How It Ended: New and Collected Stories - By Jay McInerney Page 0,18
see if it's okay. You need to have signals; you've got to be able to communicate. But she seems fine. In fact, she seems more than fine, with that blurry, lascivious look on her face. How the hell much did she drink at the Corral anyway?
I'm waiting at the bar, listening to “Little Red Rooster,” when I hear three little pops. It's like the witnesses always say when you see them on the eleven o'clock news; it's like firecrackers, or maybe somebody snapping a whip outside the door, so I don't even think about it until a young guy with a reddish Afro in a puffy black parka comes running in the bar, shouting, and even though I can't make out a word of what he's saying, the place starts clearing out. Suddenly, Susan and the kid are beside me.
“There's been a shooting in the parking lot,” she says. “Derek needs a ride.” She doesn't quite wink at me, but she's got that little smirk on her face.
Outside, I catch a glimpse of legs on the ground between the legs of the onlookers, bright white Nikes splayed on the pavement.
“I don't need that shit,” the kid says as we're driving away. “You know what I'm sayin'?”
“I hear you.”
“You can drop me on Broadway.”
“Whatever,” I say.
“Or you could come to our place,” Susan says. “We could party.”
“I got a bottle of Courvoisier,” I say.
“XO?”
“I think. It might be VSOP.”
“Y'all got any reefer?”
“We've got some fine bud, plus some killer blow.”
He seems to be considering the offer, weighing the pros and cons. I try to find him in the rearview, but it's too dark.
“Where y'all's crib?”
“We're over in Green Hills.”
He snorts. “More like the white hills.”
“Len Simmons lives down the street,” Susan says. I turn toward her and roll my eyes, but she's not looking at me. Jesus Christ, I think. But the kid seems impressed that we have a Heisman winner in the nabe.
“Not bad,” he says, surveying the house from the vantage of the entry hall.
“Yac and Coke?”
“To start with.”
“Susan will show you around,” I say, handing him a Baggie with buds and papers.
When I return with the drinks, they're sitting beside each other on the living room couch. Derek is sealing the joint with his tongue.
“What's a crib like this set you back?”
“We bought in ‘01, back before the big run-up.”
He lights up the joint, inhales and hands it to Susan. “I'm gonna get me a house like this.”
“It's a great investment.”
Susan inhales deeply on the joint while I chop the coke on the coffee table.
Derek nods at me. “We oughta call Len Simmons.”
“His daughter goes to school with our little boy.”
“That wife of his, she look like she know how to get down.”
“She's hot,” I say, handing him a length of straw.
“White folks is all about the powder,” he says. “Where I comes from, s'all about the rock. You ever smoke that rock?” He leans over and snorts a couple of lines, then hands the straw to Susan.
She gathers her hair behind her head and starts to lean forward. “Would you hold my hair?” she asks.
“No problem.” He holds her hair as she crouches down over the coffee table. I've always found this incredibly sexy. When she comes back up, she strokes his arm and kisses him on the cheek. I get the feeling he's just beginning to get a sense of the possibilities.
“What kind of party y'all got in mind here?”
“Just hanging out, getting down,” I say.
“ ‘Cause I ain't into no dudes.”
“You're a ladies' man,” Susan says.
I shake my head. “Me, neither,” I say.
“I ain't ridin’ no trike.”
“I hear you.”
Derek scratches his chin contemplatively. “We need some tunes.”
“Coming right up.”
I figure The Black Album is a pretty safe choice. Marvin Gaye or Al Green might just be pushing it, at least to start. Susan's bending down over the coffee table. Derek takes her hair in one hand and puts the other beneath her breast. This time when she comes up, she starts to kiss him. I hold my breath, standing beside the sound system. This is no time to call attention to my presence. I wish I could say why this thrills me, why I love seeing my wife sticking her tongue in this stranger's mouth, especially when he has skin the color of French-roast coffee. They make out for three or four minutes while I stand there. Then I see Susan going for his belt. By now I have inched a few feet closer, but