Page 119 of Antihero

“What?”

“Can you go see Dog?”

“Why?”

“He needs human contact. P.S.: So do you. Plus I need you to send me a picture.”

“Why?”

“’Cuz I want to see him.”

He tried to process. “You already know what he looks like.”

“God. Really?”

“Yes.”

“Because it makes me feel good. To see him. It’s, dunno. Like a hormone release. Or brain stuff.”

“Brain stuff,” he repeated flatly.

“Fine! Dopamine release in the nucleus accumbens, serotonin triggered in the raphe nuclei, endorphin flood from positive imagery. Or in human language: It makes me happy.”

“Can’t you have the dog sitter text a picture?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the dog sitter is not you. And I want you to see Dog.”

“Why?”

“Gawd! Are you seriously for real? Because he likes you! And he’ll be happy to see you. And I’ll be happy to know he saw you. And then you can send me a picture of that happy moment and it will make me happy because unlike someone I am a human person.”

“Oh,” he said.

“You are,” she said, “tha worst.”

“You, too,” he said, and severed the call with great relief.

46The Scrotum Was Fair Game

“Hey, brother, glad you made it!”

Anton DeGrado swung his head and torso around the doorframe into the RedLite lobby, where Evan had been waiting for twenty minutes under the affable watch of a comely redheaded receptionist. When she’d checked Evan’s ID, logged him into the system, and assigned him a visitor access card, she’d done some light flirting, flashing unlikely violet eyes. He’d also received a somber nod of kinship from the gym-swollen security guard standing sentry by the water cooler, a Taser gun on his belt.

“Jake Van Dorn, yeah? Jake the Rake! I read some of your pieces. Good stuff, good stuff.” DeGrado swooped toward Evan, winding up for an amphetaminized handshake. Firm grip, sawing motion, aggressive gregariousness.

As always, Melinda Truong’s backstop for Evan’s alias had held up—Substack articles, bits and pieces across various AI-generated blogs, a LinkedIn profile.

Evan said, “Thanks for finding the time, Mr. DeGrado.”

“Mr. DeGrado! Pssht! Anton, Anton.” Now he launched an elaborate handshake ritual with thumb clasps and knuckle bumps, less street than playground. “We’re informal here, kind of like a big family, aren’t we, Gracie?”

The redhead flashed a professional smile and shot them what seemed an obligatory wink.

DeGrado wore lime-green designer sneakers, a fashion utility kilt, and a beige guayabera with hibiscus appliqués that looked like a woman’s blouse. “C’mon, let’s get back to my office.”