Part 14 (2/2)
He whiled around. A figure stood on the gra.s.s behind him, legs slightly apart, arms by his side. The lights of the bars and the clubs on the near side of the street turned the figure into a silhouette; the lights from the far side of the ca.n.a.l were too distant to provide any illumination.
Joe stood his ground, straining his eyes to see.
The figure didn't move.
And then a shape ghosted out from behind it. A man.
”Joe,” said the man in a gentle Scots accent. ”Didn't mean to make you jump. Well, I guess I did, but you know. . . These are a laugh, aren't they?” He indicated the cast-iron mold as he moved away from it. ”Easily recyclable, too. John Mains.” He offered his hand.
”Joe,” said Joe, still disoriented.
”I know,” said Mains, smiling slyly.
He was about Joe's height with an uncertain cast to his slightly asymmetrical features that could go either way-charmingly vulnerable or deceptively untrustworthy.
”Busy day?” Mains asked, moving dark hair out of his eyes.
”Yeah.”
”When did you get here?””This morning.””How did you get here?””I flew.””Shall we?” Mains gestured toward the far side of the ca.n.a.l.They walked toward where the road crossed over the ca.n.a.l, and Joe was the first to enter the bar. Rock music played loudly from speakers bracketed to the walls. They sat on stools at a high table in a little booth, and a bartender brought them beers. Joe observed Mains while the scriptwriter was watching the lads in the next booth, and he wondered what anyone would think, looking at them. Would they be able to spot the difference between them? Was Mains's precious track record visible to the naked eye?
Mains looked back and it was Joe's turn to redirect his gaze.
Mains said something and Joe had to ask him to repeat it.
”I said I haven't booked into a hotel yet.”
”It's not exactly high season.”
”No.” He took a sip of his beer. ”Could you not have taken the train? Or the ferry?”
”What?”
”It's not very environmentally friendly to fly, especially such a short distance.”
”It was cheaper.”
”Not in the long run, Joe. You've got to take the long view.”
Joe looked at the other man's dark eyes, small and round and glossy like a bird's. A half-smile.
”So what have you got for me?” Mains asked.
Joe hesitated. He wondered if it was worth making the point that he was working for Vos. He decided that since neither of them was paying him, it didn't make much difference. He was about to answer when Mains spoke again.
”Look, Joe, I know you pitched to write this script, but we do have to work together.”
”I know, I know,” Joe shouted into a sudden break between tracks. The boys in the next booth looked over at them. Joe returned their stare, then turned to look at Mains. ”I know,” he continued. ”Here, have a look.”
He handed Mains the camera phone on which he'd taken his pictures, and Mains flicked through them using his thumbs.
”Great,” he said, not particularly sounding like he meant it. ”I suppose I was expecting something more atmospheric.”
Joe tried to keep the irritation out of his voice-”I guess the Germans weren't thinking about that when they bombed the place to f.u.c.k”-and failed.
Another group of young men entered the bar. Joe didn't consider himself an expert on the outward signifiers of particular social groupings, particularly in foreign countries, but he wondered if Mains had brought him to a gay bar. One of the newcomers glanced at Joe, then switched his attention to Mains, his eyes lingering on the tattoos on the Scot's forearms.
”Are you hungry?” said Mains.
”I haven't eaten all day.”
”Let's go get something to eat.”
As they got down from their stools, Joe felt his head spinning again. He really did need something to eat, and quick.
They ate in a Thai restaurant. Joe smiled at the waitress, but it was his dining partner she couldn't take her eyes off.
”You'd better write a decent script, that's all I can say,” Joe said to Mains, argumentatively, as the waitress poured them each another Singha beer. ”It better not be s.h.i.+t.”
Mains laughed.
”I'm not f.u.c.king joking. When's it set, for example? Is it contemporary?”
'It's timeless, Joe. It's a timeless story, after all. I'm sure you agree. Grave-robbing-it's never a good idea.”
”Tell me you're not writing it as a f.u.c.king period piece.”
”Like I say, it's timeless.”
”f.u.c.k's sake.”As they left, Mains slipped the tip directly into the waitress's hand. Joe thought he saw her fingers momentarily close over his.
Out on the street, Joe wanted nothing more than to drink several gla.s.ses of water and get his head down, but Mains wasn't done yet, insisting that they go to a club he'd read about near Centraal Station.
”I'm f.u.c.ked,” Joe said, pulling a face.
”Ah come on, man. It's new. I want to check it out and I can't go on my own.”
Why not? Joe wanted to yell at him. Joe wanted to yell at him. Why the f.u.c.k not? Why the f.u.c.k not?
But instead he allowed his shoulders to slump in a gesture of acquiescence.
”Good man!” Mains clapped him on the back. ”Good man! Let's go.”
<script>