I’m genuinely shocked. Usually bums are the only strangers you ever meet who wish you a nice day. They know most people will pass by twice. I have no witty rejoinder. I have only my Feyenoord appointment book and shiny sneakers to testify on my behalf. I can’t escape. I have to wait in front of him to cross the street.
The door opens before I even have a chance to knock. He’s even bigger in real life. His pop-out chest is more impressive in 3-D than his picture on the agency wall, half-naked and oiled, posing in an old gilded mirror. His biceps bulge under a small blue Kool and the Gang T-shirt. His legs are as thick as thieves. But somehow his head seems too big for his body. And his nose looks too big for both.
“You can hear the elevator opening from inside the apartment,” he says, opening the door wide. “The buzzer downstairs doesn’t work. The elevator door’s our early-warning system.”
“In case any of his women come knocking, he has time to hide,” a voice says from inside. Two male laughs.
“G’way,” he says, smiling. “Come in. Rianne called and said you were coming.” He grabs my suitcase with one hand, and it flies upward of its own volition. “I’m Augustus.” He offers me his other hand. His grip is surprisingly soft. His voice rumbles so deep I can feel it in my ass. “But most of my friends call me Biggs. It’s Stacey, right?”
“Yeah. Stacey Schmidt.”
“Cool. Welcome to our house.” He pronounces it hoose.
The apartment is small, carpeted with clothes of all kinds. The walls are bare, and there’s no furniture except a wide white couch and a tiny TV as large as a parking attendant’s security monitor.
“There’s not much left,” Augustus says, gazing around. “Most of the crap was Simien’s, and he took it yesterday. Tour?”
The other two are sprawled behind the couch, opposite each other. Feet almost touching. A small bowl of lumpy dip between them. They’re sharing a cigarette. Everything smells of sweetgrass.
Augustus points. “The white guy’s Breffni. Negro’s Crispen.” Breffni, brown-haired, stubbled, impossibly blue eyes almost glowing. He’s naked from the waist up. A jeans commercial. Crispen, shorter, darker than I am, bald, beautiful lips, almond-shaped eyes, and a gold earring. He’s dressed as if he should be either hitting a home run or robbing a liquor store, and has a toothpick stabbing out of the side of his mouth.
“Stacey.” I put out my hand, but it seems as if neither will get up for a while.
“The fresh meat,” Crispen says, taking a drag, passing the joint to Breffni. “Want some? In there.”
I open the fridge, hoping to find more dip, but all I see is a stick of butter, some milk, and a plastic bag of what appears to be oregano. I begin to doubt it’s oregano. Without warning Breffni applies his spoon to Crispen’s face, and the two roll toward the wall in a ball.
“They’ll be all right in half an hour or so. Simien’s supposed to be out of his room by tomorrow, so until then you can throw your stuff here.” Augustus motions to a stained corner. “Shower’s in here.”
“Rules,” Crispen gurgles from the floor.
“Right,” Augustus says, barring the bathroom door with one arm. “One. When you leave the apartment, don’t lock the door. Simien has the only key. Two. When you finish the milk, don’t just put a new bag in, cut the damn top open, too. Three—” he indicates the toilet “—we’re guys. We miss. That’s fine. But either clean it up, or do it sitting down like a bitch. Got it, Pappa?”
“Sure.” There are brown mushrooms growing in the carpet behind the bowl.
“Lucky Charms!” Breffni shouts, mouth full of dip.
“Oh, yeah. Lucky Charms are Breff’s. Touch them and he’ll touch you. Of course, he only likes them ’cause they got a picture of a little Irish dude on the cover. Keeps him in touch with his heritage.”
“’Tis troo,” Crispen quips in a cartoon Irish accent. He and Breffni both clutch their sides, dissolve into a pool of laughter.
Augustus shrugs. “Like I said, they’ll be okay in a half hour or so. Shower?”
The shower has almost no pressure. I feel as if I’m being watered. I pump some soap from an industrial-size tube. If the black dot on the tub is moving, it’s a snail. It’s hard to tell what’s in motion and what’s not. I’m so weak with hunger, my brain is a loaf of bread. I don’t even feel wet when I step out of the shower.
“You want some?”
“Sure.”
Crispen hands me the joint. I rarely smoke up, but I figure if I can’t get food, at least I can get high. I fumble, burn my fingers, then pass the roach to Breffni, who inhales expertly. Filling his cheeks like a horn player.
“So what happened to that girl you were with, Biggs?” Crispen asks Augustus. “She was fine.”
“Gave her the boot. Possum lover. She played dead.” Turning to me, he asks, “You have a woman?”
“No.” Thinking about Melody. “I wouldn’t mind working on that girl at Feyenoord, though.”
“Specifically...” Breffni says, scooping another finger of lumpy batter from his bowl.
“The booker. What’s her name?”
Scowls of collective disgust.
Breffni groans. “Shawna?”
“No. What’s her name...Rianne? She gave me her number.”
Degrees of laughter all around.
“She’s as easy as pie,” Breffni snorts.
“Rianne’s not our booker, by the way,” Augustus says. “Rianne books the girls’ shoots. Shawna books ours. But by all means, go for it, Pappa. You’re just the kind of guy who’d make her runny. Damn, I’m in the mood! Let’s go out. Any of you have to be up tomorrow?”
“That reminds me,” I say. “Rianne told me to tell you guys we have some kind of go-see tomorrow morning.” I scan the room for my Feyenoord book, but my eyes can’t seem to keep up with my head. “Someone from Greece at 9:30.”
“Probably Eva again,” Crispen says. “I ain’t goin’. You?”
Augustus shakes his head.
I frown. “Are you guys mad?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Elite college football players skipping the NFL draft to join the pro bowling circuit. “Europe’s the big ticket.”
“Europe’s a sham, man,” Breffni says. “Guys have to pay their own way. By the time you cover rent, food, and smokes, there’s nothing left to take home. I have all the pictures I need for my book. This is the place to be, my fine feathered friend. Commercials. Movies. Hollywood without the beaches, tits, and cars. You can’t go to the can without pissing on someone who’s casting for something. Europe’s just pretty pictures. And kick-ass herb.”
“Have you ever done any movies?” I ask.
“When I was a kid in Buffalo, I worked all the time. Cutesy stuff, a couple of small roles in movies. Lots of commercials. Remember the Loony-Roos kid?”
“The kid who wouldn’t eat anything that wasn’t red? I thought that kid was blond.”
“That was me. I dye my hair brown now.”
“Damn.” Impressed. “Have you been in anything lately?”