“I want cash. I don’t trust anyone too cheap to park that car in a garage.”
He nods. “I have some at my place.”
Right, they have his wallet.
“Your place…” Sigh. “Look, dude, do I need to explain that I can do a lot more damage to your face than the two goons who jumped you?”
In the restaurant, when he was pressed and powered and looking like a depressed Bruce Wayne, he was intimidating. Now he just looks like a beat-up rich guy in desperate need of my help. The playing field feels leveled.
“No.” I can hear the smile in his voice even though his face is a blank slate. This night keeps getting stranger and stranger.
“Good.”
Together we cross the street in silence. It’s then I notice he’s in worse shape than I initially surmised. Walking stiffly, his face flinches with each step he takes and a tiny bit of guilt stirs in my chest. Maybe I was a little hard on him. Just because he’s a generally rude person doesn’t mean I should sink to his level.
We reach the car and he takes my wrist, dropping a key in my palm. No lie, I’m almost giddy at the prospect of driving this car. It’s a masterpiece of engineering, the exterior sexy and sleek, the interior the very definition of luxury. I wouldn’t be surprised if the upholstery is stuffed with hundred-dollar billz yo. It smells of money too, new leather with a subtle hint of his expensive aftershave lingering in the air.
Depressed Bruce Wayne, as I now think of him, settles in the passenger seat and tips his head back. His eyes fall shut. Meanwhile, the dumb-dumb behind the wheel of the car emits an embarrassing audible sigh. This earns me a slow examining glance. A smile wants to flare on my face, but I resist the temptation. Those guardrails need to stay firmly in place for my safety and his. Thankfully, his interest doesn’t last very long.
“Sorry. Your car just gave me a hug.”
“What’s your name?”
Nah. That’s not happening. I’m not keen on giving strangers my name. Call it a well-developed survival instinct. Ignoring the question, I pull the Bentley into traffic and turn up Tenth Avenue.
“Your name?” he repeats impatiently.
We come to a red light and a bus pulls along his quarter-million-dollar car. On the side of the bus there’s a poster advertising travel to the Philippines. Having never set foot outside the tri-state area I have an unhealthy addiction to travel shows. It reminds me of the one I watched not too long ago.
“Imelda…”
Not my best effort, but what can I say––it’s late and my supply of BS is running low.
He cracks his eyes open and turns to look at me…I mean really look at me. I’m not usually a vain person, but my long hair is falling out of a ponytail and it’s curling like crazy with the humidity. One plus one equals I look like a steaming pile of garbage.
“Imelda?” He blinks and stares. Actually, he only blinks the one eye that isn’t swollen shut. One eye notwithstanding, the super laser focused examination makes me defensive.
“Yeah, Imelda.”
“Imelda what?” We exchange sparring glances for a moment or two. He exhales tiredly. “I have no desire to remember this night after we part ways––last name?”
He sounds so completely disaffected and detached I almost break a cardinal rule and tell him the truth. “Maarrrcus.”
He makes a face. “Marcos?”
“Marcus. My last name is Marcus. It’s like…a different pronunciation.” The way he’s looking at me is throwing off my major league game. I’m usually better at covering my tracks than this sloppy effort.
“Your name is Imelda Marcus?” he repeats in clear disbelief.
“Immi, for short,” I ramble on, my hands sweating on the kid leather steering wheel as they often do when I lie. “That’s what my friends call me, but we’re not friends so kindly refrain from using it.”
He snorts. And judging by the wince, it hurts his face. The light turns green and I proceed north, crawling up Tenth Avenue even though the streets are mostly empty since the masses fled the city for the beach earlier today.
“Why are we barely moving?” he says a few minutes later.
“Because I don’t want you to hurl in the car. I have a thing about puke. I can’t stand the stuff.”
“I’m not going to hurl.” His frown is legit close to turning into a smile as his eyes fall shut again. “Hit the gas. Drive it like you stole it.”
I do as I’m told, weaving in between yellow cabs and the occasional minivan with Jersey plates. “You know…,” I say, dividing my attention between him and the road, “it was kind of stupid of you to be walking around late at night completely shit-faced.”
The questions are duplicating like gremlins in my head and I can’t keep my mouth shut when that happens. He, on the other hand, says nothing. Doesn’t even twitch. I get zero feedback from him, and without it we fade back into silence for a few more blocks.