The Nightwalker Read online

The Ray bar was relatively crowded when Antwone strutted in.

  Half of the patrons were wearing fashionable outfits suggesting they were probably there to just grab a quick pint and then go to some fancier place afterwards whereas the other half had come straight from their workplaces and they just wanted to have one or two drinks and forget about the killing grind of their nine-to-five jobs.

  Antwone spied Ava at a table with her so-called friends. He walked past a few tables and, when he was in her field of view, he saw that they hadn’t ordered yet.

  Probably they had just arrived.

  “Sit down,” said Ava and she introduced him to the table. Her voice was sibilant and her manners were quite joyful. And that made her look very agreeable to watch.

  Antwone knew that she was quite a sight with her looks and everything, but tonight, she was a stunning sight. And he started feeling some strange sensations seeing her again after so long.

  Her friends, there were four of them: three thirty-odd-year-old women, Geraldine, Lore and Frances, all columnists at different prestigious magazines save for Lore who was a floral designer, and a man named Christian who was a food critic a little past his prime. He was married to Frances as it happened.

  Ava was right about something, they were all nice people, different from the pictures he’d imagined of them, perhaps, but not different in an off-putting way. And that was very commendable. He enjoyed their company without forcing himself.

  They started off with small talk and when their drinks arrived they engaged in more general topics.

  “So you’ve never been to D.C.?” Frances asked Antwone. And when he said he’d never been there, she said, “It’s such a wonderful place. It’s the perfect city.”

  She originated from the D.C. area and thought that, if everyone originated from there, people would be far more tolerant and patient with one another and many sensitive issues that currently divided the country would be obsolete. Antwone kind of liked her for her outspokenness.

  “Man, you don’t want to live in D.C.,” Christian said, “I can name you ten good reasons why the place sucks ball.”

  “He only disagrees with me because we’re married,” said Frances.

  Ava laughed. She dared Christian.

  “Well name one reason.”

  “Well the weather sucks for one thing,” Christian said. “It’s either swampy or cold, even though, admittedly, the latter could be a good thing for your sex drive, ladies, yes that’s true––”

  It was Geraldine’s turn to laugh. Christian went on.

  “The D.C. commute is just a nightmare too. But the worst thing is women there don’t even care about looking good for their men.”

  “Aww, Jesus Christ,” Frances said.

  “And since you’re a fiction writer”—Christian turned to Antwone—“well, D.C. is just such an uninspired place to be for creative minds, you know. It’s mostly for cookie-cutter and stuck-up types.”

  Geraldine said to Christian, “Well I’m sure the D.C. residents must have their own preconceived notions about L.A.”

  “Preconceived notions?”

  “Well you know what I mean.”

  “What notion is there to have about it?” Lore asked. “It’s the City of Angels.”

  “City of angels with broken wings you mean,” Ava said.

  “It is, honey, only if you cannot handle the sin, the wickedness and the glitter. It’s not for everyone, I should point out.”

  “Yep you got that right.”

  Christian said, “Some of the greatest movies ever made have had L.A. as an important backdrop.”

  “It’s because of all the things I just mentioned,” Lore said. “They offer the greatest internal conflicts.” She then turned to Antwone. “Are you a film buff? Do you like movies perhaps?”

  She was looking at him over her glass with a cool level eye and he had a little trouble holding her gaze.

  Somehow he felt drawn. But there was no mystery as to why. Lore was filled out in the right places. She was well made up too. She looked like a creature of the city’s night life—and she looked like she wouldn’t shy away from a one-night-stand.

  “I don’t watch many,” Antwone said. “Movies don’t really captivate my imagination the same way a good book does.”

  “Well if you want to be captivated,” she said, “I can run you a list of some interesting titles.” The corners of her eyes were smiling. “But in my experience they’re best watched with company.”

  “Thank you,” Antwone said, none too sure where this was going. “I’ll keep that offer in mind.”

  “Good––you go on and do that.”

  She emptied her glass of esquire just as the waiter was coming up with another round of drinks.

  The air was warm and the place was cozily ebullient. The multistory buildings sitting across from the rooftop bar were alight against the backdrop of the night sky.

  After everyone had had their refills, Geraldine tilted her head toward Antwone. She was tanned and healthy looking; her legs were crossed and she had no stockings on.

  “I loved your last book by the way,” she said in the most sincere manner, “and I’ve been waiting for the right moment to finally say it out loud because Ava here put out a sort of disclaimer before you came in. She basically said you were a little” ––she made a cute grimace of her face— “you know, not too comfy around fans of your books.”

  Antwone eyeballed Ava. She grinned and playfully tried to avoid his gaze.

  “Anyway,” Geraldine went on, “I’m just going to shoot this out there, you know, I mean what’s one more praise among all the accolades you’ve already received? But I––huh, I really loved it. You know, I thought that was … deep without being hollow, if that makes sense. I mean, I’ve read some pretty darn good books before, but this one just … huh… I don’t know. It’s just one of those things you cannot really describe, I guess. You just feel it here…”

  She gently banged her chest. And the gesture helped her reassert herself. She added. “You are some writer, my dear.”

  Antwone felt as if hundreds of cockroaches were crawling on his skin. It was nice and all when people liked your creation, but Antwone had really never gotten used to the attention. He was happy to do without it.

  He said very politely, “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “I mean I have some questions for you actually, if you don’t mind. I don’t know what your comfy level is like right now.”

  “I’m very comfy.”

  “That girl in Knight of Rain,” Geraldine said, “Um … Mitzi ––Is she based off of a real person? Someone you knew or were close to perhaps?”

  Sometimes, writers said too much, exposed their own depths, shared more than they were willing to give and this was a case where he had done just that. Once the valves had been opened, he hadn’t been able to control what had come out. And things had just come out bursting like a spring out of a crack, things that should have been carefully buried and jealously guarded. And there was nothing he could’ve done about it.

  After all, a writer’s job was to seek the truth in life and in people. And it took courage, guts and a little bit of madness to do that. Sane people didn’t write because they wouldn’t want to hurt themselves. But it was the only way to find any truth worth finding. It was how he’d found his own truth.

  Antwone realized he’d taken too much time reflecting on Geraldine’s question. Now they all had inquiring looks upon their faces, save Ava whose growing concern made her call out to him.

  “You’re still with us, Antwone?”

  “Yeah, sorry I was … um––” To dispel his fluster, Antwone knocked down his glass of Jack and Coke. And as the cold cocktail cleared his head, he regained mastery of his old self again.

  “All my characters are flesh and blood to me,” he said. “The moment I set them down on the page they become real people. And what they do with themselves is up to them, not me. I’m just the writer––”r />
  “—Interesting answer,” Geraldine said, smiling. “Real or not, you must have really loved her, huh… I mean to write about her like that. That’s how I saw it anyway.”

  Antwone said nothing. He tried to smile though, but it was an incompetent smile.

  “If you can write so well about us women,” Lore said, “and know what we are thinking, now I wonder what else you can do.”

  Christian turned to her and smiled naughtily.

  “Do you maybe have something in mind you’d like him to do?”

  “Don’t be indecent,” said Frances, swiping his forearm. “Remember there are still ladies at this table.”

  “Oh I’m sorry,” he said, pantomiming a sorry emotion. “I hope I haven’t offended Her Ladyship. God forbid Antwone starts thinking I’m a sexist, because, well… I kinda am.”

  “Oh Christian,” Ava said in a joking tone, “put a lid on it and get a refill. You’re empty.”

  “First of all, I think your charm has dropped significantly from your prolonged stint in N.Y.C., girl. You should come on over here more often…”

  “I think you look gorgeous,” mouthed Geraldine at Ava while dismissing Christian’s comment with a hand gesture. Christian was now addressing Lore.

  “And, secondly, I wasn’t entertaining any prurient thoughts when I asked you what you had in mind, believe it or not.”

  “Of course you weren’t,” Lore said.

  “I was trying to make a point: I just don’t think anybody can know what anybody else thinks, not psychologists, not doctors, not voodoo practitioners, not even writers.” He looked at Antwone with a friendly regard. “You’re an excellent wordsmith, there’s no denying that. But fiction is still fiction. It’s just a mirror, you know. Yeah it’s a mirror that reflects the depths of our heart, the many sides of our nature and blah, blah, blah, but it’s still a mirror. And as far as I know, mirrors are not instruments of enlightenment. They’re instruments of illusion. One can only assume what’s going on in a person. And nine times out of ten, they’d be wrong.”

  The comment was insightful. Antwone knew he could very well get into a philosophical debate over the subtle art of impersonating people’s lives in fiction writing, but that would have certainly dragged the whole atmosphere down and make their table sound boring as hell. Plus, presently, the drinking had quite dulled his wits. And so he resorted to a stock answer.

  “Well, what can I say?” Antwone began to respond.

  But Frances interrupted him.

  “What you’re talking about?” she asked her husband and smiled. She had such a bright smile. “I know what you think. Most of the time, I know exactly what’s going on in that head of yours.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Well I think all women do. That’s how we’re able to lead you by the nose anytime we want. And you men are wired to fall for it every time.”

  “She’s got a point there,” Geraldine said.

  Christian put his head on one hand for poise. But the gesture looked more like an act of submission because, after thinking about his wife’s remark for a few seconds, he had nothing more to say. And that, of course, brought a little grin to a few faces around the table.

  After wiping the grin off her outline-free mouth, Lore sort of pushed her chin toward Antwone. Her eyes were bright and smiling.

  “Are you married?” she asked him.

  Antwone looked at her and, despite himself, he smiled back. Not because she was looking at him with those eyes that made you want to smile, it was just the way she’d asked the question, as if some reward awaited him if he gave her the right answer.

  But before he could say that he wasn’t married, she said, “Oh right, you’re not wearing a ring. Are you seeing someone then?”

  Antwone didn’t glance toward Ava because Lore would have caught on it. Women always caught on these things. And he was sure Ava was surveying them.

  “Before this turns into a date,” Geraldine suddenly broke in, much to Lore’s annoyance, “I’d like to pick your brains, Antwone, if that’s okay. I’ve been having this idea for a novel; it’s been kicking around inside my head for a long time and I guess I need some pep talk before I can put pen to paper.”

  “Well when you decide to get real,” Ava said, “you have my number.”

  “That could really happen,” Geraldine said. “After all I’m a little bit in the trade. So I’m halfway there already.”

  Afterwards Geraldine asked Antwone a few questions about his writing, and soon enough, the others had their own questions too. In a way, it was funny because the questions were really about the little things like where he drew his inspiration from or what his writing process was and how he came up with characters’ names and all those kinds of things.

  He had to try to explain, in a tangible fashion, things that the he’d always known and done sort of intuitively. And it was really a drag to do that in front of avid listeners.

  They also asked him if he currently had something else in the works; a follow-up to Knight of Rain perhaps. He didn’t like to talk about his work when it was half-cooked. But he didn’t want to sound conceited about it. They were really nice and interesting people.

  Luckily for him, Ava put on her agent hat and intervened. She told them he was not at liberty to discuss his next book as per the requirements of the publisher. And the conversation followed a different course from there on out. More drinks came and they told the waiter to keep them coming. Except for Frances, everyone held their liquor pretty well.

  It was already twenty to eleven when they decided to call it a night. By then, Lore had one hand on the table and was leaning toward Antwone for more intimacy in their interaction; she was talking and smiling and flirting and tasting his drink and swiping his lap with her hand when she laughed. But she was really ladylike about it though. And despite his reservation, Antwone got into it and did not mind her familiarity. Ava had missed none of that. But she had acted rather coolly about it.

  They gathered their things to leave. Ava ordered an Irish coffee to go because it was getting a little cold.

  Outside the Ray bar, they said good night to one another and parted ways. Lore looked back and waved again at Ava and Antwone and they waved back.

  But Ava had the feeling Lore was just waving at Antwone.

  They took a taxi and Ava gave the cabbie the address of her place.

  “I can’t believe Lore was hitting on you all night,” she said after a long period of riding in silence. “Poor chap, she’s never been lucky with men.”

  “How come? She’s funny and smart.”

  “And very pretty too.” Ava’s face was turned away from Antwone. There was a gap of seat between them. And the gap had been her doing. Suddenly, still without looking at him, she added, “You did seem infatuated.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” he said. “I was just enjoying the company.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  Her tone had not been critical, but everything else in her attitude was. Antwone let a few seconds pass then he said, “I guess I should thank you.”

  “No I’m glad you came.”

  “She gave me her number.”

  “You’re gonna call her?”

  “Want me to call her?”

  “You do what you want, you know that.”

  The taxicab came to a rest at a red light. Somewhere, a police siren was squalling into the night. The echo of the siren faded out into a distant whisper. The traffic light went green and the cab pitched forward with a jerk.

  Ava shifted beside Antwone and pressed his hand hard. He looked at her; she still wouldn’t look at him. But she leaned against him and he could see that she was quiet inside.

  They did not speak again until they arrived at their destination.

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