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Kerry's face looks weird. He's too, beautiful. They leveled out his acne scars. His hair is perfect. He got veneers.
"Heard you finally tried to kill yourself," said Johnny.
Kerry handwaves that line of thought away.
"Heard your bodyguard took your little gun away. Heard you cried."
****
"How'd you know who he was just from a guitar riff, anyways?" V asks. "That didn't make any sense to me."
"Rogue actually called ahead to warn me about you two," Kerry laughs. "Weird fuckin' life."
"It's been fun", he continues. "Wait, hang on- I almost forgot. Here", he says.
There's been a paper-brown shoebox on a glass side table by the front door. She noticed it when she came in. Someone- certainly not Kerry- had arranged it square, between the stylish modern lamp, the one-size-fit-all statuettes, and the tasteful vase with fresh delicate floral sprays. The floors are all picked up and spotless. There's a faint smell of disinfectant. The cleaning service van had been driving in the opposite direction down the hill, when she'd been coming up. The size of the place, the windows, the stark empty floor space- the grand piano- it feels more like a corporate event venue.
Kerry presses the box into V's arms. "Take this," he says.
"What is it?"
"Just open it. Later," he cautions.
"Oh. Okay," she says.
He opens the door for her like a little gentleman. The peachy light of day is receding over the horizon.
"It's been real. Don't be a stranger," he says. Flashing a peace sign. Shoulder-leaning in the bulb light of the doorway. Arms crossing, sleepily.
"You're gonna be okay?" She asks. Johnny had and would never have asked him that.
“Well, I slept from 2 pm the day before yesterday until three am yesterday," he says, "then I stayed up until three pm yesterday and woke up again at one am today, and I've been up since then. Did that make any sense?" He yawns. "Anyways. My whole shit's fucked. I've been a little tired."
His courtyard is meticulously kept. The scrubland beyond is beautiful. The city is all lit up across the way. Holo-ad feed ribbon beaming directly into the sky. The air is thick and warm. West coast summer sun-dried sweet.
Kerry makes the "three-middlemost-fingers-folded-down-with-the-thumb-and-the-pinky-extended" gesture that old people like to use when they talk about phone calls. "Call me if you need anything." His head lowers one angle degree of intensity. "I mean that. Alright?"
"Alright." She says. "Goodnight, Kerry. Thank you."
Kerry does a lazy little two finger salute. "Drive safe."
Two steps away, she turns sheepishly in the drive.
"What's up?" Kerry asks.
"He, uh-" she says, "He won't shut up about it-"
Kerry's eyebrows quirk. But only a little. Botox, maybe.
"Johnny, wants to know, uh," she pauses. To listen? "Why you have a "loo-buh-tawn" box." Air quoting with one hand. Glancing down at the white printed text on the lid of the box- 'Louboutin'. "In your house?" Box in question hooked snug in the crook of her waist. "I don't understand why that matters, if that matters," she says.
Kerry smiles tiredly. His smile lines follow his cyberware. "They started making men's red soled sneakers in the early 50's. It was a whole thing." He smudges a hand down his face. Just looks at her, hand cupping cheek. "I could fall asleep on the ground here, man. I really gotta go to bed."
She nods. "'Night, Kerry."
"'Night. Good luck, V," he says. "I'll see you guys later."
Waves goodbye. Turning inside, he closes the door.
****
"What if he needs to resell them later?" Johnny says, in the door-slam quiet of her car afterward, in a kind of little-kid "boo-hoo" cadence.
"What is your problem?" Says V, starting the engine.
****
Back at the apartment, she sits on the couch, with the box on the table, and opens it, tears the tape off.
The box is full of blank paper envelopes. Each one stuffed full, of, something. "I knew it. Fucker," says Johnny.
"'Fucker'??"
"I hated getting my picture taken."
"That's what this is?" Then, "How could you have hated getting your picture taken? You were a celebrity."
"Number one: barely."
"Well I know that's not true."
"Posthumously, has been, pleasantly, surprisingly different- trust me."
"I know you know I notice you pricking up my attention every time you see Samurai iconography on the street."
"Number two," he says, worrying a hangnail on her left thumb distractedly with her pointer finger, "everybody is allowed to have personal preferences. This is part of what the gun was for." He sighs. "I bet you've never even held a physical photograph in your life."
"Nope."
She reaches in the box for the first envelope.
He changes the hand's course of motion in midair, to land flat-palm on the table with a ringing slap. It's their version of smacking another person's hand away from something. Like you'd see on TV. Some Three Stooges shit. It's as good as an inside joke, by now. Flat tire. Gotcha. Pranked.
"Ow! Why!"
"Wash your hands first."
****
"Oh my God," he says, when she turns to the next one. It's a black and white photo. In this one, he's facing the camera straight on, wearing a collared button down with a black sweater over top.
"I thought you guys had color photography by then."
"We did. That's my first mug shot," Johnny says fondly
"What'd you do?"
"'Drunk driving and recklessness', I did."
"That doesn't surprise me at all."
"They let me go with a fine, though," he says. "Because I confessed right away. And then I made sure to say 'yes sir' a lot. Cops love that shit. It works every time. I got away with a lot of warnings in my day. You should remember that."
She looks closely. "You were kind of cute," she says. Then, "You looked like you wished you were dead."
"I used to get asked to sign copies," he says, dreamily.
****
They end up calling Kerry the next morning. He picks up after five rings. "Hello?" He say, groggily. Whoops.
Anti-diplomacy is something she finds herself picking up from Johnny. Skipping right over her learned instinct to song-and-dance and bullshit, and getting right to the point. "Why did you give me those?" She asks.
"I've been asking myself that, " he says.
"Seriously?" Says Johnny.
"I really, honestly don't know. 'Why not', right? I guess. Sorry," says Kerry.
Kerry pauses. "Did you-" he begins again, "Are you-" one more time, "Is he there right now?"
"Not really. Give me a minute," she says.