Devils in Exile

Poison Sweet

Tia’s was a seasonal bar set under an awning against the high brick wall of the waterfront Marriott Long Wharf. It was that moment when the sun goes down and the city lights start to come up, and everything feels balanced and good. Young professionals crowded the rail, waiting for patio tables to open up. Guys wearing sandals with dress pants, girls in flip-flops and short skirts. All of them drinking candy-colored booze. Jolly Ranchers and Jager Bombs, Midori and Cointreau. Shots called Quick Fuck and Juicy Pussy. Red Bull and whatever. Kids like their poison sweet.

“I went to a peace rally once,” said Samara Bahaar, sipping a Bacardi and Diet through two cocktail straws. “On the Common.”

“Yeah?” he said.

She wore a top with two stringy shoulder straps over tanned, smooth skin. “Banners, chants, the whole thing. It was packed.”

Maven nodded. “Sounds like fun.”

“I mean, we knew it wasn’t the sixties anymore. But it was good. We got tapas after.” Her nose wrinkled a little as she played with the ice in her drink and thought. “All I hear about nowadays is soldiers returning and having problems.”

“You know what it’s like? Being over there, it was just like going on a trip. Picking up souvenirs and whatnot, weird stuff. But you’re so busy looking over your shoulder all the time, you just throw them in your suitcase. Then you get home. You’re tired, unpacking sucks. So the suitcase sits for a while. Easier to walk around it than open it. When you finally get to unpacking, you start pulling out all this crazy shit you forgot you put in there, and it’s, like — you’re home now, and there’s absolutely no place for it here. But it’s, like, yours, you can’t throw it out. So?”

“You’re stuck with it.”

“Got to find a place. I found a place. Maybe I’m just lucky.”

“So could you, like, kick anybody’s ass in this joint?”

Maven looked around. “Go ahead. Pick somebody out.”

“Can I sic you on some old boyfriends?”

“That’s already been taken care of. You won’t be running into those clowns anymore.”

She smiled, then tapped at the enamel of her front teeth with her fingernail. Probably feeling a little numb from the drinks.

“Here’s a question you’ll love,” said Maven. “What are you going to do now that you are out of school?”

“Ha.” She shook out her hair. “With my incredibly valuable double major in psychology and communications, you mean? The sky’s the limit. My parents want me to move back to Jersey. Which I’m not. I really want to stay here, but my lease is up September first, and... I guess basically I’m putting off what I need to do. Which is — decide.”

“You’re waiting for something to happen. Hoping that something will decide things for you.”

She pointed to him. “You’ve been there.”

“I have.” He downed a little more Ketel One. “I told you I work for a Realtor, right?”

“I was going to ask about that. So do you, like, have your pick of great apartments?”

“Something like that.”

“Where do you live now?”

“On Marlborough.”

“You live on Marlborough Street?”

“Right.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I think I do.”

“How do you afford that?”

He enjoyed her astonishment. “How about we give this table to some of these braying donkeys over here, and I’ll take you over. I live above the office, we can go down and check some listings, then get a bite to eat.”

She pulled out the two purple stirrers and finished off her drink. “Sounds great.”

“One more question. Have you ever been on the back of a motorcycle?”

It was a Harley Night Train, done out in sinister black and chrome, low and lean, barely a week old. He handed her the extra helmet. She said, “Maybe I should have had another drink.”

He stood astride the seat, standing the bike off the kick. “You’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” She took a breath. She pulled the helmet down over her ringlets. “Killing my hair.” She climbed on behind him, putting her hands first on his shoulders, then around his waist.

He started it up, and she gripped him harder, pressing her front into his back as he eased away from the curb. Heads turned as they rode through the city, guys wanting the bike, girls wanting the ride. Once they got into the Back Bay, he could feel her starting to have fun. He turned into the brick alley between Marlborough and Beacon, pulling in at the carriage-house garage behind their building. He parked next to Suarez’s and Glade’s identical Harleys.

“Was there a special?” she asked, pulling off her helmet, trying to resuscitate her hair.

Inside, climbing the stairs to the second floor, Maven felt a tinge of concern. He had had plenty of girls back to the pad, of course, but always late at night, and rarely half-sober.

Glade was in the kitchen, standing at the counter in his underwear, eating Thai food out of a carton with chopsticks and a fork. After the requisite introductions, Glade said, “This is nice, Maven, you dating girls for a change.”

Maven shed his motorcycle jacket. “You putting on weight, Glades?”

Glade smiled a Fuck you, shoveling more rad na into his mouth.

Samara was bemused by Glade’s showmanship, but more impressed with the pad. “Wow, that’s a lot of phones.”

Their work phones lay in the corner next to the refrigerator, twelve units charging, a thicket of wires feeding into the bank of outlets in the tile backsplash.

“Yeah, well, Realtors, you know,” said Maven, ignoring Glade’s taunting stare.

Suarez came hobbling in on crutches, wearing shorts underneath an open bathrobe, his thigh wrapped in tape and gauze.

“Motorcycle accident?” Samara guessed.

Maven said, “Cut himself shaving.”

Suarez said, “Maven ever offers to show you his knife-throwing trick — say hell no.”

Maven felt a little looser. “Fixing to go out?”

The front door opened then, Termino walking inside. “You fucking dinks not dressed yet?”

Royce entered behind him. He immediately zoned in on Samara’s presence, putting her together with Maven.

“Milkshake here had to eat,” said Suarez. “And we have a guest.”

Maven rushed the introductions. Royce smiled and took her hand. “A pleasure.”

Maven found a key labeled OFFICE on the peg rack by the wall phone. He regretted bringing her up now, his words coming fast. “We were on our way downstairs. Samara’s lease is up at the end of August, and I said I’d show her some listings.”

Royce said, still with a careful look behind his eyes, “College student?”

“Just graduated,” said Samara.

“Congratulations. Don’t let us hold you up.” He looked at Maven with nothing hard in his eyes, leaving it to Maven to read his displeasure. “Perhaps you can even talk Maven into giving up his finder’s fee.”

Still gracious, still smooth. Maven felt that he was getting away easy as he steered Samara to the door — and walked right into Danielle.

Danielle wore a smoking-hot dress, black and dangerous, topped by a perfect groove of cleavage.

Danielle took in Samara at a glance, then turned a funny little smile on Maven, seeing right through him. Knowing that this was why he had brought Samara around. He had wanted Danielle to see him with someone else.

Royce said, “Danny, this is Maven’s friend. Samara, isn’t it?”

Danielle smiled at Samara with too much levity, her dagger heels giving her a few extra inches of condescension. “How perfectly strange to meet you,” Danielle said, and Maven closed his eyes a moment, swallowing his defeat.

Maven went from desk to desk searching for a printout of recent market listings, trying to head off any discussion of what had just occurred upstairs.

Samara watched him, still bothered, pretending not to be. “Which desk is yours?”

“Me?” said Maven, finding what he thought he was looking for, then realizing it wasn’t. “Oh, I just float around.”

Samara became quiet again as footsteps descended the main stairs, past the wall behind them. Glade’s voice was loudest, telling jokes no one laughed at, the talk fading as they exited through the back basement to the garage.

“Who was she?” said Samara.

“Who?”

“There was only one ‘she’ up there.”

“You mean Danielle?”

Samara didn’t respond.

“She’s with Royce.”

“Royce is your boss.”

“Right.”

“She’s his wife? Girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend.” Maven looked up, confronting it rather than doing a dance. “Why?”

Samara backed off, shaking her head, looking out the window to the street. “Just curious.”