Diana Abu-Jaber - Birds of Paradise

“Yeah,” Red Shirt says with a hard laugh. “Give us your car. What about that?”

“No…” Javier is shaking his head, eyes closed.

Brian looks at Red Shirt, wanting to do something to shock the smile right off his face. Something extraordinary. Reckless. He places his hand in his pocket, feeling the outline of his keys. “Brian,” Javier warns. “Stop.”

“What does it even matter?” Brian asks, caught up in the euphoric jolt of his idea. “With that Steele investment, I’ll be able to buy any—”

“It’s not—” Javier snaps his sentence off, lowers his head, shaking it silently. “No, no. Bad idea.”

“Why the hell not? You know what — I’ll probably give a bunch of that money to charity anyway.”

“Because,” Javier hisses at Brian, “there isn’t going to be any money.”

“What?” Brian blinks.

“Fuck you. Charity.” Sunglasses and Shaved Head have backed up as if Brian has announced he has plutonium in his pocket. “Yo — like, we don’t jack people’s fucking cars, man,” Sunglasses says, and Shaved Head protests, “Fucking charity, asshole? The fuck outta here.”

“What are you saying?” Brian stares at Javier.

“ Later, man,” Javier mutters, flicking a look at the young men.

“What in the goddamn hell?”

“You called me here.” Now Javier’s face is narrow with fury. “You drove in here due to losing your fucking mind, and I had to come get you out.”

Red Shirt watches their exchange with interest. “Man, you think like giving us a freaking car makes it all okay, you really out your mind. You insane in the membrane all right. You talking about what your people done to my people? You give me your car, your house, your wife, and your great-granny, man.”

“Word,” says Sunglasses.

“But, okay, so if the dude is really feeling bad about shit, like I think he is…” Red Shirt turns to the other two. “I say why not. I mean, it don’t change nothing, but if the cat really wants it so bad…”

“Un momento, un momento.” Javier holds up one hand. “What your people — my people we discussing? You people make your own mess in this country. My Americano here don’t have nothing to do with los Haitianos .”

A visible physical tension rattles through the men as their attention turns to Javier. Shaved Head — the one Brian has come to think of as more restrained than the others — says quietly, “You fooling with me?”

The men murmur as Javier holds up his hands, backing away. “Hang on now. Listen, my homeboy here cannot spare his car. He really isn’t right in his head, in case you haven’t noticed that. This car — it belongs to his wife . You hear me? He gives this car to you, she’ll be down here with la policía so fast. But look, okay—” He fishes two-fingered in the breast pocket of his shirt and flourishes a pair of folded sunglasses. “Do you see these? These are Leonards — and they’re so exclusive you’ve never even heard of them.” He nods at Sunglasses’ head. “I see you have a nice pair right there.”

The younger man lifts his head.

“I know those weren’t cheap — those Ray-Bans.” He uses his glasses to point.

Sunglasses snorts. “Cheap! Correct, muthafucka, these were not cheap.”

“Yeah. But let me ask you — did you pay twenty-six hundred dollars for them? These”—Javier holds his own pair up again—“I bought when I made my first million-dollar commission. Remember the Olympic Hotel deal?” He nudges Brian with his arm. “These were custom handmade in Florence, Italy. German optics. Made of titanium — lightest substance known to civilization. Twenty-six hundred dollars, I shit you not. I had to make an appointment to come in and get fitted. I had to reserve them seventeen months ahead of time. And they’re numbered — limited editions — you see this right here — what’s this say?”

Squinting at the inside of the stem, Sunglasses reads, “Number 18.”

“That’s right — there aren’t maybe twenty, twenty-five people tops, walking around wearing these. I happen to know that the Sultan of Brunei is one of them.” Still smiling, Javier slides them off again with the tips of his fingers and hands them to Sunglasses. “Try them on. Go head. See what they feel like.”

“Huh.” The young man frowns, then takes the glasses, slipping them on. “Yeah, they all right.”

“Nice, yeah?” Javier folds his arms in his smooth black suit. “You wanna trade?”

The man, stares hard at Javier, then removes the glasses. He holds them up to the light, tries them on again, keeping one hand on the stem. He looks around. He looks at Brian. The other two men each try on Javier’s glasses, then the Ray-Bans, consulting with each other in low voices. Sunglasses cuts his eyes at Javier. “You didn’t pay no twenty-six hundred for these. You wouldn’t be trading for these if you did.”

Javier keeps his arms crossed high over his chest, his head lowered, nodding slowly, judiciously. “Sure, yeah, that makes sense, obviously. I see that.” He lifts his sharp face. “Now let me tell you why you might be wrong. Maybe I’m doing this because my loco veridad over here drove up your street and tried to give you his car and I’m just trying to get his ass out of here without anyone getting killed.”

The men stare at him, their faces set, eyes glittering with hard, unamused stares.

“But maybe — and here’s where I want you to pay attention—” Javier holds out the edge of one hand, just as Brian has seen him do at the dais in carpeted hotel conference rooms, pointing to the projected schematics of new buildings. “Maybe I just want your glasses, hombre, because, what the hell, I bought these glasses. Buying is easy. It’s nothing, in fact. Anyone can get themselves a credit card — they can do the same damn thing.” Javier snaps his fingers. “It just takes a little more green than usual. But those glasses?” He points at Sunglasses’ head. “Well, those babies came from you —a badass muthafucka up in Little Haiti. It’s like snatching the crown off the lion’s head. There we were, alone in this crazy, broke-down field, surrounded. Dude was all set to fuck up my friend and me together. Instead we get talking? Next thing I know — he made a hell of a trade for himself. See, those glasses come with a story . And, for a sorry old viejo like me? Worth way more than some fancy store-bought crap.”

The young men look at each other, their faces wary to the point of anger.

As Brian watches Sunglasses hand over his Ray-Bans — the exchange made in a kind of respectful silence — he has a sense of observing something like a primordial ceremony. Then Javier takes the fob from Brian, unlocks the SUV, and helps him up behind his own steering wheel, swinging the door shut behind him. Wearing the Ray-Bans, Javier salutes the three men and returns to his own car. He waits for Brian to pull out first. To make sure I’m going, Brian thinks. He doesn’t dare even to wave at the men. The tall man is now wearing Javier’s glasses, the curved lenses glitter blackly; the man looks unreadable and imperial.

BRIAN’S PHONE RINGS as he passes another mural of MLK — this one painted on the side of an on-ramp as he turns onto 95 southbound, hard to see in the lowering light. The evening is mottled and hazy. “You okay over there?” Javier, coming up beside him in his satiny blue Jag.

Brian looks at the car. “Were those glasses worth twenty-six hundred?”

“What do you care?”

“I want to know if I owe you twenty-six hundred.” The roots of his teeth ache. “Because I can’t really tell what anything is worth anymore. At least as far as you’re concerned.”