You won’t run, he says.

How do you know?

Because you’re a nice guy. Molly thinks so, anyway.

Please. Why not just let me rot in jail?

Jude, he says. Jude won’t do the film unless you’re involved.

I don’t deserve such faith.

Miller whispers. Maybe…she wants you to protect her from me?

I flick my cigarette away and sparks tumble down the steps. And as if this were a signal, a reporter appears out of nowhere with a cameraman.

For god’s sake.

Miller grins at me. I think you might want to take this seriously.

He steps between me and the reporter and I feel almost grateful. Don’t get me wrong because part of me wants to turn and run like hell from him. But part of me wants to do this. The idea of shooting a snuff film with a crazy stranger and his beautiful girlfriend is weirdly appealing. It makes sense to me. And maybe I want to find out what happens. I want to know who the victim will be. Miller is right about one thing, sort of. Phineas is an arrogant fool, sometimes. Because I believe that somehow I can control what’s going to happen, that I can protect Jude and Molly and whoever else drifts into his path.

Miller dispenses with the reporter and turns to me. Are you ready to go, he says.

Yeah. I’m ready.

Excellent. I have a car waiting.

When he says he has a car waiting I foolishly imagine a limousine with somber driver and a fully stocked wet bar with shimmering mirrors. But it’s just a simple yellow cab with a fat bald driver who smells of Old Spice. The radio is tuned to the Giants game and the driver sighs mightily whenever the Giants do something stupid. He sighs frequently. Miller takes a silver flask from his breast pocket and mentions that I have the look of a man who wants a drink.

No shit.

I badly want a drink. I need one. I might trade my left foot for a long greedy swallow of whatever is in that flask. But I really want to straighten up, to see clearly for one night at least. I shake my head and he puts the flask away without comment.

Where are we going?

To meet Molly and Jude for dinner.

Bullshit.

Hardly.

Where?

Miller shrugs. A hideous little place in the Mission. Very trendy.

Good god.

You will love it, he says.

An endless red light and pocket of silence. I catch an unexpected whiff of myself and it’s a complex bouquet. Blood and general funk. Essence of urine and something in the vicious chemical family. I remember being dizzy and I wonder if the cops gave me a splash of pepper spray.

Maybe I should shower. Or something.

He smiles, or bares his teeth. Actually, I would rather you didn’t.

I smell like urine. Unless that’s the cab.

The driver turns around slowly, his eyes raw and poached. What did you say, convict?

Nothing.

My cab don’t freaking smell like urine.

Of course not. I was joking.

And I don’t like comedians, says the driver.

Miller smiles. I will give you a twenty-dollar tip if you turn around and shut up.

The driver stares at him. And if I don’t.

Miller shrugs. Then I will break your jaw.

I try to indicate by my blank, universally friendly expression that Miller is not serious but the driver is already fairly pale and now the light is green and he turns to face the front without another word. I glance over at Miller. His hands are carved and white, resting easy on his knees. His eyes are nearly closed and his face is meditative but for a faint movement in his cheek that suggests he is chewing at his tongue and I have the distinct feeling that he wishes the driver had not shut up.

The remainder of the drive is somewhat uncomfortable.

But Miller is true to his word. He gives the man a twenty-dollar tip as soon as we are deposited safely in front of the restaurant.

Exterior, night. The façade of the restaurant is pale with ghostly lights. Twenty or so very beautiful people wait around in little clusters, smoking cigarettes and talking in murmurs. I’m not quite ready to go inside yet. There’s surely no smoking allowed inside. I am learning to hate California. The veneer of humanity is stretched impossibly fine and no one seems to care. I stand on the sidewalk, sucking at a cigarette. I recently went eighteen hours without one and I feel like I owe it to my body to get the nicotine count up. Miller is a few feet away from me. He doesn’t want a cigarette. He wants to taste the air, he says.

Uh-huh.

What’s the matter?

Nothing. Did you really need to threaten the driver?

Miller smiles. I know a few things about you.

Yeah?

Of course. I looked into your past, when Jude suggested I use you for this role.

And what did you find?

I found that you tend to be morally ambiguous.

Again, fuck you.

Am I wrong?

I didn’t say that.

Then what’s your problem?

No problem. It’s not about morals. But if you walk around randomly fucking with everyone who comes into your peripheral vision, you will eventually be sorry.

Miller nods. Interesting theory.

Take it or leave it.

Relax, he says. You’re right. There was no reason to threaten the driver. But I get irritated sometimes. I get irritated when confronted with stupid, brutish people. I have been trained by society to apologize, to pacify such people. To avoid trouble. And this irritates me.

I toss my cigarette in the street. And for once, I smile.

Why are you smiling?

Because I know exactly what you mean. And because I think you’re fucking dangerous.

He steps close to me. Are you afraid of me?

No.

You will be, I think.

Maybe.

I don’t usually like it when people stand so close to me. It makes me think they might want to stab me or kiss me or something. I don’t think I’m paranoid or overly sensitive but I really prefer a little cushion between me and the other mutants. But I don’t want to back away from him because I think this would please him. I breathe through my mouth.

Jude says you’re going to pay us a half million each to do this film with you.

That’s right.

What kind of lawyer are you?

He waves a hand. I represent a very large, very old and powerful corporation that is responsible for the use of asbestos in hundreds of schools, hospitals, and government buildings. My job is to fend off the class action suits and generally drag things out until the plaintiffs either give up or die.

How nice.

Yes. Very Hollywood, isn’t it?

I shrug. It pays well, yeah.

Absurdly well. But it’s very, very boring.

The ghost lights flicker around us and Miller glances at his watch.

Let’s go inside, he says. I’d hate to keep the girls waiting.

I follow him inside, a half step behind. Down a long dark tunnel, my thoughts buzzing. Miller is a bored and wealthy sociopath, which makes him the best kind of friend to have. It also makes him the worst kind. He pauses to exchange cool whispers with the hostess, who is typically thin and pale and at first glance rather beautiful but somehow ugly in a fierce ravenous way and wearing a glittering black sheath that grimly reveals every bone in her body, and it occurs to me that the one word I would not use to describe Jude lately is girl.