35053668-Empire-of-the-Soul-Paul-William-Roberts

‘I LIKE TOO MUCH THE PHFIT-PHFIT’
a cirrus line of coin-sized smears descending in an arc from nape to
throat.
She tried to greet Ray enthusiastically, but the falling cadences of
her weary French accent just made her words seem all the more
lifeless.
‘Did you bring any ting, man?’ asked Franco.
Once introduced, I ceased to exist for either of our hosts.
Ray pulled a plastic film canister from his jacket, holding it up
between thumb and forefinger like a magician about to demonstrate
a disappearing trick.
‘Oh, man! Dat’s grade . . .’ Sophie became nervous with
excitement. Franco reached for the canister, but Ray smoothly flipped
it over his shoulder, catching it behind his back with the other
hand. He must have practised the move.
‘A little matter of price, Franco,’ he said.
‘Sure, man. Sure – whatever eet is, what you want? We do nuzza
run, yes?
Ray tugged at his neat beard, simulating deep thought.
‘Maybe your frenn?’ suggested Franco. ‘Sophie – Ray’s frenn?’
‘Sure. No problem,’ said Sophie, hauling herself up from the bed
and taking unsteady steps until she stood about a foot away from
me. ‘Anysing you wanting?’ Sweat droplets gleamed like pins driven
into her brow. She placed a shaky hand on my chest, sliding it down
and around until she squeezed my waist.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Ray pulled her away roughly. She barely
reacted, flopping back on the turmoil of sheets.
‘Not good enough, Franco,’ he said, now tossing the Kodak
canister from hand to hand. ‘Not good enough.’
Franco’s eyes had widened and his breathing quickened. ‘Juss
name eet, Ray. Please, man! You know me an’ Sophie, man. You
name eet, yeah?’
‘You just did,’ said Ray, brushing spent matches from the edge of
a table and sitting on it.
‘What, man? What I name?’
‘You, man,’ Ray told him, the words delivered in slow installments.
‘You . . . and . . . Sophie. Now.’
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