lumbered over to Fo, sweat rolling down his forehead, and handed it to the celebrity.
‘I want choo to picture this, you feel me?’ He put one hand in the air and then looked up at it as though a vista of the future were about to project from his fingertips. ‘This is what I thinkin’, man. At the end of the song, we gonna have a lot’a smoke, yo. It be pouring out, man, drifting across the stage while I do what I do. Then, we gonna turn on the back lights – big white searchlight motherfuckers. That’s when people gonna see the silhouette of a man standing on stage with his weapon in the crook of his arm like so,’ he said, striking the pose he was after, his arm the weapon. ‘This man be you. And then we’re gonna put a front light on you, you know, so everyone can see yo’ bad-ass motherfucker ghost face.’
He flipped over the rectangle of white paper that Boink had given him. It was Fallon’s cell phone photo, the one taken of me in Kabul. Christ, Arlen was right, the goddamn thing was following me around the world.
‘We gonna make you up,’ Fo said, ‘just like this.’
‘I spoke with Ayesha,’ said Ryder, chipping in behind me. ‘She says she can do a great job: white powder on your face, a little black around your eyes, crimson lipstick for the lines of blood across your mouth. Easy.’
‘No, thanks,’ I said, without hesitation.
‘Choo not sure, right? Well, think on this,’ Twenny Fo said, gesturing at Snatch. ‘Yo, give the man three.’
Snatch reached into his pants pocket, extracted a roll of cash, and began peeling off notes, his fingers translating ‘three’ into three thousand dollars. He held the moist wad toward me.
The photo brought back memories of the action in Kabul, one of them being of Specialist Rogerson with no face at all, sitting in the Landcruiser with her perfectly manicured nails still resting on the rim of the steering wheel.
‘No. And I’m sure,’ I said, handing the photo back to Boink.
One of the security guys whistled softly. I glanced up and saw the reason why – Leila had just broken into a dance routine that I’d loosely describe as X-rated. I felt her eyes on me as I made for the exit.
‘Change your mind,’ Twenny Fo called after me, ‘the offer stands, yo . . .’
CASSIDY, WEST, RUTHERFORD, RYDER, and I watched the performance from the wings. The audience was on its feet the whole time. I estimated the assemblage at close to two thousand. The numbers were less than I’d thought they would be. Maybe part of the brigade was somewhere else. Half a company of Firestone’s men was handling crowd control. Better them than us. Things were getting ragged out there. Leila had been on stage for over an hour, and her set was coming to a climax along with, I suspected, half the men, including me.
The song was called ‘Peep Show’. Two of Leila’s dancers had lathered moisturizer all over her, and then all over each other, and now the three of them were moving in and out of each other’s legs and arms while Leila sang a rhythmic song, the beat pulsing, the lyrics on the verge of pornographic. A roar of testosterone rose from the men and rolled over the oiled-up performers. I saw Leila flip the bird at Twenny Fo waiting in the wings. She was stealing the show and letting him know it.
I turned back to scope the audience. A commotion was going on in the front row. The overhead lighting flashed on a blade of steel. Suddenly, two men vaulted onto the stage and raced for Leila and the dancers. Holt’s security men were too thinly spread out to be effective. Rutherford and I moved at the same time. I went low, taking out their legs. The SAS sergeant went high, and all four of us slid on a slick of moisturizer. The two men were Rwandan, dressed in battle uniforms. Using a thumb lock, I immobilized the guy who I thought had the knife and dragged him offstage. I patted him down, but the knife was gone. Maybe he dropped it before he jumped on stage. Maybe
‘I want choo to picture this, you feel me?’ He put one hand in the air and then looked up at it as though a vista of the future were about to project from his fingertips. ‘This is what I thinkin’, man. At the end of the song, we gonna have a lot’a smoke, yo. It be pouring out, man, drifting across the stage while I do what I do. Then, we gonna turn on the back lights – big white searchlight motherfuckers. That’s when people gonna see the silhouette of a man standing on stage with his weapon in the crook of his arm like so,’ he said, striking the pose he was after, his arm the weapon. ‘This man be you. And then we’re gonna put a front light on you, you know, so everyone can see yo’ bad-ass motherfucker ghost face.’
He flipped over the rectangle of white paper that Boink had given him. It was Fallon’s cell phone photo, the one taken of me in Kabul. Christ, Arlen was right, the goddamn thing was following me around the world.
‘We gonna make you up,’ Fo said, ‘just like this.’
‘I spoke with Ayesha,’ said Ryder, chipping in behind me. ‘She says she can do a great job: white powder on your face, a little black around your eyes, crimson lipstick for the lines of blood across your mouth. Easy.’
‘No, thanks,’ I said, without hesitation.
‘Choo not sure, right? Well, think on this,’ Twenny Fo said, gesturing at Snatch. ‘Yo, give the man three.’
Snatch reached into his pants pocket, extracted a roll of cash, and began peeling off notes, his fingers translating ‘three’ into three thousand dollars. He held the moist wad toward me.
The photo brought back memories of the action in Kabul, one of them being of Specialist Rogerson with no face at all, sitting in the Landcruiser with her perfectly manicured nails still resting on the rim of the steering wheel.
‘No. And I’m sure,’ I said, handing the photo back to Boink.
One of the security guys whistled softly. I glanced up and saw the reason why – Leila had just broken into a dance routine that I’d loosely describe as X-rated. I felt her eyes on me as I made for the exit.
‘Change your mind,’ Twenny Fo called after me, ‘the offer stands, yo . . .’
CASSIDY, WEST, RUTHERFORD, RYDER, and I watched the performance from the wings. The audience was on its feet the whole time. I estimated the assemblage at close to two thousand. The numbers were less than I’d thought they would be. Maybe part of the brigade was somewhere else. Half a company of Firestone’s men was handling crowd control. Better them than us. Things were getting ragged out there. Leila had been on stage for over an hour, and her set was coming to a climax along with, I suspected, half the men, including me.
The song was called ‘Peep Show’. Two of Leila’s dancers had lathered moisturizer all over her, and then all over each other, and now the three of them were moving in and out of each other’s legs and arms while Leila sang a rhythmic song, the beat pulsing, the lyrics on the verge of pornographic. A roar of testosterone rose from the men and rolled over the oiled-up performers. I saw Leila flip the bird at Twenny Fo waiting in the wings. She was stealing the show and letting him know it.
I turned back to scope the audience. A commotion was going on in the front row. The overhead lighting flashed on a blade of steel. Suddenly, two men vaulted onto the stage and raced for Leila and the dancers. Holt’s security men were too thinly spread out to be effective. Rutherford and I moved at the same time. I went low, taking out their legs. The SAS sergeant went high, and all four of us slid on a slick of moisturizer. The two men were Rwandan, dressed in battle uniforms. Using a thumb lock, I immobilized the guy who I thought had the knife and dragged him offstage. I patted him down, but the knife was gone. Maybe he dropped it before he jumped on stage. Maybe
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