“You won’t find our faces, though.”
“I’m not mad at that. I looked like shit that day. You’re fucking glowing, though.”
Valentino is either blushing or the sun is cooking his face. “Even with my scar?”
“You’re going to keep that shit trending, trust me.”
“Thanks, Orion.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and our bodies pushed together is seriously where it’s at. “What’s next?”
“That’s your call.”
“I’m calling on you to pick a place for me. A lesser-known gem.”
It takes a sec because I’m still caught up on Valentino’s arm around me and how freeing it feels to explore a space like this here in lower Manhattan than I would back up in the South Bronx. But then I remember a spot I haven’t even hit yet, one we can discover together.
A first for the both of us.
Rolando Rubio
9:47 a.m.
Rolando is in a café, hoping to meet his first Decker.
This wasn’t planned. In fact, it’s in the guidelines that Death-Cast heralds aren’t to arrange meetings with the Deckers. The company set this boundary between heralds and Deckers as if they’re therapists and clients who shouldn’t be friends, but Rolando doesn’t buy that this is simply because of professionalism. He suspects that Joaquin doesn’t want any of his operators held hostage by any Deckers or grief-stricken loved ones with nothing to lose and something to gain by getting Death-Cast’s secret. As if Rolando knows how the Deckers are identified, but Death-Cast not trading the secret to save an employee’s life would certainly be bad publicity.
Fortunately for Death-Cast, Rolando is no longer employed by them.
It’s also fortunate for Rolando, who no longer has to live by Death-Cast’s rules. Especially when it comes to the first Decker he called last night and spoke with at length—too long if you ask Joaquin or Naya or Andrea or anyone. Being a good human made him a bad employee. Thankfully, he learned a lot about Clint Suarez on that call. He loves dancing. He was an investor. He once won the lottery for eight hundred grand by playing the numbers of his mother’s birthday. And that he spends every Saturday morning, at ten on the dot, by coming to Carolina’s Café in Union Square, where he likes to sit by the window and enjoy a late breakfast while people-watching.
So Rolando is sitting by the window and enjoying a late breakfast while people-watching. Nothing interesting was happening for a while. One woman walking a bunch of dogs, a florist trying to sell their bouquets to drivers at stoplights. Then there were these teen boys, one photographing the other as he bought a copy of the New York Times, which hardly seemed newsworthy to Rolando, pun intended; it didn’t get interesting until one boy saw Joaquin Rosa on the cover and shortly thereafter trashed the entire newspaper. Something escalated very fast. As the boys walk off, Rolando keeps people-watching, waiting for someone who could be Clint. This is where the hope comes in. It’s very possible that Clint’s routine may be broken because he’s dead.
Then one minute to ten, the door opens, and in walks an elderly man with dark gray hair. There’s a newspaper tucked under his arm, and Rolando wonders if this could be Clint, if it makes sense for someone who is about to die to care about current events.
“Good morning,” the man says to the kitchen staff.
Rolando recognizes the man’s voice off those two words alone. He didn’t even need to hear everyone call back, “Good morning, Clint!”
He really is a regular. He scans the tables by the window, finding none that are empty. There’s a slight frown on his wrinkled face, but he doesn’t seem fully dispirited.
Rolando stands. “Excuse me, sir. Would you like a seat?”