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“What kind o’ name is ‘Nip’ anyway?”
I grunted, buttoning the pant waist. The clothes were too wide, though the snob kids must’ve been shorter than Joq, as the sleeves of the shirt were too short and the pants’ legs came up above my ankles.
“Don’t know. Some escort gave it to me. Only nice escort I’ve ever met. Said she had a baby, lost it, and never got to name it. Said she wanted his name to be Nip because he always pinched her stomach…” I slipped my arms through the vest; too wide—too short. I hesitated at the buttons.
“Say, Joq… These outfits belonged to Wealthy Devil kids?”
Joq shook his head. I eyed him and went back to buttoning the vest.
“Because if they do…”
“They’re don’t! On me word as the most ‘andsomest fing in the world!”
“So they’re kids of the Wealthiest Devils?” I smirked.
Joq looked up from his shoelaces. “‘ere! What’s you worried about anyway? We tell a waiter that some Wealthy Devil sends ‘is complements to the chef, an’ wants a whole ‘car full’ of ‘is best!” Joq nodded at the car keys. “We pull ‘er ‘round front an’ ‘ave ‘er filled up.” He pulled bunny ears and stood. “That’s ‘ow it’s goin’ to go, Nipple.”
It’s not…
“What if these kids come back for revenge? They’re not Wealthy Devil kids but they’re sure as shit not beggars. They might come back with their parents or something and accuse us of stealing their uniforms.”
Joq stood, fully dressed, pocketed the car keys and went to the grimy restroom to wash his face and smooth out his hair. The mirror was cracked but free of profanity—the likes of which was usually scrawled in lipstick or scratched into the glass of abandoned restroom mirrors on Main Street. Joq flipped the handle on the sink. I took six breaths before the faucet rattled water.
“They won’t come. The looks on their faces! Ha! Never in me life ‘ave I seen such a pair o’ wimperin’ ‘ickle brats!” Said Joq, going into a laughing jag. I noticed that his knuckles were red. He ran them under the water until he’d collected himself.
Maybe he gave them a scare, I thought.
Joq dried his face on a dusty hand towel and patted my chest. “You’ll want to wash that look off your face! Confidence is our friend, Nipple. Confidence.” He patted me again and I followed him back to the bar.
“I’m not scared or anything.” I said. “Just hungry.” I was used to being hungry, sure, but experience in starving doesn’t ease the feeling that there’s a gaping hole where your stomach should be.
I swayed a little. I plucked at the white collar—it was choking me. I gasped gulfs of heat. I grabbed the door frame and stumbled out of the bathroom, slumping into a booth after a hazy eternity’s trek across the bar.
When I cooled off a little I opened my eyes to see Joq sitting next to me. I set my head on the rotted oak. I was staring at the bottom of a bottle of a glass bottle that read Ponce De Leon Vodka. A huge granola bar lay beside it. I looked up at Joq. His mouth was moving but…
My ears popped.
“—was under the counter, I swear! Wasn’t ‘ogging ‘em all for meself! Eat up, yeah?” he pushed the granola bar toward me, then unwrapped it when my clumsy fingers couldn’t. I ate the bar and felt a little better, if tired. At first I refused the drink that Joq kept on pushing at me. I relented when my head gave another throb. Only one.
My head got heavy and soft by the third shot and felt better than it had before. I half-listened to Joq babble about some escort he’d hit on and his father and his brothers and his life in the Hills and, before long, I fell asleep.
There was a low pressure wine fountain on the back of my lids and me and Joq, all dressed up. The auditorium—the fountain—Julia—the sword—the fountain—the young man with a cane and a smoking gun. Julia dead at my feet. There were other images too and, as they flashed, I tried to remember them. An escort—a bloody poker slipping from my hand—two dead men—the devil kid glaring at me from his father’s side. The black limousine peeling off.
I opened my eyes. Friday was sitting on my chest.