Zephyr Box Set 2 by Warren Hately

Author:Warren Hately [Hately, Warren]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-05-23T06:00:00+00:00

*

IT IS GETTING late, but here in Gomorrah, the party may literally never end. Twilight holds court with Lynch, an equally sozzled Orlando Bloom, Heston Blumenthal, Mutassim Billah Gaddafi and several strippers spilling out from the table, some comedian called Paul Rudd attempting to build a replica sailing ship out of empty Stoli bottles and cigarette ends with a resultantly riotous crash that barely raises an eyebrow from the battle-weary Flyaway staff.

For some reason I am in a somber, agitated and weary mood, yet sleep or even the idea of it feels about as far away as any possible sense of satisfaction too, so I go on a search and find Portal slumped beside a speaker stack near the men’s bathroom, some clearly under-age trophy hunter literally trying to drag him to his feet. The girl’s baby blues light up at my arrival, but I give my patented mean scowl and hurry her a long with a few choice obscenities, jerking Portal to stand and hauling him over my shoulder in a fireman’s lift, taking him through one of the back doors and up and outside.

The cusp of dawn manifests in the first crinkly lines of a distant red sunrise beyond the stoic skyline, pigeons wakening in their nests on the roof and the city’s taxi fleet waking up as the unspoken truce on honking horns fades with the passage of night into day. I set Portal down and step off a few paces, taking a slash against a drain pipe before moving back and slapping the low-grade super around a few times until he starts to sober.

“Zephyr, stop it. What is it?”

“I need a favor.”

He mumbles something along the lines of it being a funny way to ask. I concede his point, not that I say anything aloud.

“I need a lift to Japan,” I tell him.

“Where?”

“Japan. In the north. Near the mountains.”

“No, Zephyr,” Portal says, managing despite his challenged sobriety to put every inflection of stupid into his words. “I mean, where exactly in Japan?”

“What do you want, a fucking postal address?”

“GPS would do.”

I sigh. Look around. Draw my phone and look at it like an artefact from 3000BC.

“You got Google Earth on that thing?” he asks.

“I think so.”

“Then we’re all good.”

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