He ripped off his shirt and examined himself: white as marble and crisscrossed with greenish veins and purplish blotches of settled blood.
He went to his contact lenses, carefully pinching out the cosmetic gels and depositing them in the fluid baths of their holding cases. He blinked a few times in relief, swiping at his eyes with his fingers, then feeling something weird. He leaned closer to the glass, blinking, examining his own eyes.
The pupils were dead black. Almost as though he still had the lenses in, only more textured now-more real. And-when he blinked, he noticed further activity within the eye. He got right up against the mirror, eyes wide now, almost afraid to close them.
A nictitating membrane had formed underneath his eyelid, a translucent second eyelid closing beneath the outer eyelid, gliding horizontally across the eyeball. Like a filmy cataract eclipsing his black pupil, closing upon his wild and horrified stare.
Augustin "Gus" Elizalde sat slumped in the back of the dining area with his pinch-front hat on the seat next to him. It was a narrow storefront eatery, one block east of Times Square. Neon burgers shining in the window, and red-and-white-checkered tablecloths on the tables. Budget eating in Manhattan. You walk in and order at the counter up front-sandwiches, pizza, something on the grill-pay for it, and take it in back, to a windowless room of tables jammed in tight. Wall murals of Venice and gondolas surrounded them. Felix scarfed down a plate of goopy macaroni and cheese. It was all he ate, mac and cheese, the more disgustingly orange the better. Gus looked down at his half-eaten greaseburger, suddenly more interested in his Coke, in the caffeine and sugar, getting some jolt back into him.
He still didn't feel right about that van. Gus turned over his hat underneath the table and checked the inside band again. The original five $10 bills he had gotten from that dude, plus the $500 he had earned for driving the van into the city, were still tucked in there. Tempting him. He and Felix could have a hell of a lot of fun on half that amount. Take home half for his madre, money she needed, money she could use.
Problem was, Gus knew himself. Problem was stopping at half. Problem was walking around with unspent money on his person.
He should get Felix to run him home right now. Unburden him self of half this haul. Slip it to his madre without his dirtbag brother Crispin knowing. Crackhead could sniff out dollars like a fiend.
Then again, this was dirty money. He had done something wrong to get it-clearly, though he didn't know what he'd done-and handing the money over to his madre was like passing on a curse. Best thing to do with dirty money is spend it quick, get rid of it-easy come, easy go.
Gus was torn. He knew that, once he started drinking, he lost all impulse control. And Felix was the gasoline to his flame. The two of them would burn through $550 before sunup, and then, instead of bringing something beautiful home to his madre, instead of bringing home something good, he would come in dragging his own hungover ass, hat all dented to hell, empty pockets turned inside out.
"Penny for your thoughts, Gusto," said Felix.
Gus shook his head. "I'm my own worst enemy, 'mano. I'm like a f**king mutt sniffing in the street who don't know what tomorrow means. I got a dark side, amigo, and sometimes it takes me over."
Felix sipped his giant-ass Coke. "So what are we doing in this greasy spoon? Let's get out and meet some young ladies tonight."
Gus ran his thumb along the leather rim inside his hat, over the folded cash Felix knew nothing about-so far. Maybe just a hundred. Two hundred, half for each. Pull out exactly that much, that was his limit, no more. "Gotta pay to play, right, 'mano?"
"Fuck yeah."
Gus looked away and saw a family next to him, dressed for the theater, rising and leaving with their desserts unfinished. Because of Felix's language, Gus guessed. By the looks of these Midwestern kids, they had never heard hard talk. Well, f**k them. You come into this town, you keep your kids out past nine o'clock, you risk them seeing the full show.
Felix finally finished his slop and Gus eased his cash-filled hat onto his head and they sauntered out into the night. They were walking on Forty-fourth Street, Felix sucking on a cigarette, when they heard screams. It didn't quicken their pace any, hearing screams in Midtown Manhattan. Not until they saw the fat, naked guy shuffling across the street at Seventh and Broadway.
Felix nearly spit out his cigarette laughing. "Gusto, you see that shit?" He started to jog ahead, like a bystander called by a barker to a show.
Gus wasn't into it. He followed slowly after him.
People in Times Square were making way for this guy and his pasty, floppy ass. Women screamed at the sight, half laughing, covering their eyes or their mouths or both. A young bachelorette party group snapped photos with their phones. Every time the guy turned, a new group got a look at his shriveled, flesh-buried junk, and howled.
Gus wondered where the cops were. This was America for you: a brown brother couldn't even duck into a doorway for a discreet piss without getting hassled, yet a white guy can parade naked through the crossroads of the world and get a free pass.
"Wasted off his ass," hooted Felix, following the fool, along with a loose bunch of others, many drunk themselves, savoring the street theater. The lights of the brightest intersection in the world-Times Square is a slashing X of avenues, walled with eye-popping advertisements and word crawls, a pinball game run through with never-ending traffic-dazzled the fat man, set him spinning. He lunged about, lurching like a circus bear on the loose.
Felix's crowd of carousers laughed and reared back when the man turned and staggered toward them. He was getting bolder now, or a little panicked, like a frightened animal, and more confused and seemingly-sometimes he pressed a hand to his throat, as though choking-more pained. Everything was really lively until the pale, fat man lashed out at a laughing woman, grabbing her by the back of her head. The woman screamed and twisted and a part of her head came off in his hand-for a moment it looked as though he had ripped open her skull-but it was just her frizzy black extensions.
The attack crossed the line from fun into fright. The fat man stumbled out into traffic with the fistful of fake hair still in his hand, and the crowd followed, pursuing him now, growing angry, yelling. Felix took the lead, crossing to the traffic island after this guy. Gus went along, but away from the crowd, threading through the honking cars. He was calling to Felix to come away, to be done with this. This was not going to end well.
The fat man was advancing toward a family gathered in the island to take in Times Square at night. He had them backed up against the traffic shooting past, and when the father tried to intervene he got knocked back hard. Gus recognized them as the theatergoing family from the restaurant. The mother seemed more concerned about shielding her kids' eyes from the sight of the naked man than protecting herself. She got grabbed by the back of the neck, pulled close up against his sagging belly and pendulous man br**sts. The crazy man's mouth opened as though he wanted a kiss. But then it kept opening, like a snake's mouth-clearly dislocating the jaw with a soft pop.