You First: A Joe Goldberg Prequel (You, #0)(30)

I got him, Vail, hook, line, and sinker. You would be proud of me, Mama, and he’s rolling a joint (it’s not crack, yay!) and I’m kicking the gun under the coffee table. Safe.

“See,” I begin. “Truth is, I was telling my girlfriend how that galley is the reason we don’t have your novel….” Feed the ego, stuff it. “She worships your ex, Carolyn Bessette, and she wanted to see your place….”

“And drink my wine….”

I laugh like the Cusack to his Piven and let that one slide. Eyes on the prize. “Ain’t that the way? Anyway, like I said, we’re buddies, yeah?”

“Course,” he says. He offers me a warm new Heinie. A can this time. “Buddies.”

I take the Heinie and pop it. I tell him the good news again, so it doesn’t fall through the crack pipe. “I wanted you to be the first to know, buddy. Before Mooney lists it. We have a signed galley of The Twenty-Seventh City. And unlike Mooney…Angus, come on. How many times have we hung out in here? I’ll sell you the book. You know me. You know I don’t give a fuck what you do with the books.”

The weird thing is, it’s true, Vail. I really don’t care about the galley. You come first—that happened fast—and what’s a thought compared to a feeling? What’s a galley compared to a girl? I barely know you, but already I give a little bit less of a fuck about the world. Already I know that I would and will do anything for you.

Angus rubs his belly. “I like a fire.”

I’d like to set him on fire, and I smile. “So, let’s do it. Let me sell you the white whale.”

“Impossible. Mooney would never sell me that galley.”

“Fuck Mooney. We do this on our own. Just you and me and the big white whale.”

“Correction,” he says. “?‘You and I and the big white whale.’?”

I guess I’m no different from all the girls who don’t like to be corrected, and I nod.

“Well, this is aces, Jimbo. Actual aces.”

Only assholes say aces, and I sip from my can of warm Dutch urine. I wish I’d brought a toothbrush, but I didn’t. “Aces,” I say. “And you know the drill. Cash or check. Twenty-four hundred bucks.”

He takes a deep pull on that joint and rubs his stomach and why is there a Band-Aid on his belly button? He pulls a scarf out of the sofa. Red. Yours. He ties it around his neck in this way where you know he will never love or be loved.

“So,” he says. “How you gonna do it?”

I’ll rip that scarf out of his cold dead hands. “Don’t worry about Mooney. I got him.”

“No,” he says. “How are you gonna get the money?”

He must be high. Dazed and Confused. “I’m not the one buying it…” I remind him.

But he’s not laughing, Vail. He’s staring at me, smelling your scarf and licking your scarf. “Wait,” he says. “You think I’m going to pay for the galley?”

HE LIVES IN A HAND-ME-DOWN PENTHOUSE AND I LIVE IN A CARDBOARD BOX.

“Angus, I make ten bucks an hour.”

“You broke into my house.”

“Only to impress a girl. I mean, you get that. You know how it is.”

“You opened a 1949 Ch?teau d’Yquem.”

“We can grab you a bottle.”

“It’s a ten-thousand-dollar bottle of wine, Jimmy. And it’s my favorite.”

CRACKHEADS CAN’T BE WINE SNOBS. “I’m sorry, Angus. If I knew anything about wine, I never would’ve opened that bottle, and if I had that kind of dough, I’d get you the galley and the wine, but it really is that simple. I don’t even have a checking account.”

“It’s not about money, Jimmy,” SAYS THE RICH FAT PIG as he pulls the Band-Aid off his belly button and chews on it. But I’m no better. Why didn’t I just offer you a Heinie? “You know what my sober companion would say about you….”

HIS SOBER COMPANION IS A FIGMENT OF HIS FUCKING IMAGINATION.

“Angus, I don’t have twenty-four hundred dollars.”

“So put it on a credit card.”

“I don’t have a credit card.”

“Well, that’s for the best, Jake. Don’t get a card, and if you do, go with Amex. Or Discover. But pay it off every month. Your dad will chip in because all dads know about interest rates…. A kid like you, Jake…”

MY PARENTS ARE NOT THOSE PARENTS.

“Good tip, Angus. Thanks. Cool.”

The living room is sinking, fast. I didn’t think it through. Angus is on his feet. He’s roaming around looking for an orange, so he doesn’t get scurvy (help me), and he settles for a crack pipe and sighs.

“This is it, Jimmy. The moment it all changes for me. After I burn The Twenty-Seventh City, I’m going back to rehab….” BULL FUCKING SHIT. “And not that dump in New Mexico. I’m doing it right. Going to Promises…. You know what they say.” I don’t like the way he pauses, the way he becomes my own private Joker. “You don’t go forward until you hold yourself accountable, Jackie….”

He tosses his pipe to fuck with the CD player and again, the doves are crying.

“So true,” I say.

As he dumps coke on Prince: “In rehab, you learn about manning up….” He does a big fat line and shakes his head, and I swear moths are in the air now. Tiny ones. “You broke into my house, and you say you’re sorry, but those are just words.”