Insane City Page 6

  “Yeah.” Seth took another hit, handed the joint back to Meghan. “Can I ask you something?” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “Why does Tina want to marry me?”

  Meghan coughed out some smoke. “Seriously?” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Because she loves you.”

  “But why does she love me? I’m a fuckup.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “Meghan, look at me. I’m not even at my own bachelor party.”

  “OK, tonight you’re kind of a fuckup.”

  “But also in general. Compared with all her genius lawyer friends. And perfect family.”

  “We’re not perfect. Believe me. What we are is rich.”

  “That’s another thing. I tweet about douche. I’ll never make as much money as Tina. Never. And I’ll never give a shit about half the shit she gives a shit about.”

  “Nobody will ever compete with Tina in the field of giving a shit.”

  “But I’m not even close. Meg, seriously, the truth, why does she want to marry me?”

  “Well, why do you want to marry her?”

  “Because I could never do better. She’s smart and funny. At least she can be funny, when she’s not managing forks. And she’s unbelievably hot.”

  “You’re not so hard on the eyes yourself.”

  “But there’s lots of good-looking guys who’d marry her. Why’d she pick me?”

  Meghan took a long, contemplative hit, then said, “OK, first of all, you’re nice. A lot of these guys after her, they’re assholes. You’re not an asshole.”

  “That’s it? She wants to marry me because I’m not an asshole?”

  “If you knew the kind of assholes that were always swarming around Tina, and her money, and her dad’s money, you’d give not being an asshole a lot more credit. Also, I think it kind of helps that you don’t give a shit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, this way, she can be the one deciding what gets given a shit about. There’s no conflict. She’s in charge of a hundred percent of the shit giving. Tina really likes being in charge.”

  “So I’m, what, the faithful dog? The good little wife?”

  “No,” said Meghan, leaving it there, which Seth understood to mean, basically, yes.

  “Shit,” he said.

  Meghan studied the tiny charred joint remnant, then flicked it onto the perfect Ritz-Carlton grass. “Kind of late to be thinking about this,” she said.

  “I know. Everything happened so fast once we decided to get married. I thought we’d talk more about getting married, but pretty much all we talked about was the wedding.”

  Meghan put her hand on his. “Listen, Seth, it’s gonna be fine. Tina loves you, in her supergirl Tina way.”

  “Your parents hate me.”

  “They don’t hate you. Hate is a strong word.”

  “They hate me.”

  “I admit you would not be their first choice.”

  “I’m Jewish.”

  “They have several Jewish friends.”

  “Any non-billionaire Jewish friends?”

  Meghan thought about that. “No,” she concluded.

  “I’m a Jewish non-billionaire.”

  “They really don’t . . .”

  “I tweet about douche.”

  “OK, but . . .”

  “They hate that their daughter is marrying a douche tweeter.”

  “Not for long.”

  “What?”

  “Mike’s going to set you up.”

  “I won’t work for Mike. Tina knows that.”

  “Right, she does, and Mike does. But he’ll set something up.”

  “Set what up?”

  “I dunno. One of his rich, powerful friends will make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  “What if I don’t want to do whatever it is?”

  “Tina will want you to.”

  “So, what, it’s all settled? Whatever I think?”

  “Hey, Seth, relax. It’s a good life. You’ll be happy. Look at me. I’m happy.” She lit another joint.

  “You are? Really, you’re happy?”

  Meghan exhaled. “As a fucking clam.” She held the joint out to Seth.

  He shook his head, rejecting both the joint and the worry-free future.

  “No thanks,” he said. He stood, and suddenly the night was whirling around him. “Whoa!” he said, staggering backward.

  “I know,” said Meghan. “This is really good shit.”

  Seth grabbed the back of the chair and held on, oscillating gently back and forth, a feather in the breeze. “Can I ask you something?” he said.

  “Sure.”

  “You remember when I came out here?”

  “Here, outside? Like, just now?”

  “Yeah.”

  She nodded. “I remember.”

  “OK, do you remember why I came out here?”

  Meghan frowned. “You were looking for something.”

  “Right!” Seth was about to snap his fingers, then decided it was not worth the risk of releasing the chair. “But what?”

  Meghan frowned harder, then brightened. “A cash machine.”

  Seth groaned. “Oh Jesus, that’s right. The stripper.”

  “I’m telling you, Mike could arrange—”

  “No,” said Seth. “No Mike.”

  “OK,” said Meghan.

  “I’ll handle this. I just need to walk around a little first. Which way is the beach?”

  “I think it’s over there.” Meghan gestured vaguely with the joint.

  “OK,” said Seth. He released the chair, turned and began weaving toward the humid darkness smothering the Atlantic.

  “Be careful,” said Meghan. “Can’t have a wedding without the groom.”

  “Or dessert forks,” said Seth, not looking back.

  “Forks are important, too,” said Meghan, taking another hit.

  8

  Big Steve, Kevin and Marty had no idea how they wound up lying on the sidewalk in front of the Sea Monkey Hotel. They remembered, vaguely, having drinks with some very hot Russian women. But then . . . nothing.

  Big Steve, the least wrecked of the three, noticed that a crowd had gathered in front of them. People were standing over them, pointing, laughing, shooting cell-phone video. What was going on?

  With great effort, Big Steve sat up. He looked at Marty, lying next to him.

  “Ohmigod,” he said. “Marty!” He shook Marty. “Marty!”

  “What?” said Marty.

  “You’re naked!”

  Marty got his head up just enough to look down at himself.

  “Oh Jesus,” he said.

  Big Steve looked past Marty at Kevin. Kevin was not naked. But he was missing his pants.

  The crowd was growing. From the distance came the sound of police sirens.

  “We have to get out of here,” said Big Steve. He struggled to his feet. He then fell back down.

  Kevin had his head up now.

  “Marty,” he said. “You’re naked.”

  “I know!” said Marty. “I’m fucking naked!”

  “We have to get out of here,” said Big Steve, struggling to his feet again. “Kevin, give me a hand. The police are coming.” Kevin also made it to his feet, and the two of them were able to prop Marty up between them and stagger away from the crowd, down to the corner and onto a side street.

  Seconds later, a police car shot past on the main street, then another.

  “I’m fucking naked,” said Marty.

  Kevin looked down. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Where’s my pants?” He stood up. “Where’s my wallet?”

  “Shit,” said Marty. “My wallet’s gone, too.”

  Big Steve felt his pockets, relieved to find he had both his phone and his wallet. He was less relieved when he opened the wallet. “My money’s gone,” he said.

  “And where’s our suitcases?” said Kevin.

  “The Russians must h
ave taken them,” said Big Steve. “Maybe we should go back to the hotel, try to get our stuff back.”

  “No,” said Marty, shaking his head violently. “We go back there, half naked and wrecked, we’re gonna get arrested. We’ll miss the wedding.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We have to get to the hotel. But first I need pants.”

  “You can wear Steve’s shirt.”

  “I don’t need a shirt. I need pants.”

  “I mean wear his shirt on your legs.”

  “Why my shirt?” said Big Steve.

  “Because my shirt’s too small, and besides if I give it to him, I’m down to just my underwear.”

  “I don’t believe this,” said Big Steve, pulling his knit shirt off over his head. He handed it to Marty, who turned it over and, with some effort, managed to get his bare legs into the sleeves. He pulled the bottom of the shirt above his waist and said, “OK?”

  “Your balls are hanging out the neckhole,” said Kevin.

  Marty reached down and tucked them in.

  “I can never wear that shirt again,” said Big Steve.

  They started moving away from the sirens, Marty walking awkwardly, trying to keep his testicles inboard.

  “This is bad,” said Kevin.

  “We should’ve taken the hotel shuttle,” said Big Steve.

  9

  Seth was awakened by a cold sensation on his legs. It took him a few seconds to realize it was the Atlantic Ocean.

  “Shit,” he said, sitting up quickly, an act that he instantly regretted.

  When he’d lain down on the sand, the water had been a safe distance away; he’d planned to stay there for just a minute, clear his mind. But he’d fallen asleep to the whoosh and hiss of the waves coming and going, coming and going. Apparently, thanks to the tide, there had been more coming than going; his shoes and pants legs were soaked.

  He groaned and pushed himself backward, higher up on the beach. He put his head in his hands as his brain rebooted, the firing neurons recovering, one by one, the unpleasant facts from which sleep had briefly liberated him.

  FACT: There was a stripper—a large stripper—in his hotel room.

  FACT: She wanted $200 cash.

  FACT: Plus a tip.

  FACT: She had a boyfriend whom Seth was not keen to meet.

  FACT: Seth’s suitcase was missing somewhere in Miami.

  FACT: In the suitcase was the wedding ring Seth was supposed to place on Tina’s finger at the wedding.

  FACT: Which was in two days.

  Here Seth frowned, realizing that the night was over and it was now Saturday. His neurons then issued the following:

  CORRECTION: The wedding was tomorrow.

  FACT: The person currently in charge of locating the suitcase was a man about whom Seth knew nothing other than that he went around carrying an enormous snake.

  FACT: Seth was completely fucked.

  He sucked in a lungful of sea air, exhaled, did it a few more times, trying to clear his head, trying to think. The first order of business, he decided, was to get rid of the stripper. He’d go to the ATM, get the money, get her out of there. He should have done that already. He’d been trying to do that when he ended up sharing Meghan’s joint, which was idiotic. He had to stop being an idiot.

  The suitcase was trickier. He’d call the bar . . . what was it called? . . . the Clevelander. Maybe they’d have the suitcase. Why wouldn’t they? They probably would. He’d call them and he’d get it back and he’d have the ring, and Tina would never have to know it’d been missing.

  Seth was starting to feel a little better. Maybe he wasn’t completely fucked. Maybe he could make this work. He just needed to pull himself together, stop being an idiot, focus on the task at hand, the task of being the groom. No more distractions. No more Marty bullshit.

  Focus.

  With another groan, Seth got to his feet, brushing sand from his pants. In front of him, far out over the Atlantic, the black night sky was just starting to lighten to a dark gray. Seth turned to face the massive floodlit form of the Ritz-Carlton. He started trudging, his shoes squishing, toward the wooden walkway that led from the beach to the hotel lawn.

  He heard a high-pitched sound and stopped, cocking his head. His first thought was that it was a seagull. He heard it again, and it didn’t sound like a seagull. It sounded like a person, crying out in a voice hoarse with desperation.

  It was coming from the ocean.

  Seth stumbled down the beach to the water, peering into the darkness. The cry came again, from his left. He turned that way and saw something carried in the waves—a low silhouette. Another cry.

  “Hello!” shouted Seth at the shape. “Is somebody there?”

  A larger wave came, lifting the shape and tumbling it toward Seth. He saw now that it was a boat, upside down.

  With a child clinging to it.

  Seth plunged forward into the waves, stumbled and fell headfirst as the bottom dropped away suddenly beneath his feet. He got up, sputtering, and sloshed toward the boat, breasting a wave, then another.

  He reached the boat and grabbed it, trying to steady it in the waves. He was on the opposite side from the boy, who was dark-skinned, gaunt, shivering in a soaked T-shirt. He was holding tight to the ridge along the boat’s keel with one hand. His eyes were wide with terror.

  Seth reached across to the boy and said, “Come on!”

  The boy shook his head. He said something Seth didn’t understand.

  “Come on!” said Seth, reaching. The boy shook his head again. Another big wave made the boat rise, then settle. Seth, holding on to the boat, sloshed around the submerged bow, his intent being to grab the boy. But when he got to the other side he saw why the boy had refused to let go: there was another person with him, a woman. The boy was holding on to her dress with his other hand. Her head was barely above water. She didn’t seem to be moving.

  “Oh God,” said Seth. He put his arms around the woman and lifted her farther out of the water. As he did, he realized she was holding yet another person. A baby.

  “Oh God,” said Seth again.

  The boy let go of the keel and slid into the water with Seth, still holding the woman’s dress. Together they carried her and the baby to the beach. Seth did most of the work; the boy could barely walk. The woman, like the boy, was extremely thin. To Seth her body felt like a bundle of sticks. When the water was knee-deep, he scooped her up and carried her in front of him the way a groom carries a bride across the threshold. Her head lolled sideways; neither she nor the baby made a sound.

  Seth thought they were dead.

  He carried the woman onto the beach, dropped to his knees and carefully laid her on her back on the sand. She was still clasping the baby to her chest. The boy crouched next to her, tugging at her dress, pleading in what sounded to Seth like French. The woman did not respond. The boy’s tone became more urgent, his words rising to a wail. Seth’s still-foggy brain raced to remember something, anything, about first aid for drowning victims.

  Blow into her mouth.

  Seth leaned close to the woman’s face. In the early-morning light, her lips were a ghastly gray.

  Pinch her nostrils shut.

  Hesitantly, he put his hand on her nose and squeezed it. He put his mouth on hers. Her skin was cold.

  She’s dead.

  He blew into her mouth, pulled his mouth away, waited a second, blew into her mouth again.

  You don’t know what you’re doing. She’s dead.

  The boy was sobbing now, gripping the woman’s dress with both hands.

  Seth inhaled, blew into the woman’s mouth again, paused.

  He heard a moan. But not from the mother. From the baby.

  The boy heard it, too. Quickly he snatched the baby, untangling it from the woman’s arms. The baby started crying, its high-pitched squalls mingling with the boy’s sobs.

  Seth inhaled and leaned down to the woman again, putting his lips on hers, blowing his bre
ath into her.

  He felt her move, heard her make a retching sound. He pulled his head back as she jerked violently and vomited water, an astonishing quantity. The boy, still holding the baby, started shouting. The woman rolled on her side, vomited even more water. Her eyes opened. She looked at Seth, her expression fearful.

  “It’s OK,” said Seth. “It’s OK.”

  The woman looked around frantically. Her eyes fell on the boy and the baby. With a wail she reached for them, grabbing the boy, pulling him and the baby close, the three of them crying, two of them out of joy.

  Seth watched for a few moments, then touched the woman’s arm. She looked at him warily.

  “I’ll go get you some help,” he said. “Stay here. I’ll be right back, OK?”

  The woman’s expression was uncomprehending. Seth stood and made a Stay here gesture. He rose and ran up the beach toward the walkway. Ahead, up on the lawn, he saw a hotel maintenance worker holding a rake.

  “Hey!” Seth yelled.

  The man looked his way.

  “I need help!” Seth shouted. “Some people almost drowned!”

  The man dropped his rake and trotted toward Seth.

  “Over here,” said Seth, leading the man down the beach.

  The woman was still holding the boy and the baby. She was still crying but calmer now, trying to quiet the baby. She looked up as Seth and the worker approached. Her eyes focused on the worker, whose skin, like hers, was dark.

  He said something to her, not in English. She answered in a flood of words, interrupted by choking sobs. The man said something else; another long answer.

  “What’d she say?” said Seth.

  “She is from Haiti,” said the man, pronouncing it A-tee. “She is looking for her sister.”

  “OK,” said Seth, “but maybe we need to get her to a hospital?”

  The man studied Seth for a few seconds, then said, “She does not want to go to the hospital.”

  “Why not? They can help her.”

  “Yes, they can help her, and then she will have to go back to Haiti.”

  Seth looked out at the pathetic little boat rolling in the surf upside down.

  “Oh,” he said.

  “Yes,” said the man.

  “Then what does she want to do?” said Seth.