An English Boy in New York by T. S. Easton Page A

Sainsbury’s.’
    â€˜Yeah, but this is Starbucks in NEW YORK!’ he said.
    â€˜It’s the same!’
    He shook his head. ‘It’s not. It’s really not.’
    The guy taking the orders asked for our names and wrote them on the cup. ‘Dis is Keith, I’m Gex. G-E-X, and this is Bellend. BELLEND,’ Gex said, pointing to me.
    â€˜Thanks, Gex,’ I said. ‘As ever.’
    We went and sat down.
    â€˜So you live in Brooklyn?’ I asked Keith cheerfully.
    â€˜Some call it living,’ Keith said darkly. ‘I gotta find me the exit door, you feel?’
    â€˜You don’t like Brooklyn?’
    â€˜I do not.’
    â€˜You should move,’ I said. ‘I hear Queens is nice.’
    He laughed hollowly. ‘If I’m going, it has to be further than goddam Queens. They’d find me there.’
    â€˜Who would find you?’ I asked. Gex was on the edge of his seat, staring at his cousin, mesmerised. There was a faint scent of man-love in the air.
    Keith looked around. ‘The boys.’
    â€˜What boys?’ I asked. ‘You mean your gang?’ Gex kicked me. ‘What?’ I asked.
    â€˜Don’t talk about gangs,’ Gex said out of the corner of his mouth.
    â€˜
He’s
talking about gangs!’ I pointed out. ‘Don’t kick me again.’
    Gex glared at me but said nothing.
    â€˜So, you want out of the gang?’ I asked Keith in a hushed tone. Though frankly, everyone in there was talking so loudly on their phones that it didn’t make any difference how loud I talked. I could have screamed that it was time to pop a cap in someone’s ass and no one would have paid any attention.
    Keith leaned closer to me. ‘You can’t talk about this stuff,’ he said, eyes narrowed.
    â€˜OK, fair enough,’ I agreed. ‘Maybe, on balance, it would be best if you didn’t tell me anything.’
    â€˜I’m in too deep,’ he said, ignoring my suggestion. ‘I’ve seen stuff.’
    â€˜Tell him about the stuff,’ Gex said eagerly.
    â€˜Actually, I don’t want to know about the stuff,’ I said quickly.
    â€˜Have you ever watched a man,’ Keith growled, ‘having his kneecaps split with a –’
    â€˜BELLEND!’
    â€˜Oh, that’s me,’ I said, standing up.
    â€˜You Bellend?’ a girl at the counter said, holding my coffee.
    â€˜I am,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
    â€˜That’s a cute name,’ she said, smiling.
    I looked at her. She seemed totally guileless. Maybe people in the States didn’t know what a bellend was.
    â€˜You really think so?’
    â€˜Sure,’ she said and winked. Was she .…  was she
flirting
? ‘My name’s Heidi.’
    â€˜I love that name,’ I said automatically.
    She scribbled something on the cup and handed it to me.
    â€˜Thanks,’ I said again, suddenly panicking. Should I tip a girl who was flirting with me? If so, how much? Come to think of it, was she really flirting with me or are all American girls like this? I thrust my hand into my pocket, pulled out three dollars and dropped it into a box on the counter marked ‘tips’. I hate not knowing the rules.
    â€˜Thank you, Bellend,’ she said, smiling
    â€˜Er, no problem, Heidi.’
    â€˜So there I was,’ Keith was saying as I sat down. ‘I had this guy dangling from the top of the building. Fifteen floors up. He was screaming and begging  … ’
    â€˜Who’s Heidi?’ Gex asked me.
    â€˜Eh? I don’t know anyone called Heidi,’ I said.
    â€˜Well, she’s written her phone number on your cup.’
    He reached over and turned my cup around. It was true. Heidi had written her name and number on my cup. ‘Which girl was it?’
    Gex and Keith immediately stood like meerkats to get a good view. I couldn’t bring myself to look.
    â€˜I bet