"But what you would do, if I offered it to you?"
Beyond their small table the aristocrats laughed. Delrayne looked around the place and picked his fingernails underneath the glass tabletop. Pimps and cravers, lunatics and liars and businessmen. Women that looked cut from a magazine.
“Everyone’s for sale,” he muttered to himself. He glanced at the pack of cigarettes on the glass tabletop, half-smoked. “Ain’t nothing for free.”
He looked at the crystal chandeliers. The waitresses were all dressed down in the most diminutive little red miniskirts he had ever seen, carrying trays of swordfish and baked stuff shrimp, toxic shots of whiskey or vodka. The place was a hive.
"Delrayne?"
Delrayne turned. The man across from him grinned wildly, flashing impeccable teeth. A sturdy jawline and dominant cheekbones held together a smooth, handsome face, slightly bronze and cleanshaven. The man's hair was slicked back, like a short black wave. He stared, and grinned. "What would you do? If I offered it to you."
Delrayne cleared his throat.
"I guess at least ... guess I’d have to consider."
The man across from him smiled broadly. Nothing’s for free, Delrayne thought again, staring into that eager smile. Through the cigarette mist Delrayne watched the tuxedo-clad jazz band erupt suddenly into a forties-style shuffle. The dance floor throbbed and seemed to breath, swingers in fluid motions twirling their lovers. Lovers leaving lovers to find new lovers. Everybody just a guttural machine underneath their veils and diamonds. Delrayne sniffed and glanced again at the man across from him as he licked his teeth, sipping from a wine glass.
"Considering it," the man said. "Considering it is good." He lowered his head and flicked his eyes at Delrayne. "Do not for one second underestimate the power of what it is I offer you."
"It's hard to believe."
“Why?”
“Because,” said Delrayne, eyeing the dance floor as a black man twirled his partner literally up over his shoulders. People cheered and the whole place was a pulse.
“Because why?”
“It’s funny-paper business. It’s movies. This ain’t real life.”
“Delrayne.”
“I’m ain’t even sure,” said Delrayne. “That this is real.”
"Have I not proven to you that I am real, in this world?" He slapped his own wrist with his hand. "Flesh and blood? Like you?"
"There’s other explanations," said Delrayne, reaching for the pack of Lucky Strikes. A beautiful cocktail waitress was beginning to lead ecstatically happy couples onto the checkered tile of the dance floor near the stage, the lights like a hundred spotted suns. The smell of sweat and liquor.
"What other words exist in all the languages of this earth that you could use to describe it, then?"
"I could be dreamin this," said Delrayne, lighting a cigarette. "I could be … whatchyou call it.”
“Delusional?”
“Yeah. Delusional. I could be delusional.”
"What," said the smiling man. "Like in a hospital for the insane?"
"It’s possible I guess."
“You talk about movies and funny-papers.” The man laughed. “And hospitals. You sound like the crazy one to me.”
“Ain’t no way you can prove to me that this is all real, is there?”
“Well,” said the man. “Watch me.”
The man across from him chuckled deviously. Amongst the noise and commotion in the place he held up his hand and snapped a single time. Many people were dancing now; loud waves of laughter erupted up from the ocean of movement and music. From the crowd, a hostess approached their tiny glass-top table, wearing practically nothing at all, the silver shoes showcasing somehow-erotic feet. She stood politely at the table, looking at them.
"Can I help you gentlemen this evening," she asked.
"What's your name, sweetheart?" asked the smiling man. He waved a hand over his jet-black hair.
"Beatrice,"
"Beatrice," the man winked and made a pistol with his hand, pointed at Delrayne. "This is my friend Mr Delrayne."
"Pleased to meet you, Mr Delrayne."
"Why don't you give him a kiss, Beatrice." said the man.
In a single, swift movement, she removed the lit cigarette from Delrayne's hand, placing in the ashtray as she sat on his lap. With one quick swift caress her arms were locked like entangled vines around his neck, her lips pressed against his, her tongue gently forcing an introduction he was not expecting. When he realized that she was kissing him, Delrayne leaned in, kissing her back, his arms roaming around her bare shoulers and the back of her head, the bun of blonde hair.
The man across from them laughed, as the Jazz Band picked up the tune, shifting into a real heavy, fast number.
Beatrice leaned back and laughed and stood up and as she disappeared back into the heaving crowd, Delrayne sniffed and looked at the man across from him, his eyes surprised.
“Well,” said Delrayne.
"Do you see? That didn't feel so insane, did it?"
“Well I don’t know.”
“It felt good to you, Mr Delrayne. Didn’t it.”
“Well I guess it did.”
“I’m sure it did.”
"You coulda fooled me, though," said Delrayne, reigniting the lucky strike. "This could be some sort of ... Brothel, or something."
“Are you inferring that the women here are whores, Mr Delrayne?”
“Well I don’t know.”
The man laughed. "Do you think for one moment that this is seriously a brothel?" The man waved around the room. "Because I don't think it's a brothel."
“I guess I don’t think it’s one neither.”
"Getting that woman to kiss you is no challenge at all; would you like to sleep with her? In this room, or in a suite upstairs? How about convince her to marry you in less than a minute? Or would you like her life-savings bank account number." He smiled widely again, his eyes slanted down. "It’s a simple thing. All humans are. The power that I offer you can do much more than manipulate a woman into kissing you."
"You ain’t even manipulate her, really" said Delrayne. "You just ... told her. And she did it."
“She obeyed.”
“She obeyed,” said Delrayne, blowing cigarette smoke out of his nostrils.
"As I said," the man lit his own cigarette now. "That example is merely a spec of insignificant dust against the foundation which holds the infinite options available to you. Are you following me?”
“Well I guess I am, yessir.”
“Do you want to have women?”
“Yessir. I suppose I do.”
“Fine." The man waved his hand casually. "Have any woman in the world you desire. Have every woman in the world if you desire. Fame, money, power, glory; build empires, or bring them down. Do you dream of these things?”
“I suppose I do.”
“That’s good,” said the man. “I think we may possibly be standing on the precipice now. About to jump into the abyss of our agreement.”
“I don’t know,” said Delrayne. Then more to himself he said, “This ain’t like Georgia no more.”
“You don’t know what, Mr Delrayne.”
“What that word you said was.”
“Which word.”
“Precipice. I never heard that word before.”
“It’s irrelevant.” The man ashed his cigarette and cocked his eyebrows. “And no, you’re not in Georgia. Forget Georgia. Forget America. The entire world is yours, if that’s what you wish.”
Delrayne turned towards the dance floor as the band finished their fast number and the crowd roared into applause. The black saxophone player approached the microphone, smiling genuinely.
"Alright alright alright," he exclaimed, and the dance-hall crowd roared back in response. "We wanna extend our gratitude for ya'll coming out to the Curious Crystalhouse Nightclub to spend some time with us here on this evening.”
the crowd again roared with approval. People all over the club were getting up from their tables, expecting a big wing number next. "And of course; we all up here in the band wanna tell you all that we look forward to seeing you again soon."
Delrayne rubbed his nose and snuffed out his cigarette. The smiling man was watching the stage intently. The black saxophone player conferred quickly with his band mates, laughed, and turned back to the microphone.
"Happy New Years Eve 1959, everybody. This one is one we wrote especially for you all,"
The drummer slammed the toms abruptly and the band slid right into a dancy rhythm that made the whole place swing and clap like a swerving car wreck. Delrayne turned back to the smiling man, who was already grinning as he stared at him.
“Delrayne,” said the man.
“I just ain’t sure.”
“Do it.”
“I ain’t sure yet.”
"Shake my hand," the man said. "And it's all yours. You already know the catch."
"Yea,” said Delrayne. I’m afraid I do.”
“You do.”
“I know the catch."
"What good is your soul to you, anyway?" The smiling man lit another cigarette with the smoking stem of the first. "Are you using it? Is it that important to you?"
“I guess I’m not.”
“Then give it to me. It’s a win-win arrangement for you. You get rid of something that you’re not even using, and in return …”
“I can get whatever I want.”
“That’s right.”
"What about death," said Delrayne, picking his fingers under the table. "What about when I die?"
"Blackness," said the smiling man. "It’s just blackness. I promise you. This doesn't change a thing."
"Then why inna hell you want it from me? If it's so meaningless to you."
“Not meaningless to me,” said the man. “Meaningless to use. I can use it. I need it.”
“Why.”
The smiling man smiled and shook his head, shrugging. "These are issues that would take me far too long to explain. No offense intended, of course.”
“Yeah.”
“Delrayne,” said the man. “Shake my hand. It wouldn't make any sense if you didn't."
Delrayne bit his lip, looking around the room. His eyes found Beatrice the hostess; she glanced over him as if she had already forgotten the kiss.
“I …”
"Give me your soul."
“I …”
“Do it. Give it to me. Imagine everything else in the world at your fingertips.”
“Aw, hell,”
“Give me your soul.”
Delrayne leaned forward suddenly, his hand extended.
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