VII

COFFEE TALK

Desire becomes surrender, surrender becomes power.
— The Joker

SAN FRANCISCO

IT’S 5:12 AND I’M sitting alone at a table for two in Luxe Latte in an adorable Ralph Lauren fitted wool turtleneck with cropped sleeves. There are two drinks in to-go cups on the table—one in front of me and the other in front of the empty chair with its back to the window.

Outside, my coffee date arrives in a beat-up, dirty hatchback. It slow-rolls into an open parking spot on the street, not more than ten fifteen past the cafe’s window. I pick up my phone and shoot a text.

He’s here.

Fifteen minutes before, I’m plotting in the back of my Rolls-Royce Phantom Extended with Thaïs Empristikí, my other, much more attractive date for the evening.

Thaïs, who identifies as they/them, is gorgeous. See: that olive-kissed skin. See: the slightly nervous way they tug at the bottom of their red Sailor Mars pullover sweatshirt. See: black hair with dyed fringes of red and orange like fire and begging to be grabbed ahold of and yanked.

Odion, my driver and bodyguard (hired after my little attack in New York City at Angel’s insistence), is in the front seat with his attention focused solely on keeping tabs on what’s happening outside the vehicle. Even though I pay him handsomely for his discretion, there’s no need for him to be a snoopy snooperson, so I press the privacy button on the center console. Immediately, the electrochromic glass divider darkens into a white, opaque panel.

I look over at Thaïs.

“Are you ready, Freddy?”

With a very subtle Greek accent they say, “What is it you want me to do?”

That’s one of our favorite questions.

I’ve never done cocaine or heroin. I’ve never even smoked weed. I’ll drink occasionally but I don’t particularly enjoy feeling inebriated. My drug of choice is people; or, more specifically, manipulating people into doing what I want them to do.

Thaïs is my new little pet project. We were introduced online by Lexy Sexy Collins who was a contemporary of my father. Daddy-O and him weren’t friends by any stretch, but there was a mutual respect there. Still, it was strange getting his seal of approval on X, the platform formerly known as Twitter.

Thaïs is a broken person. I can see it in their eyes. There’s no shame in it. No one escapes childhood without a little trauma. I don’t know much about their past yet, other than apparently they were a prostitute at one point and sex isn’t something they enjoy at all. What a pity.

Maybe I can salvage this one. Glue all those pieces back together into something grotesquely beautiful.

“Nothing dangerous,” I say while scrolling through the gallery on my phone until I find a screenshot I took of Art Katz’s photo on his detective agency’s website.

I show it to them. “See this ugly fucking bastard? He’s going to show up in a few for our little rendezvous. Wait for him to get inside and then plant this.”

I open the top of the console and take out a black, metal box. It’s about the size of a lipstick case. I hand it over.

“It’s a GPS. There’s a magnet on the back. Find somewhere inconspicuous and stick it to the metal frame. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

They look at the tracker with a scrunched face. It’s obvious they aren’t convinced that there isn’t more to this. Smart little bird.

“That’s all you want me to do?”

“Uh huh,” I say with a big wolfish smile.

“You’re talking to a street kid here, this is easy work. I’ve definitely done worse things for money and worse things for answers.”

Look at them trying to tempt me. My bottom lip finds its way between my teeth as my mind begins to imagine all sorts of disturbing, unscrupulous acts they had to commit in order to survive their past life.

They shove the GPS in their pocket while saying, “Keep him occupied and it’ll be done before anybody notices anything. He’ll be none the wiser. And after that, I’m free to ask you as many questions as I like. Deal?”

Ah, yes. The deal. Thaïs wants the scoop on yours truly. It was that curiosity which brought them to San Fran (on my dime, of course) but I wonder if there’s a voice buried in their head urging them to get away from me as fast as they can.

“Yes,” I say with glee. “Ask all the questions and get your answers! That’s the Gorgo Guarantee.”

Now it’s almost quarter after five and Ari Katz finally walks into the cafe. He’s a disheveled pig man in a horrible brown coat he probably bought at Goodwill. He fumbles toward me in ill-fitting pants and plops down into the free chair across from me.

“Well, well, well,” he says, already taking out his phone to record our conversation. “I gotta admit, you surprised me when I heard your voicemail and that doesn’t happen very often. Mind?”

He waits for my shrug before sitting the phone down and hitting the red circle. The timer begins to wind upward.

“We got off on the wrong foot,” I say with a half-smile, then motion toward the cup in front of him.

He looks at me coyly. “Is that for me?”

“Yup.”

A laugh sputters out of him. “You think I’m stupid enough to drink that? Was Vanessa Byrne that gullible when you poisoned her? No thanks.” He carefully picks it up and places it deliberately in front of me, like it’s made of radioactive material.

She was that gullible, though in her defense, she had no reason to suspect I was doing my thing that night.

“Oh, Mr. Katz,” I say before taking a drink of my macchiato. “You have me all wrong. I asked you to come here hoping we could put this to bed. I don’t want to have to take this to the authorities but I will if necessary.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will.”

“No, you won’t,” he says with emphasis. “You won’t do that because A: I’m right. You’re a murdering fucking psychopath; and 2: You don’t want Johnny Law getting even a whiff of what you’ve done.”

He keeps talking and I pretend to listen with my eyes locked on his, but my attention focuses past his egg-shaped head and out the window to see Thaïs exiting my Rolls-Royce across the street.

“Uh huh,” I mumble to Katz and he continues, saying something about he’s going to expose me for all the heinous shit I’ve done. Meanwhile, Thaïs is nonchalantly crossing the road with their hood over their head and hands stuffed in their front pocket.

If they’re nervous, I can’t tell as they walk to the back of Katz’s car. It’s a piece of shit. He probably bought off a lot for a couple hundred. They give a quick look around before dipping down to pretend to tie a shoe. While there, out comes the GPS tracker from their pocket and without hesitation they clamp it on the underside of the vehicle.

Good girl. Or, person. I’m not sure on the preferred nomenclature for a gender non-conformist when it comes to nouns. To be fair, my last male sexual partner liked to be called ‘good girl’ while wearing pleated dresses, so who the fuck knows.

“Are you even listening to me,” Katz says with an annoyed snort while in the background Thaïs makes their way back across the road.

I take a deep breath like I’m contemplating a great philosophical mystery, and then let out a long sigh.

“No, I’m not,” I say simply, then take a drink.

“Are you kidding me? You called me. You asked to meet.”

“I have a confession,” I say and then place my cup down before looking straight at him. He looks excited.

“Settle down, champ. It’s not that kind of confession. The reason why I asked to meet is because I thought it would be funny to drag you down here, let you rant for a few minutes, and then tell you that this has been a colossal waste of your time.”

His face is turning red.

“And I gotta tell ya, looking at your dumb, droopy dog face, I can say without hesitation that this is absolutely fucking hilarious.”

I take a drink. He looks at me incredulously.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m a cunt.”

He stammers, “Wha-what?”

“A cunt.”

Two women at the next table, who couldn’t help but hear my blatant use of the dreaded See You Next Tuesday, scoff and huff loud enough for me to hear. I point my thumb at the heavy-set one that looks like every Gen Z stereotype and say, “Tons of fun can relate. Look at that face.”

Katz holds his hands up and says to the women, “I’m sorry. There’s no defense for this awful woman. You both look like very nice, ahh, young ladies.”

I burst out laughing and slam my hand on the table, causing the sugar caddy to rattle.

“Is that how you pick up under age pussy, Ari?”

He leans forward and growls under his breath, “No! I mean, they clearly aren’t under age… You know what?” He launches out of his chair and glares down at me. “Fuck this. Fuck you. I can’t WAIT to bury you and trust me, Yelena. I’m close.”

I bob my head back and forth and mumble sarcastically, “Oookay, Ari.” He grabs his phone off the table and bolts for the door. By now half the cafe is gawking at me.

I’m used to it. All of these hostile situations always seem to happen in public.

He curses me all the way to his car and the anger doesn’t stop after slamming the door shut. He’s jumping and jerking around behind the wheel, even as it peels backward into the street, turns, and rips out of view of the cafe window.

I take a deep breath for a job well done and stand with my two cups of coffee. After doing a little bow to the room, I leave with a big smile on my face. When I return to the car, the rear door automatically opens for me. I slip inside into the leather seat and hold out one of the cups to Thaïs.

“Here’s your iced coffee.”

“Thanks,” they say after taking it. “How did it go?”

“All according to plan.”

We both take a drink as my door slowly closes shut.

“So,” they say while drumming their fingers on their leg. “Who’s the guy?”

“His name is Ari Katz. He’s a private investigator who is trying to blackmail me.”

That’s a lie. He’s not trying to blackmail me. He’s trying to pin a handful of murders on me because some asshole in Spain is so sad Marisol’s grandfather ‘disappeared.’

I sit my coffee in the cup holder. “I need to know where his office is. That little bug will give me his whereabouts for the next several days until the battery runs out. I could have hired my own P.I. but where’s the fun in that? Besides, you just committed at least three misdemeanors, so I think we’ve established a little trust, don’tcha think?”

Before they can say anything else, I hit the intercom button. “Odion? Be a dear and take us to the restaurant.”

Thaïs looks over. “Restaurant?”

“I forgot to mention it,” I say as the car starts to move. “I have reservations for us at Kokkari Estiatorio. Greek food to die for. It’s fantastic. Most people have to reserve a table weeks in advance.”

They repeat the name with the flare of a native speaker and then say, “That means Red Restaurant. It sounds fancy but I’m not exactly dressed for that.”

“Don’t worry, little dove.” I give them a thin, wicked grin. “I’m an angel investor. You could walk in wearing a g-string and nipple tassles so long as you’re with me.”

Now there’s an image.

My eyes move away to watch the busy city rushing past the window. For a moment, a silence settles in the car and my mind wanders away from the tasty treat next to me to some more pressing business.

Azurine Vebbins.

That’s when my focus shifts from the blur of buildings and pedestrians to my own translucent reflection, only it’s not my reflection, but that gawking Other Me with her jaw slack like a cackling jackal.

“That’s right, my sweet,” she says in her way. “Have all the fun you want pulling the wings off Thaïs. Toss that Greek salad all night long for all I care but don’t take your eyes off the prize. We have a date and we mustn’t be unready. Tell me you understand.”

I answer without hesitation. “I understand.”

The following is a transcript of a letter sent to Azurine Vebbins.

This is Gorgo,

Yelena really liked you. She liked you so much that in a moment of weakness she considered choosing you over Marisol. You filled her noodle with Betty Crocker fantasies of you and her living happily never after in a house with a white picket fence. You in the kitchen wearing one o’ dem aprons straight out of a 1960s Sears catalog, baking your disgusting islander desserts. Her tending the grass with one of them bullshit manual mowers. Then later you two kicked back with some TV dinners watchin I Love Lucy’s Pussy or whatever it was called.

She started to believe your stupid fairytale pillowtalk. Why? Because you have a GREAT ASS and the way you flub your wubblues gets her ALL MUSTY.

BUT IT WASS A LIE. A dangerous lie. So WE throttled that picture book nightmare like a screaming baby.

There’s only one person Yelena loves and that’s us. If you thought for one second YOU were going to get in between Yelena and Other Yelena then you fooled yourself, too.

When we ended things that should have been the end of it. But oh no. You couldn’t let it go. You are so madly in love with Yelena that the thought of her big, strong hands not being wrapped around your meek little neck is too much to bear.

We owed Black for what happened in New York but you couldn’t keep your misguided revenge fantasy in your pants. How did it feel, hmm? Did it make you feel better kicking us in the head and ruining our match? Did you go home to Carmen and sample some of that brown sugar she was holding back until you put the nail in the coffin of OUR RELATIONSHIP???

You’re playing the most dangerous game without even seeing that WE are the hunter and YOU are the prey. You stole from us a career moment. What shall we take from you??? Or rather, who?