Suckerpunch: (2011) by Jeremy Brown Page B

and ran his hands through his hair.
     
    “Stand over there,” she told me.
     
    I stepped so the tower was behind me and waited. It would look like I was posing in front of a brick wall at this angle, but I’d stood in front of worse.
     
    “Smile.”
     
    I moved my mouth but not enough.
     
    She tried to kick me from twenty feet away. “Bigger, Woody. Be happier.” She hit me with the flash, and I blinked.
     
    Lance said, “Look, they have postcards for sale right there of the same shot. No, better. They have a full moon in them.” He bent closer. “It’s fake, but it still looks cool.”
     
    “Woody isn’t in them,” Marcela said.
     
    “Yeah, they’re professionally done. Guys, we’re running pretty late.”
     
    Marcela said,
“You’re
running late.
We
don’t have to be anywhere.”
     
    Lance sagged and looked at me.
     
    “Let’s get this over with,” I said.
     
    Marcela rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine.” She slapped me with the flash again as I walked toward her. She laughed. “That’s going to be a terrible picture.”
     
    We scampered across the expanse of Sahara Avenue and managed to get past the Stratosphere without any incidents from Marcela, then cut east through some parking lots and followed a construction site fence until Lance said, “That’s it up there.”
     
    It was at the end of a strip mall set back from the street between a Thai food place and a pawnshop. Dig through the Dumpster behind the mall, and you’d probably find a couple new elements for the periodic table. The place was called New Harvest Bakery, and the windows were dark. The Thai place was open but dead, and the pawnshop had a curtain of bars locked across its face.
     
    We crossed the empty parking lot. I could see the skeletons of unlit neon signs in the windows. They promised coffee, bagels, sweet rolls, and bread, most of them including some kind of wavy steam lines.
     
    Lance knocked on the glass door and we waited.
     
    A shape walked toward us. A big shape. I figured there must be an overhead door on the other side, because this thing wouldn’t fit through the front. The shape peered at us through the glass. Marcela said something in Portuguese, and I agreed.
     
    I heard three locks turn, and the door opened. A face the size of a manhole cover ducked out and said, “Lance.” He smiled at me and Marcela. I felt like a snack. “And friends. You’re late, but that’s okay. Come on in.”
     
    He swung the door out like it was a newspaper, and we filed past him into the cool, dim interior. There were about a dozen round white tables with chairs upside down on them over a dark and light checkered floor; I couldn’t tell the colors with the lights off.
     
    Ahead of us a counter stretched the width of the place, and behind that were empty bins waiting for the morning’s fresh goods. In the middle of the bins a set of swinging doors with glass portholes led into the rear. It was even darker back there.
     
    Lance said, “These are just some old friends I ran into. Guys, this is Jake.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, we’re going to see some sights after this, so I told them to come along. It won’t take long.”
     
    “Sure,” Jake said. He sounded like he had a mouthful of peanut butter, but I figured the words were just tired from traveling so far to get out. He had a brown buzz cut and a goatee that would have made a great toupee for a normal man. He stuck his hand out. “Jake.”
     
    “Woody.” My hand disappeared, and I planned to never see it again.
     
    He didn’t squeeze, though, just shook once and let me go. He did the same with Marcela and said it was nice to meet us. Then raised his hand and asked, “Who’s been frisked in a bakery before?”
     
    Marcela and I looked at each other, our hands down. Lance raised his.
     
    Jake said, “Great. If you could all stand with your hands on the counter and your feet spread, we’ll get you in to see the man.”
     
    Jake