Devils in Exile

Overnight

Where you at tonight?” asked Ricky, chewing Sour Patch Kids.

“Huh?” said Maven, zoning out on a stool before the wall of cigarettes behind the counter, ruminatively working his deformed tongue against his gums. “Nowhere. Tired maybe.”

“Two a.m.” Ricky flipped on the small television between the cash register and the pump monitors, tuning in a re-airing of that afternoon’s The Tyra Banks Show. “Time for my girl.”

When Ricky was still stateside in Kentucky during the ramp-up to Iraq, Tyra Banks visited Fort Campbell as part of a post–9/11 USO thing. Ricky lucked out, drawing the assignment to escort her vehicle back to the airport. Before they left the base, Ricky was sneaking a Snapple out of the hospitality tent when Tyra and her entourage breezed past him, as close to him as Maven was now.

“And it wasn’t even her body, you know, which is, by the way, ka-pow! No, it was her skin. No lie. She has this perfect, like, creamy cocoa complexion that you’ve never even seen in your life. And her hair — she had on a patrol cap with her name on the back, BANKS — her hair had a life all its own, like a fifth limb. And the way she moved... I mean, lust just demeans it. It was true love. I seriously understand now why kings and shit launched entire wars over just one woman — risked their countries, their fortunes, gave away everything they had. I understand chivalry now, dude. She is Tyra of Troy. Just look at her.”

She came out to applause, turning on her big Tyra smile, playing surprise at the warmth of the reception, putting a flat hand to her breathless, voluptuous chest, then pursing her lips in a kiss.

“There. The air kiss. That’s our little signal.”

Maven looked at skinny Ricky hunched over before the small screen. “Your signal?”

“This cruel world keeps us apart. Experts say there are three events that could trigger a worldwide cataclysm. One — the sun burns out. Two — an asteroid impact destroys the atmosphere. Three — Tyra Banks marries a white man.”

Maven thought about it, and agreed. “I think three would cause the most typhoons.”

Ricky watched his goddess on a flickering four-inch screen. “She should wear stretchier tops.”

A pickup stopped outside, the driver bald, leather-jacketed, with the extremity of a tattoo — something dull, blue, penal — visible at the sides of his neck. He left the pickup running with a pit bull sitting in the front seat, came in, paid cash for a box of Phillies Blunts and some beef jerky, then drove off feeding the jerky to the dog.

The prison tat jumped out at Maven, got him feeling that nervous energy again. Beyond all his qualms, beyond all the questions he still had, beyond the voice in his head telling him, Don’t, he was undeniably excited. He couldn’t wait for his shift to be over. For the new day to begin.

He had gone into this thing wanting to know more about Danielle Vetti, and instead found himself beguiled by Brad Royce.

Ricky said, his mouth full of Sour Patch Kids, “You’re not eating tonight?”

Maven shook his head. Tomorrow Man. “I’m thinking about trying to get back into shape.”

That straightened Ricky. “You’re going to reenlist,” he said, as though it were something he had been dreading all along.

Maven smiled and shook his head, looking out the window again, searching the sky for signs of dawn.