and White. They don't have the sense to come in out of the cold -- always outwitting each other, the Spys' creator once said.
Barlow majored in philosophy then law at Yale. Once his degrees were secured, he applied to the FBI. He trained successfully at Quantico, Virginia. He was a star at the Academy. Barlow was good with numbers, especially in cases of financial fraud and organized crime. His memory was sharp. He played well under cover. Yet he never went onto the Bureau's payroll.
Barlow found his calling in corporate espionage. An aged FBI veteran recognized the young man's impressive intuitive thinking. He was recruited by a firm that skirted the margins of multinationals, dog eat dog business, internet innovation, double agents, and spy nests in Brooks Brothers and Armani. Quickly, Barlow was introduced to the cut-throat game of competitive intelligence, a high stakes but deadly contest. Barlow grew wealthy from his income undercover. He enjoyed it, yes.
One day he accepted a challenge that paid well. He would use his acting skills as a character named Rock. He had to learn what Cheevers, a lawyer named Dani Packer, and their conspiratorial hedge fund colleagues were up to. International currency manipulations were suspected. A Mideast shadow, a bad fairy godparent stage right, was at work too, perhaps lining up the money for a terror hit. It would be an SNA gig -- social network analysis. It would be very complicated. He would have to mess with some very bad people. Relationships, movements, corresponding activities would need to be scrutinized. High levels of intuition would be called for. The top people needed him visualize it all, like examining and mapping the nodes of a hidden cancer. He would accept the challenge. It might get to be too dangerous for him alone. But, yes, ok, he would go for it.
Exactly as he had predicted, Rona came booking, breathing heavily, up the wider path. He set aside mild-mannered, naïve, hard-drinking Rock. Barlow decided to go all FBI on her. The screaming sounds from the chapel were alarming. Amala and Jake were who? Barlow briefly thought again the mystery gay, Bronson. Until minutes ago, Barlow had not suspected Rona was into something really crazy, just an out-of-place, mediocre bond analyst being used by sharper minds. Barlow had been ordered to work up the SNA. Cluster the coefficients. Give each player a uniform and number. He had simply walked up to her on that L-shaped couch. She seemed cool. Her eyes were dark and clear. She was attractive and alone. She would aid his cover story. The truth sunk in like a hard kick. Rona had just offed her girlfriend in the chapel?
Barlow saw Rona's comely eyes widen. Then he sensed a heavy footfall behind his back. Two piercing pins dug suddenly into the white shirt on the back of his shoulder.
Quickly Barlow is incapacitated. He tips forward. His grimace is painful to witness.
Nica shoulders her wounded suitor as he descends. Slowly she lets him sink down. Another's muscular hands grab Barlow's waist. His face plants directly onto the path.
'My knight for surprises,' she says. 'I hear there's a gorgeous stretch limo I gotta catch.'
Bronson holsters his Taser M-26. He is big, burly, and European. "What's with this guy? He's not supposed to be here. Pick this loser up with me. I have the car,' he whispers hotly. 'We've really got to disappear.'
Nica says, "Since when are you here, B?'
'Since I got emergency emmed that Tommy Bahama put Dani down,' he huffs. 'I think he's with the same people as Rocky Racoon here.'
The pair dumps the immobilized Barlow hard onto the cramped back cushion in the Sentra. Barlow's arm is punctured by Bronson with a dripping hypodermic. Haunting sounds and bright lights rise like specters around him. He sees Rona get in the front. 'Who are you?,' he begs. To Bronson he calls weakly, 'And who the hell are you? Tell me, yes.'
"Spies -- and fairies," Rona snorts with a smirk.
And who are you? A modulated, disembodied computer voice echoes toward him within the car. Barlow feels like he is in a hollow well.
The loud, sick peal of laughter, like outside of Cheevers' pantry, starts again. Barlow hears an angelic near-whisper. 'Hello, chief.' He stares transfixed into the eyes of the Grey Spy.
'You're going be ho-kay, homes,' the Grey says serenely but affectless.
Barlow soars. He dreams of cruising high and free-bird in placid skies. The Grey Spy has reassured him.
'I think I'm falling. Yes, I am falling, indeed I'm falling in love with -- Rones,' he confesses.
'Whoa. No way. Get out of town, dude,' Grey is now imitating one of Rona's home girls in the mall.
Barlow dives into a paralyzing trance, hypnotic and achromatic, with Sia singing background.
V.
He awakens, gradually, hours later. The sun is burning brightly. The air is warm and humid. He sits up on the back seat of a Nissan. His dry mouth and throat plead for a drink of something.
He looks over a rundown strip mall. A big Costco -- with a rambling, empty parking lot -- sits across the street. Apparently it's too early for heavy business traffic. The limo has departed without him, but he does not know that. Bronson and the girl are out of sight. Barlow's android smartphone is plugged in and charging up front. Barlow is hit with a strong and deep sense of emptiness and loss. Then quickly he gets angry. The drugs must be wearing off, he decides. Then he feels hungry and thirsty, a pissed off and abandoned shell. The taser's puncture wounds on the back of his shoulder flare painfully.
A text alert sounds. Barlow stares at the android. His thinking is foggy and confused. The tune playing is "It Had To Be You," the jazzy Harry Connick Jr. version. Slowly, he reaches for the phone. The timestamp says the text has just been transmitted. What the fuck?, he marvels. She must still be messing with him, even now, he surmises. How did she manage this?, he says to the smartphone.
'Spies and fairies,' he remembers.
Barlow scans the text message. G2g. C u l8er. And then there is a verse
Tears on the mausoleum floor
Blood stains on coliseum doors
Lies on the lips of a priest
Thanksgiving disguised as a feast
Human beings in a mob, What’s a mob to a king?
What’s a king to a god? What’s a god to a non-believer?
Who don’t believe in anything? We make it out alive
All right, all right, No church in the wild
Barlow will have to figure out what that is and where he needs to go. Then he supposes he'll somehow crawl toward home. He's at least alive. He reviews what little he can he recall about the night before. Yes, alive, alive -- all right, all right. Blow out the candle. Love is blindness! He longs for his Ray-Bans and a handful of Advil. Barlow discovers two grand in $20 bills on the car seat. He is glad that she's left funds to ease his existential plight. He finds a gold, square medal pinned to his plaid vest. It depicts a lion on the march, its head turned back fiercly, a mace or cudgel in its upturned paw.
Suddenly, he feels cooler, refreshed, and . . . mildly happy. He believes that this might be a planned psycho-chemical sensation going off. Barlow's intuition warns him, like the spooky Grey Spy, where she has probably gone. The medal is her promise ring, an invitation, a token of co-dependent betrothal.
'Okay, it's on, girl,' Barlow, once a Rock, vows competively in silence.
A selfie pic is the new screensaver on his cellphone. He figures Rona must have taken it once they all got here. Her face is cutely contorted, a mocking coat of fresh pink lip gloss on her mouth. Her eyes sparkle fiercely. Rona hovers over him. Barlow's torso lies back motionless, tasered, drugged. He starts to grin although he tells himself he should not.
Barlow is fascinated by the medal with the lion. He thrills to the touch of the burnished surface. His fingers lightly trace the outline of the mighty beast. He senses that there will be meaning in tomorrow. Barlow is like a little kid peeking under his pillow to see if the tooth fairy has left a sweet reward there.
He clutches the smartphone tighter. The law of attraction pulses in him. Raising his aching right arm, he grabs a selfie of himself. Barlow gazes at this photo. He looks beaten up, sunken-eyed, gray, like a raccoon -- even though he has taken on a mock disapproving-parent look for the game. This picture he will send, a punched-out warrior's response, with a rush of anticipation, to her, the dangerous lady. But first he must figure out how to do so.
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Soundtrack/Theme: "No Church in the Wild," Kanye West
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WVDrxqZ5w3I
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