Devils in Exile Read online

  This fight was Maven whaling on Danielle, her wayward behavior, her sluttiness and her partying, her desirability.

  They were all separated in a blur, voices and arms and whatever. Somebody led him away, and Maven looked around for Glade or Suarez, but saw nobody he knew. He checked his face and found no blood, felt no real soreness. He was practically untouched. Then he discovered a tear in the underarm seam of his $350 Varvatos shirt, and he wished he’d fucking murdered the lot of them.

  He was taken into the manager’s office through the mirrored door behind the DJ booth. Maven knew the manager, but the manager wasn’t there. He recognized the bouncer, who nodded to him, and Maven smiled, all set.

  The dancer guy Maven had beat up was led inside, but not his friends. He had blood all over his matching tie and shirt.

  One more guy stood inside the office, coming off the manager’s desk, a black guy Maven had never seen before. He was older, long-armed and tall, wearing a linen blazer and a buttoned shirt with no tie. Chewing gum, his long jaw masticating. A thin brown scarf hung around his neck. He pulled two soft silicone plugs out of his ears and set them down on the corner of the desk.

  “Loud as a motherfucker up in this joint,” he said. “You reach a certain age, you stop going out to clubs. It’s a lot easier and a hell of a lot cheaper to sit at home and stab yourself in the ears.”

  The dancer guy said, with some kind of European accent, “Who the fuck are you?”

  The black guy slowly crossed the small office. The dancer guy backed up to the wall. The gum-chewing black guy opened the dancer guy’s jacket carefully, avoiding the bloodstains, and reached inside his breast pocket, coming out with a wallet.

  The black guy then looked at Maven, Maven trying to figure out what an undercover cop would be doing in Club Precipice on a Sunday night. Maven raised his arms in a gesture of compliance and fished out his wallet, handing it over.

  The black guy looked at the dancer guy’s ID, then Maven’s, comparing photographs to faces.

  “My name is Lash. Federal agent. Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  He said this while watching both their faces. Maven rode out the reverb of the revelation, fighting hard not to show any expression. It was like stepping down barefoot on a nail and not flinching from the pain, but he did it.

  “What was the fight about?”

  “What fight?” the dancer guy said.

  “‘What fight?’ is exactly right. You’d do well to forget what a shit sloppy brawler you are. Though I bet tomorrow this story has a different ending, no?”

  The dancer guy said, “You are police? I press charges. This man.” He pointed at Maven. “I sue!”

  “You what?” said Lash.

  “I sue!”

  Lash lobbed his wallet back at him. “Get the fuck out of here, Sue.”

  The dancer guy didn’t move at first. The bouncer opened the door, scowling, and he went.

  Lash backed off, looking around the office. “No security cameras inside, huh?” he said to the bouncer.

  “Inside?” said the bouncer. “No. People don’t like to think they’re being filmed.”

  “All right, you can let yourself out too. We won’t be a minute.”

  The bouncer hesitated a moment, then went out. Leaving Maven alone in the office with a DEA agent.

  Lash tipped his ear to one side, trying to get a fix on Maven. “Who was the girl you two were fighting over?”

  Maven shook his head. “I just saw her tonight.”

  “Really.”

  “Didn’t like the way he was treating her.”

  “I see. Sir Galahad.”

  Maven shrugged. “Just common sense.”

  “So you’re a bystander.”

  Maven shrugged again, not overselling it. “Why—who is she?”

  Lash didn’t answer, didn’t give anything away. “Too bad she didn’t stick around, say thank you. She beat it out of here pretty quick. Kind of ungrateful, don’t you think?”

  “You should ask her.”

  Lash’s eyes narrowed, looking him over. “You a vet?”

  Maven was surprised. “I am.”

  “Back how long?”

  “Little over a year now.”

  Lash nodded. “I’m out since ’75, longer than you’ve been alive. And I can still spot a brother-in-arms. Something about the discipline, standing for questioning. Always thinking you can put one over on your CO.”

  Maven shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “You look like you’re doing pretty good for yourself.”

  “I’m getting by.”

  “Those aren’t exactly ‘getting by’ threads. But you don’t know nothin’ ’bout the girl, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  On a folded piece of paper, Lash was copying down Maven’s name and address from his driver’s license. Maven’s ID still had his old Quincy address. On Royce’s advice, he had never registered his move with the post office, never forwarded his mail.

  Maven heard the opening beats of the Ultramagnetic MC’s “Traveling at the Speed of Thought” and reached for his mobile. It was gone from his jacket pocket.

  Lash drew Maven’s old-school-rap-playing phone out of his jacket pocket. “Oh, is this yours?” He opened the flip top. “I found it on the floor out there.” He opened the text message. “Who’s Samara?”

  He tossed the phone to Maven. “My girlfriend,” said Maven, reading the text: I’m asleep—y r’nt u???

  Lash said, “The girl you were fighting over know that?”

  Maven put his phone away. “I told you, she wasn’t my girlfriend.”

  “You sure fought like she was.”

  AFTER LETTING MAVEN GO, LASH UNFOLDED THE PAPER ON WHICH he had scribbled down Maven’s vitals. It was a photo printout from an ATM surveillance camera, date-stamped November 9 of last year. The dead Venezuelan, Vasco, back in his walking and talking days, withdrawing cash while a woman waited just inside the door. A tough angle, high and from the side—but it was her. The woman this Maven kid had been fighting over. A lot of fucking clubs he’d hit over the weekend, but sometimes, late on a Sunday night, you get lucky.

  Lash pocketed the photo and the address, thinking about Mr. I’m Getting By.

  MAVEN ROUNDED THE CORNER AND POPPED THE BATTERY FROM HIS phone, slipping both into a trash can. Outside the Tam across from the dark marquee of the Cutler Majestic Theatre, the door to an idling taxi van opened. Maven ducked inside, sitting next to Royce and across from Danielle.

  Royce said, “What the fuck happened?”

  Maven glanced at Danielle, just a half second, enough to read that she had been playing dumb.

  “Nothing. There was a cop in the manager’s office.”

  “A cop?”

  “Random thing. Couple of questions.”

  “Well? Was it nothing, or was it nothing?”

  “It was nothing.”

  Royce sat back with a frown. He knocked on the partition and the driver pulled away.

  “I guess we’re done at Precipice for a while.” Royce turned, watching Maven. “Fighting on the dance floor? That’s something I expect out of Glade, not you. What the fuck happened to staying out of trouble? What’s wrong with you?”

  Maven looked at Danielle. She was looking out the window.

  Maven said, “I don’t know.”

  CIPHER

  SAMARA WANTED TO BUY HIM A SWEATER. “I DON’T KNOW WHY, I just think it’s going to be a cold fall.”

  They were walking through the Center Court of the Prudential Center in shorts and T-shirts. “No girl has ever bought me anything before.”

  “Something nice. So you have to promise me you like it. No politeness.” She was going through her bag for something, but instead came upon a crumpled envelope and pulled it out. “Oh—and having mail sent to my place?”

  It was from the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles. His motorcycle registration. He didn’t want the Marlborough Street addy linked
to him on paper, and needed a street address for the bike.

  “I meant to mention this,” he told her. “The insurance is much higher if I garage this in the Back Bay than in Allston.”

  “Really? I would think it’s the other way around.”

  “Insurance fraud is a year upstate, tops. I know you’ll take the fall rather than rat me out.”

  A passing voice said, “Is that fucking Cipher?”

  Maven didn’t stop right away. His first impulse was to keep on walking.

  The suit threw him off. As did the haircut, parted on the side, a few inches longer than regulation.

  “You fucking pussy,” said the guy. Big smile on his face. “Ho-lee shit. Cipher in the flesh.”

  “Clearwater,” said Maven. “Jesus Christ.”

  They hugged in the middle of the shopping arcade, the older man in the pin-striped suit, Maven in cargo shorts. The backslaps came hard and loud until Clearwater shoved him off. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Fucking minding my own business. What about you? You were supposed to be a lifer.”

  “My twenty was up. I work in the Pru tower. Forty-fourth floor. Investments.”

  Maven said, “What, you have a career or something?”

  “Or something. Jesus, you got fat.”

  Maven smiled. Clearwater was in good shape for a twice-divorced vet in his forties. Maven remembered Samara and introduced her.

  “Apologies for the profanities,” said Clearwater. “Army buddies.”

  “I figured,” she said.

  “It’s just that I can’t believe I’m back in civilization standing here with fucking Cipher.”

  “Cipher?” said Samara.

  Clearwater said, “This kid. So fucking quiet when he came in. Borderline challenged, you know what I’m saying? We took bets on him, either this kid would be a total washout, crying into his pillow at night, or else the ultimate killing machine. I lost money on his ass, but he did us proud. Did us goddamned proud.”

  Maven shook his head, wanting Clearwater to shut up.

  “Fifteen minutes,” said Clearwater. He turned to Samara. “Gimme fifteen minutes with him, to catch up. You come too. I got stories that’ll straighten your hair.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I’m going to go cruise Saks. You guys catch up without me.”

  “Twenty minutes,” said Clearwater.

  “Fifteen,” she said, blowing Maven a kiss and walking off.

  Legal Sea Foods was nearest, the S-shaped bar empty at three o’clock, overlooking Boylston Street at the end of the arcade. Three quick shots of Hangar One led to a lot of shoulder squeezing and many more fucks.

  “I looked up to you, man,” said Maven. “We all did. You had it fucking figured out. You knew your shit. Mr. Been There, Fucked That.”

  “It was the uniform, boy. I put it on, I became that guy. Look at this fucking uniform now.”

  “Still getting it done though. Forty-fourth floor?”

  “I’m just starting out. My brother-in-law, he brought me in.”

  “Whoa, hold up. Fucking married again?”

  “Why the fuck you think I’m here clinging to you now?” Clearwater pushed away their glasses, loosened his necktie, ordered two more. “So what about you? No work on a weekday afternoon?”

  “Flexible hours.” The vodkas came, Maven’s swimming pleasantly in his view. “Working for another vet now. Reminds me a little of you.”

  “Handsome feller, hm? What’s his name, maybe I know him.”

  “Royce.”

  “Royce. Like a Rolls? That’s his first name?”

  “Brad.”

  “Brad Royce. Brad Royce.” Clearwater brought his drink to his lips, then pulled it away before drinking. “I knew a Brad Royce in Germany.”

  Maven nodded. “Germany, yeah. Early nineties?”

  “He looks like?”

  Maven dithered. “Dark hair. I don’t know.”

  “Royce. Roycey. Yeah. There fucking was a guy.”

  “A medic?”

  “Nonononono. The Roycey I knew was an MP. Fucking ran that base. Shifty motherfuckers, the military police. Like fucking Newkirk, remember him, that RAF chap on Hogan’s Heroes? You know, the Family Feud guy …”

  “Richard Dawson.”

  “The same. Richard Dawson. Cool bloke. He’s missed. Here’s to Richard Dawson.” Clearwater downed his drink.

  Maven sipped his. “I think he’s still alive.”

  “Hope so, we need more like him.” Clearwater exhaled and set his shot glass down on the bar. “Where was I? Right—MPs. Fucking black marketeer, this little snake. Never trusted him. Supply battalion, he had it all sewed up. Porn. Electronics. Contraband.”

  Maven had a clogged feeling in his chest. “No. Not the same guy. Different Brad Royce.”

  “You fucking hope so. Fucking Roycey. I think about him sometimes, wonder where he’s at. Guy like that. I wonder about a lot of guys. But not Cipher. Not no more.”

  Maven stared at his drink, then swallowed it, grimacing through the hurt.

  “One more,” said Clearwater.

  “No,” said Maven, putting out his hand.

  Samara arrived with a Barneys New York shopping bag. “I’ve been calling you.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Clearwater.

  Maven fumbled out his phone. “I had it set to vibrate.”

  “You didn’t feel it?”

  “Not really feeling much of anything right now.”

  “Blame me,” said Clearwater, trying to pay.

  Maven refused, laying out the cash himself.

  “Look at you,” said Clearwater.

  Outside, at the escalator leading down, Clearwater had a big hug for both Maven and Samara. His jacket was crumpled over his arm and his shirt was puffed out of the waist of his pants. “You’re a sweetheart,” he said to Samara, then punched Maven in the chest. “You too.”

  Clearwater stepped onto the escalator, riding it down to street level.

  Samara turned to Maven, more scandalized than angry. “Are you drunk?”

  Maven shook his head. “Just out of practice.”

  “Still up for the movie?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He didn’t stop thinking about Clearwater’s Royce until ten minutes after the opening credits, when he fell asleep.

  MAVEN RODE OUT TO QUINCY FOLLOWING THE SAME ROUTE HE USED to jog on his runs home from the parking lot. Now he was on a Harley Softail, the late-night air rippling his leather jacket.

  He cut the engine at the pumps outside City Oasis, rolling silently to the front window. Through the phone-plan ads and milk prices stuck to the glass, he saw Ricky slumped on a stool behind the counter, patrol cap atop his head. Maven watched him for a long minute, Ricky kind of staring off, mumbling to himself.

  Ricky saw him then, and his smile went ear-wide before he could contain it. He came around the counter, out through the bell-rigged doors.

  Ricky was skinnier and shorter than Maven recalled, or maybe it was Maven’s bootheels.

  “I told you I’d be by.”

  Ricky wiped his dry mouth with the back of his hand, trying to squash his giddy grin. He was taking a good look at the bike. “Holy shit.”

  “Take her for a spin.”

  Ricky shook his head. “I don’t want to ride it. I want to make out with it.”

  Maven got him to sit on the seat. Ricky tried out the handlebars, then shook his head, giggling a little. “Fuck you.”

  “I know it.”

  “You fuckin’ dick.”

  They were both all smiles.

  Ricky said, “Check out my ride.”

  Parked near the 75-cent air dispenser was a twenty-year-old, pea green Pontiac Parisienne. “Seriously?” said Maven.

  Ricky stood by it with pride. It was a sweet sled in its own retro way: gas tank cap behind the pull-down rear license plate; original velour upholstery; original radio. The kind of lean four-door sedan an undercover 1
980s TV detective would drive.

  “This is the tits,” said Maven, relieved not to have to bullshit him.

  “Needs some transmission work. Suspension. Brakes. But I like it.”

  Inside, Ricky treated Maven to a blue raspberry Slush, poured with a shaky hand. “Store’s the same, huh? I tried to pick up some day shifts, but the sun fucks with me. Needling headaches.”

  They caught up a bit, interrupted by two paramedics coming in for cigarettes and junk food, who failed to see the irony. Ricky was brisk with them, borderline rude, throwing their change so he could get back to Maven, as though he were afraid Maven would disappear again.

  “How’s your thing?” Ricky asked. “Going good?”

  “It’s going. You know.”

  “If it doesn’t work out, you can always …”

  “Yeah. Good to know.” They smiled.

  “I’m checking in the newspapers now. He’s got me doing the candy order once a week, though I always screw it up.” Ricky pulled off his cap, rubbing at his eye with the heel of his hand, swiping sweat off his brow. Giving Maven a good look at the ding in his head, where his hair would never grow back.

  The door chimed, a transvestite walking in with his head held high. Maven remembered the guy. He went straight to the customer bathroom, as always.

  “Nothing really changes in my world,” said Ricky.

  They talked more about his car until the tranny came out of the bathroom and brought some Schick Quattro blades to the counter.

  “Fuck,” sighed Ricky.

  “It’s cool,” said Maven, settling him down. He pointed to the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. “I’m gonna …”

  “Sure.”

  Maven saw his blue tongue and lips in the lopsided mirror over the employee toilet. He was a different guy from the one who used to stand here taking a leak. He flushed, splashed some water on his hands, looked around for a roll of paper towels. He didn’t find any, instead seeing a leather pouch tucked up on the sill of the high, frosted window.

  He dried his hands on the thighs of his jeans, staring at this thing. He reached up and pulled it down. He unzipped it.