light brown face. Sila sat in the passenger’s seat, Michaela in back. Both girls refused to look at him.
“Feldspar!” Q. shouted over the bass.
“Mohammed.”
“What? Real names? Some body’s in a mood.”
“Whatever.” And then, steeling himself. “Hey, Sil.”
Sila pushed the door open. The expression on her face was tortured, embarrassed, pissed off, apologetic.
“You want the suicide seat?”
Jasper walked around to the passenger side. He tried to catch Michaela’s eye as he walked, but she turned her head. “Nah, I’ll, uh—” He nodded at the back. In the shadowy compartment behind Q., Michaela hid her face behind her dirty blond hair.
“Yo, Jasper,” Q. said from the driver’s seat. “In or out, buddy. This baby wants to fly.” He stomped on the accelerator, bathing Jasper and Sila in a cloud of exhaust.
A moment later the new antiques stores on Catskill’s Main Street were whizzing by the Porsche’s windows, Louis Quatorze fading into French country faster than you could say “guillotine.” In the minuscule backseat, Jasper could feel the engine’s throb in his prostate. His spine was curved into a capital C, his knees wedged against the back of Sila’s seat and rubbing against his cheekbones. He and Q. had been lusting over Mohammed Qusay Sr.’s 500-horsepower fiftieth-birthday present to himself for the past six months, but this was hardly the introduction he’d been hoping for.
“Yo, Q. You didn’t tell me you needed to know yoga to get in the backseat.”
Q. turned the radio down. “Look, everybody. The Jazz-man makes a joke. He fucks my girlfriend in a closet and then he makes a joke. Now that’s what I call a friend.”
“We didn’t—”
“One-oh-five! One hundred and fucking five on Main Street! Dude, this car is better than sex! Now you’ve even got a basis for comparison, Jasper. Ain’t that fortunate?”
“Q.” Sila tried again, but this time it was Michaela who spoke over her.
“Hey, Q.” She leaned into the space between the two seats. “Maybe you want to head to the Thruway or something, get away from all this traffic?”
As she leaned back, Jasper looked at her.
“Hey.”
The Porsche’s backseat was only slightly wider than a bathroom stall, but a third person could have fit between Jasper and his girlfriend. Michaela made a sound that could have been “Hey” or “Hmph” or “Fuck off, you fucking cheating bastard,” and pulled her hair back over her face.
Jasper stared at her a moment longer, then looked out the window at the landscape speeding by. He remained lost in his thoughts until he heard his name, and realized Q. had said it several times.
“Aw, is Jasper mad?”
Q. had adjusted the rearview mirror so he could look into Jasper’s eyes.
“Is Jasper giving Q-ball the silent treatment? Maybe Jasper wishes he was in his drunk daddy’s white-trash pickup instead of his sand nigger best friend’s Porsche? Huh? Is that what Jap-Jap is thinking?”
Jasper smacked the back of Sila’s seat in frustration.
“Look, man, what’s up? Have you lost your fucking mind? Seriously. You need to tell me what’s going on before I go ape-shit on your ass.”
Q. reached for the radio. Trippy beats filled the car’s interior. Jasper recognized the song after a moment. DJ Shadow. “Blood on the Motorway.”
He squirmed forward between the seats. “Q.” he said in a dangerously flat voice. “If you don’t turn that fucking radio off and talk to me, I swear to Christ I will punch in the goddamn console.”
His hand balled into a fist, but Q. beat him to it. He punched the radio, and in the sudden silence his slightly high-pitched “Mother- fuck !” had a boyish ring to it. “God damn it,” he said, laughing ruefully, shaking his hand.
“Q., baby,” Sila said, her voice neither gentle nor cold. “You’re bleeding.”
She reached for his hand, but Q. slapped it away.
“Don’t touch me, you fucking whore! Don’t
“Feldspar!” Q. shouted over the bass.
“Mohammed.”
“What? Real names? Some body’s in a mood.”
“Whatever.” And then, steeling himself. “Hey, Sil.”
Sila pushed the door open. The expression on her face was tortured, embarrassed, pissed off, apologetic.
“You want the suicide seat?”
Jasper walked around to the passenger side. He tried to catch Michaela’s eye as he walked, but she turned her head. “Nah, I’ll, uh—” He nodded at the back. In the shadowy compartment behind Q., Michaela hid her face behind her dirty blond hair.
“Yo, Jasper,” Q. said from the driver’s seat. “In or out, buddy. This baby wants to fly.” He stomped on the accelerator, bathing Jasper and Sila in a cloud of exhaust.
A moment later the new antiques stores on Catskill’s Main Street were whizzing by the Porsche’s windows, Louis Quatorze fading into French country faster than you could say “guillotine.” In the minuscule backseat, Jasper could feel the engine’s throb in his prostate. His spine was curved into a capital C, his knees wedged against the back of Sila’s seat and rubbing against his cheekbones. He and Q. had been lusting over Mohammed Qusay Sr.’s 500-horsepower fiftieth-birthday present to himself for the past six months, but this was hardly the introduction he’d been hoping for.
“Yo, Q. You didn’t tell me you needed to know yoga to get in the backseat.”
Q. turned the radio down. “Look, everybody. The Jazz-man makes a joke. He fucks my girlfriend in a closet and then he makes a joke. Now that’s what I call a friend.”
“We didn’t—”
“One-oh-five! One hundred and fucking five on Main Street! Dude, this car is better than sex! Now you’ve even got a basis for comparison, Jasper. Ain’t that fortunate?”
“Q.” Sila tried again, but this time it was Michaela who spoke over her.
“Hey, Q.” She leaned into the space between the two seats. “Maybe you want to head to the Thruway or something, get away from all this traffic?”
As she leaned back, Jasper looked at her.
“Hey.”
The Porsche’s backseat was only slightly wider than a bathroom stall, but a third person could have fit between Jasper and his girlfriend. Michaela made a sound that could have been “Hey” or “Hmph” or “Fuck off, you fucking cheating bastard,” and pulled her hair back over her face.
Jasper stared at her a moment longer, then looked out the window at the landscape speeding by. He remained lost in his thoughts until he heard his name, and realized Q. had said it several times.
“Aw, is Jasper mad?”
Q. had adjusted the rearview mirror so he could look into Jasper’s eyes.
“Is Jasper giving Q-ball the silent treatment? Maybe Jasper wishes he was in his drunk daddy’s white-trash pickup instead of his sand nigger best friend’s Porsche? Huh? Is that what Jap-Jap is thinking?”
Jasper smacked the back of Sila’s seat in frustration.
“Look, man, what’s up? Have you lost your fucking mind? Seriously. You need to tell me what’s going on before I go ape-shit on your ass.”
Q. reached for the radio. Trippy beats filled the car’s interior. Jasper recognized the song after a moment. DJ Shadow. “Blood on the Motorway.”
He squirmed forward between the seats. “Q.” he said in a dangerously flat voice. “If you don’t turn that fucking radio off and talk to me, I swear to Christ I will punch in the goddamn console.”
His hand balled into a fist, but Q. beat him to it. He punched the radio, and in the sudden silence his slightly high-pitched “Mother- fuck !” had a boyish ring to it. “God damn it,” he said, laughing ruefully, shaking his hand.
“Q., baby,” Sila said, her voice neither gentle nor cold. “You’re bleeding.”
She reached for his hand, but Q. slapped it away.
“Don’t touch me, you fucking whore! Don’t
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