STARDUST
KYLE
“You can date it almost to the year. By the configuration of the offset dots.”
Jonathan handed me the magnifying glass. I flipped through the pages and went over a few frames. Even though I know everything about the comic, Jonathan kept talking because he’s selling it to me.
“Never trust the first page. They always make sure that one’s clean in the press check. Go to the second half but near the middle.”
I did what he said. Which I would have done anyway.
“The colours are just realer than the inks today. Or maybe unrealer. Comic classic colours. Pop artist colours.”
“Right?”
Jonathan nodded, like this was something we both knew but was worth saying anyway.
“Before the pop artists ripped it off for all those indie-rock hipsters who thought comics were beneath them.”
Which is messed up because Jonathan is more of a hipster than anyone I’ve ever met. When he says stuff like this I always go ‘note to self, Google what he’s talking about when the computer’s working again.’ But by that time I’ve usually forgotten the conversation. And what he’s talking about won’t matter to a doofus like me anyway.
So I just smiled and pointed to the jacket Teri was wearing.
“Reds have faded a little.”
“Nothing you can do. Red’s the most unstable pigment. And what happens to a comic when it gets loose in the world is part of the narrative.”
“But it had to be a red leather jacket? Right?”
“Right. Because of old-school stereotypes of how a slutty woman dresses.”
Thoughtful sounding. Like he’s sensitive and enlightened. Jonathan kept talking even after I handed him back the magnifying glass.
“It’s classic on so many levels.”
“How much?”
He cringed a little. Like he hates taking people’s money. I pointed to the back cover.
“It’s a little creased.”
“Less than you’d expect for its age. I can give you a two for one deal.”
“Huh?”
He pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. I knew this was coming and I sure could use some. But in light of some things I’d been hearing about Jonathan’s stash I was wary.
“Last time we talked you had a supply problem.”
His eyes moved randomly to a carefully plasticked set of Steve Ditko Spidermans on a shelf way above where anyone could touch them. I knew that look. Faraway and dark. Jonathan is old. As in so old he lived through the 70s, so he’s seen some stuff. I could tell he was about to say something troubling.
“Back in the day I had to worry about product being laced with angeldust, which messed people up. Now it’s Fentanyl, which makes people dead. There was something from a blog a few weeks ago. Someone thought he was taking Xanax and got offed ’cause it was full of the stuff. In the very hotel you work for.”
“Must not of been my shift.”
He shrugged and looked away. Like it was no business of his if it was.
“I didn’t trust the guy and I couldn’t live with myself if something like that happened. So I got a new supplier.”
“You tried it yourself?”
“I can’t do that stuff anymore. Makes me paranoid. But I fed one to Selina.”
He glanced over at her, curled up asleep in a cardboard box of unsorted Drawn and Quarterlys. I don’t know how many cats Jonathan has, I just know that Selina’s the black one. Blacker than the night sky in Krazy Kat.
“And she was fine. Just got a little happier.”
“What would that even mean with Selina?”
Jonathan ignored me. As he always does when I disrespect his cats.
“The dealer’s got a good rep. I’m pretty sure the stuff is clean.”
I got out of there $190.00 poorer. $140 for the comic book which Jonathan said was worth $200. And $50 for the gummies which Jonathan said he could have sold for $60. I didn’t even want to think of how many hours I have to work to make that back.
Jonathan’s shop is on The Meadows. Same street The Stardust is on, just five blocks up. I knew exactly how long the walk would take, and I knew I was going to be late even if I hurried, and I knew Miriam was not going to be happy. But what can you do when you’re with a guy like Jonathan and he’s got everything you need?
As I’m racing as fast as I can to my shift I can hardly get my head around what I’ve got in my possession. Run, Teri, Run. 1957. By Wendell Haynes. This very comic was singled out by the Comics Code Authority, the agency formed to protect the youth from the evils of comic books, which psychiatrists and moms said were bad. Said they turned the youth into juvenile delinquents and destroyed their brains for the finer things in life. Now we’ve got internet porn and no one talks about shutting that down so I guess comics were really evil.
Wendell Haynes could draw anything. He even worked for classy magazines drawing women holding cocktails and standing in expensive houses with uncomfortable furniture and big paintings that are just splashes of paint because that’s how the artist expresses all those painful feelings that own him. Wendell Haynes even did portraits for LP covers where the singer is smoking a cigarette and you can tell from his expression that he just lost his girl.
But the same year Run, Teri, Run came out, Wendell was found face down in a reservoir. The police said he left a note but no one’s ever seen the note. There are theories in the comics community that the FBI dropped him to send a message to all men who would corrupt the youth by making comic books.
Everyone likes a conspiracy.
I only like a conspiracy if you can make a good comic out of it.
Haynes was like an eyeball on people living life at the bottom. And what they do for money. Which includes robbery, extortion, prostitution, drug dealing, gambling, torturing, kidnapping, pimping, and shooting whoever wants a piece of the money they’ve gotten from robbery, extortion, prostitution, drug dealing, gambling, torturing, kidnapping, and pimping. What you never get is anyone trying to shut it down. Whenever a cop shows up, he just wants his cut.
Here’s what happens in Run, Teri, Run.
Teri’s paying off a debt from her addiction to heroin, a word Haynes wasn’t allowed to ink so the characters call it snow if it’s good quality and horse if it’s the stuff that can kill you from one hit. Her dealer is letting her pay off the debt by servicing men in suits who she meets in a hotel that looks a lot like the rooms in The Stardust. Meanwhile, Teri’s boyfriend Lennox runs numbers out of a pool hall and the mob don’t like how his bookmaking is changing the odds on games they’ve fixed. Even though you know it’ll end badly for everyone, you keep hoping Teri and Lennox will find a way out of that world and stay out. Have a baby and a mortgage and an amicable divorce just like normal citizens. Because deep down Teri and Lennox aren’t bad people.
So even though the CCA made Haynes poster-boy for leading young people into crime, that was actually the opposite of what he was doing. His stories were a warning to people who think there’s glamour in crime. Maybe he’s the reason I don’t work for gangsters and instead I have a job working the nightshift at a hotel where I could get shot by just about anyone who walks through the door.
I arrived at The Stardust with Run, Teri, Run and a bag of gummies and I’m really hoping for a quiet night. Not that I want to read it fast, but I don’t want to be bothered while I’m making it last. I look at everything in each frame before moving to the next one. Wendell Haynes thought about every object and colour he put into those things. And the gummies slow everything down for me to enjoy it even more.
So because of the interlude with Jonathan and the complex business negotiations for two related but very different consumables, I’m five minutes late just like I knew I would be. Miriam doesn’t say a word. Just glares at me and picks up her purse and walks out from around the counter, and leaves.
I think Miriam came with the hotel. As in the day the hotel opened someone found a package on the shelf under the front desk. MIRIAM: JUST ADD WATER AND COOK ON MEDIUM HIGH HEAT FOR TEN MINUTES. When I open the drawer under the counter and give it a sniff that dark wooden hollow even smells like her. I know that sounds mean. I actually really like Miriam. I’ve never asked but I think her job title would be manager. Which means she figures out our schedule and gets money to do repairs and handles accounting and taxes and payroll. Payroll would be me and someone I never see who cleans but doesn’t clean very well and probably a couple more staff because there’s no way Miriam could cover all the hours I’m not here. I’ve seen other people behind the desk when I come in for my shift, I’ve just never really been introduced.
Why I’m even talking about Miriam and how she left the building is because that’s how I know it was five or six minutes after 7:00 when the guy walked through the door. Miriam had just gone out a minute before and I had just popped two more gummies. The bag now had eight left and Jonathan had given me 14. So by using subtraction I knew I had six in my body. It’s not that the shifts go faster on the gummies. It’s that fast and slow stop being a thing.
I’d read maybe the first two frames of Run, Teri, Run but I didn’t mind being interrupted because like I said I wanted it to last.
This guy who’d entered the lobby kind of went with the comic. He was wearing a Dick Tracy hat, and a long grey coat, and was carrying a suitcase a little bigger than a briefcase. Guy dresses like that means one of three things. One. He’s an actor preparing for a role and he’s gone full Method. Two. He’s flat out crazy. Or three. I’ve just had too many gummies, have no sense of what century I’m in, and it’s actually me who’s dressed wrong.
The suitcase the guy’s carrying would be too small for the average visitor, even in this place. About the right size for when men travelled in a suit with a couple of extra shirts and a flask of bourbon.
He was clean shaven and took off his hat and allowed the water that had pooled up in the hollow to pour onto what was left of the burgundy carpet. There’s worse things to spill the water onto. And worse things you could spill onto the carpet. I’ve seen both.
“I’ll need a room. Don’t know for how long. So how about I pay for a week upfront.”
I turned and looked at the row of keys to see what we had available. Which was pretty much every room. The only room I’m not allowed to have a key for is the room at the back of the staff area. That belongs to the owner. Who I’ve never seen. There’s a rumour he’s in Patagonia, which I think is next to Indonesia. The owner calls Miriam on her cell sometimes and I don’t know what the calls are about because Miriam mostly just nods and listens.
One thing that isn’t in the budget right now is a computer that works. And even when we have one, it’s not like we have any of those cards you just stick in front of the lock and the door opens. So I had to figure out what would be a good key to offer him. I’ve found guests do best when you offer them a choice between two, even when the whole place is empty.
When I turned back to the guy, I was almost surprised he was still there and that he looked the same. It took me a second to remember what I needed to ask him.
“Do you want streetfront? It’s louder. But some people go a little funny staring down at the fire-escape and the dumpster.”
“I’d prefer the back side. I like as much quiet as I can get.”
“Then I can give you room 2046.”
“How many rooms do you have in this place?”
“Fourteen.”
He hadn’t given me a name yet so mentally I was calling him the man from another time and another place. The man from another time and another place grunted when I said fourteen.
“And what floor would 2046 be on?”
“The fourth.”
“Course it is. How much?”
“Sixty a night.”
The man from another time and another place reached into his coat and brought out a stack of hundreds.
“We’ll still need a credit card.”
I’m not sure why a credit card is important when they have the cash, but Miriam freaks if I don’t copy a piece of plastic with a name on it. I guess it’s so the cops will have something to go on if one of the guests brings a woman back to his room and kills her.
“What do you do with credit cards if you don’t have a computer?”
“We have one of those machines you swipe.”
“You steal it from a museum?”
You could be in that museum I wanted to say but I didn’t and took the conversation in a different direction. Trying to be personable, Miriam calls it when she gets complaints that I’m not.
“You wouldn’t believe what you can buy in this town that no one uses anymore.”
He grunted again.
“How bout I show you a credit card and you take the cash?”
“I’ll have to record the card.”
“You got a tape recorder? Go ahead and record the sound of my voice.”
I’ve heard about tape recorders but I’m not sure how they work, so I didn’t have an answer to that one. I still had half of a gummy in my mouth and swallowed it. By now it was less like I’d met a guy preparing for a role in a movie and more like it already was a movie and I was in it with him.
He counted out $500 in hundreds and handed it to me. He still hadn’t shown a credit card and at this point I was pretty sure I wasn’t gonna see one. Sometimes that’s just how it is. I’ve got some expired ones people have thrown out and I just run one of those through and Miriam’s never called me on it.
“I don’t have the change for that. Do you have anything smaller?”
“Keep the rest for yourself.”
“I’m not allowed to take money for tips.”
“Oh. Right. You wouldn’t want to lose your job working in a quality joint like this.”
I figured he wanted me to laugh at that so I did.
“I’ll still need a name.”
I put the book in front of him. He printed and signed it Chester Kane. Fast. Like it wasn’t the first time he’d used that name.
I went and got Chester his key and gave him the gear. Bath towel, hand towel, washcloth and a bar of soap.
“Your room is second door on the left when you get to the fourth floor. The washroom’s right at the end of the hall. And, um, the wifi’s been down for a while. We’re hoping to have it up by the end of the week.”
“That’s a joke. Right?”
But he was already headed to the stairs so I guess he didn’t really expect me to answer. The gummies were really hitting their stride which meant how I’d turn the bills into smaller bills and take my cut was a problem I was in no condition to solve right now. So I just put all of it in the safe and went back to Run, Teri, Run. But I was too baked to make sense of the story and just ran my eyes over the colours on the first page. Not even reading the bubbles. I remember I couldn’t believe how loud the rain was outside and how fierce the cars sounded as they sloshed along The Meadows. I wasn’t doing anything but everything had come alive. It was gonna be a great shift.
MELODY
I was the one in our family who always knew when rain was coming. It probably started at the same time on both sides of the Danube, but looking across from our apartment I swear I could see raindrops glistening on the black windows of Buda an hour before they hit our windows in Pest. They always got everything before we did.
There’s a lot more rain where I am now. Even though most of the factories are shut down I still smell steel in the air before a downpour and I could tell a hard one was coming.
Usually I manage to get to the club a good half hour before the evening shift starts. It’s only two blocks away but I don’t like walking these streets in the dark. Coming home I don’t have a choice. I’m just lucky this is a town where most people who’d want to mess with me are asleep or passed out on drugs by then.
If l leave for work now no one notices me. I just get absorbed into the deadzone of rush hour. Those three dozen citizens who’ve figured out how to land themselves a job and a car.
But it’s the time of day when there’s bound to be people in the lobby of The Stardust, so I always leave through the emergency exit, and head down the fire escape.
The bottom flight is a drop stair. Counterbalanced. When I get to the bottom I make sure the wire’s still hooked on the last step before it pops back up. The other end of the wire is secured under the weight of the dumpster. That means I can pull the steps back down to ground level when I come home. Kyle, the guy at the front desk, let me borrow the key that opens the emergency exit from the outside. I went and got a copy made and that’s how I come and go.
I left even earlier today, trying to beat the late afternoon cloudburst which came on like a million hammers on a million nails just as I walked into the Garden Wall for a coffee and a donut.
I love all those dead rosebushes pressed up against the brick. Like a message to Adam and Eve that it wouldn’t be worth getting back in the garden even if it was allowed.
It’s always the same guy there and he looks barely legal age for working in this country. Short and stocky. And you can’t tell where he’s from. Like he’s mixed with everyone in the world.
“How can I help you?”
That’s how you know he’s a foreigner. No one in a shop who was actually born in this country ever says that. You learn it from a grammar book in your home country or from a teacher who learned it from a grammar book and she makes a big deal of living in an English speaking country but never opened her ears to how people actually talk.
But aside from that, this guy’s English doesn’t tell me anything. It’s the English without pitch or rhythm that everyone around here speaks. Not like me, where my accent gets me called Dracula’s wife by the other dancers.
I can tell the guy knows where I work because he always gives me the coffee for free. I just pay for the donut. And it’s not like I ever tip. Somehow he thinks I’ll sleep with him if he pours me 75 free coffees.
It’s the same with all the men around here. When they learn I work in a club, they want me to have all the free stuff they can find for me.
I made the donut last as long as I could, but the rain still wasn’t letting up. It was time to go to work and I threw the knapsack over my shoulder and headed for the door.
“You’re gonna get soaked. Let me lend you my raincoat.”
That’s a lot of words from this guy. Usually all I get is ‘see you again.’
But I didn’t want him to give me his raincoat and make myself even more in debt than 75 coffees.
“That’s OK. I got clothes for every activity in here.”
I expected him to laugh at this but he nodded seriously. No idea what this guy is about but I’ll assume he’s living with his family who he supports on what he makes here, and they have him on a short leash. It didn’t look like he’d ever gotten close to a woman and I didn’t want to provide the final ΔP that made him snap.
So I just went out in my track suit and denim jacket and got soaked. The air conditioning in the club would dry me off real fast but it wasn’t going to feel good.
If I’d been smart I would have taken him up on the raincoat.
If I’d been really smart I would have called in sick and stayed home with miRNA, my betta fish.
CHESTER
The fourth floor felt like about ten. It’s not that I’m out of shape. It’s about how tired I get stepping over the residue of former tenants. People whose lives got soaked into the unvarnished wood, or else trickled down the stairway and into the street and merged with the rain and the grease and everything else that runs through the gutters of this town.
When I finally made it to the fourth floor, I put the suitcase down and looked to the end of the hall. No sound except something moving in the ducts that probably wasn’t human. There was a stale smell of fried fish but nothing that had been cooked recently. Which meant I might have the floor to myself. I give thanks daily for small mercies like that.
The room numbers get even more interesting when you see them on the doors. Mine had a plastic number 20, followed by a tin ‘four’ and a brassy ‘six.’ They were attached top and bottom with woodscrews, although none were straight and being in different fonts made it look like a room where kidnappers checked in to compose ransom notes.
The room across the hall had a 20 that matched the one on my own door. Must have been a two for one deal. No added numbers. Just 20. I guess four digits is twice as classy as two and I’m in the deluxe suite.
I didn’t have the stomach to check out the washrooms right away so I opened the door of 2046 and sat on the wooden chair they’d kindly provided for those of us who make it to the fourth floor. Along with the chair there was a dresser, a bed, a sink, and a hotplate. If I owned the place I’d dump the hotplates which accounted for the smell of fish cooked in an oil that shouldn’t be used on food.
There was a roll of toilet paper on the dresser, half of it left. Somewhere in this town there’s the same hotel only you don’t get toilet paper. That’s the no star hotel. This would be the 0.1 star hotel.
I heard honking and an exchange of swear words and went to the window.
It was streetside. The anaemic pencilneck at the desk must’ve confused it with room 20. I thought about whether it was worth a trip back down four flights of stairs and another conversation with him and decided that having a view of the street might come in handy.
I pulled out my laptop and logged in on the barbershop wifi next door. I hadn’t really needed a haircut but it gave me a chance to ask for the password, since I wasn’t betting The Stardust would have wifi, and even if it did it was safer not to use it. I told the barber about a wife and a kid who don’t exist and who were waiting for a thanksgiving message. It was Tuesday so I was already half a week late. The barber gave a heard-it-all-before nod and told me the password. The password was ‘barbershop.’
I worked for about half an hour before I was through the firewalls and into the company and had found Mr. Donald’s files in the HR department. That’s always the way. IT and accounting have real security. HR are too busy organizing training on the perils of poor cybersecurity and leave everything wide open.
Daryl Donald’s file was exactly what I thought it would be from the e-mails I’d been following. Working there for two years as an IT administrator. The performance reviews weren’t stellar. Tickets unsolved that had to be actioned by other members of the team afterhours. And Daryl had accidentally given all staff access to one of the confidential drives on the Vice President’s system. I could just see the guy. Track pants and a faded Star Trek t-shirt he’d outgrown from the potato chips and chocolate bars he brings to work every day, in a matching Star Trek backpack. Along with the healthy lunch his mom packed for him and which he never quite finishes.
It’s the unlikeliest of guys who get ambitious and feel they deserve more. If those things fascinated me I guess I would’ve become a therapist.
I wrote the e-mail and saved it and scheduled it to send to Daryl at 3:33 pm tomorrow. Should hit him smack in the afternoon dead zone.
I clicked open one of the photos I’d saved. Closeup. Just two faces.
I retrieved the instamatic camera from my case, shot a photo of the screen, and waited for the image to develop. Amazing things these cameras. Even though the detail was diminished, the old school emulsion and paper bring the people to life. You’ve got to savour moments like that in a day’s work, and I did, and then slipped the photo in my pocket and put the camera away. Then I clicked on a map of the city and found my next destination.
I shut the laptop down, hid it under the mattress, and locked the door behind me as I went out.
Back the lobby the pencilneck was still behind the front desk, but now his forehead was resting on the counter. There was a comic book open underneath, which I guess softened it for his head.
“Anywhere good to eat around here?”
When I spoke he raised his torso in a single slow motion until he was as vertical as a person can sit. It was spooky. If you’re making a vampire movie and need extras, I recommend this guy. The robotic movements, plus the fact that he’s rail thin and his skin doesn’t look like it’s ever seen the sun. Now imagine him doing that in a coffin.
It took him about nine seconds to process the question I’d thrown at him, at which point that breathless giggle of his started up again. I forced a chuckle back and went out.
I figured I’d skip dinner. Maybe at the place I was going I could order a drink with a lime wedge in it. Get my daily dose of vitamin C.
I walked two blocks northwest on The Meadows and turned right onto Refrain Drive and there it was, just where the road curves towards somewhere I don’t ever want to explore.
Two levels and the bottom level had a neon purple sign that flashed The Velvet Inspiration in wedding invitation cursive and I’d be R.S.V.P.ing my regrets to that one. The top floor was orange deco letters that didn’t flash but probably used to, and said The Velvet Consolation. Maybe they changed the name and didn’t want to send someone up on a ladder to take down the old sign. Or maybe they didn’t think about it at all.
There was no traffic. There hadn’t been since I left the hotel. I crossed Refrain Drive at a diagonal and entered the Velvet Inspiration.
Just inside the first heavy door was a narrow foyer with a girl wearing almost nothing. She was talking on a payphone with words that make sense in some country in east Europe that borders on Mars. I could hear a man’s voice on the other end and he didn’t sound happy.
The smells were already there in the foyer but they hit hard when I opened the door into the club. I’m sure those clubs smell the same in Belgrade and Managua and wherever the hell else these girls got their start. That unmistakable mixture of talcum powder, spilled beer, three dozen cheap perfumes and walls that never forget dead smokers. There are NO SMOKING signs in here but you can barely see them in the haze.
I sat down, took off my hat, and a server was there instantly. She was in her 50s and I didn’t get a sense she worked here as a dancer back in the day. If I had to guess, I’d say she worked in a women’s prison and this was her way of easing into retirement. She had a metal changemaker on her belt, like the kind bus drivers used to use. No one who came in here was getting out of a tip just because he didn’t have the right denominations.
“Could I get a Manhattan?”
“I think there’s a bar out at the airport that makes them.”
“Alright. Then what can I get?”
“Beer is popular. Either brand.”
“You got the usual hard stuff?”
“So far you aren’t usual so I don’t know what that would be.”
“Can you do bourbon straight up?”
“I can do rye.”
“That’s 64% of a Manhattan so let’s do it. And could I get a lime wedge instead of a cherry?”
“We’re not licensed to prepare food here. Health regulations. So you can’t get either.”
“Nice to know you and the civil servants are looking out for my health. Almost like we’re all one big family. Don’t you think?”
“I think I’ll go get you your drink.”
I’d taken a seat at the back so I’d be the one watching everyone. Mostly guys in T-shirts and baseball caps sitting alone and not one of them knew he had the exact expression of the thirty other guys in the room. But I didn’t care about that. What I cared about was the women who were sitting still as statues in chairs up against the wall, planning their next move.
I didn’t think I’d find the one I was looking for. In fact there was no guarantee she worked here, or even in this town. But with the amount of club hopping in this business everyone knows everyone and this was the place to start.
Right now I was looking for any woman who saw everything but gave nothing away. Someone I never caught looking at me because she did it when I wasn’t looking at her.
The drink arrived. I handed the server a ten and asked her to take 15% for herself, and you’d swear that change machine was a calculator, the speed she crunched it out. Took me a good half a minute to do the math and know that she got it right.
It was rye all right. At least the part that wasn’t water.
A woman showed up at the table a few seconds after I took my first sip. I hadn’t seen her in the time I’d been scanning the room, which automatically got her the job.
“I’m Melody.”
I didn’t ask for ID so I can’t swear that was her real name.
“I haven’t seen you in here before.”
I would have thought that was something to be proud about but she made it sound like a bad thing. Maybe she was fishing for where I came from. Or maybe it’s just a thing people say. Whatever the reason I turned it around on her.
“That’s a pretty accent, Melody. I’ll guess Budapest. And since I’m a gambling man I’ll put my money on the Pest side.”
“Czech Republic. The Czech Republic side.”
“See. I was close.”
“Sure.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“We aren’t allowed. There’s no way to stop it really. But I’m good.”
“So, Melody. Maybe you can explain something. I’m curious as to why there’s an upstairs with a different name.”
“The VC?”
“That’s what it goes by?”
“The names don’t make any sense and are hard for foreign girls to say.”
“Didn’t you say Czech Republic?”
“No. I mean foreign foreign. I speak English good enough. Wouldn’t you say.”
“Super good enough. So downstairs is VI? Upstairs is VC?”
“You got it.”
“What’s the difference. Are the drinks fancier? Maybe I could get a Manhattan there.”
“No. It’s just where the private rooms are.”
“Private rooms. What happens in the private rooms?”
She looked away and shrugged.
“Just some people like privacy. This isn’t very private.”
One of the reasons I’m dressed this way is because it’s the absolute last way an undercover cop would dress. I guess the costume still needs some work.
I took out five 20s. Fanned them just enough for Melody to see what they were. Palmed three and pushed the first two over to her on the table.
“I’m guessing there are women who maybe don’t follow the rules. For the right amount of money. I’m only paying in full for the best response here.”
“There are rumours that that happens.”
“Are you one of the women who’d know from experience that the rumour is true?”
Melody shook her head. I knew her attention was focused on the money because of how hard she was trying not to look at it.
“Would you know someone who could tell me a little more about this rumour?”
“Probably someone who’s been in one of the VC rooms.”
“That’s what I thought. Here’s the thing.”
As she waited for me to say more a 20-year-old guy sitting up at the stage turned and smiled at her. The in-your-dreams glare she gave back would get her the lead in any movie I’d ever want to direct.
I finished the drink and put it down.
“Certain preferences are to be considered.”
“Preferences?”
“Everyone has them. I’m no different.”
“OK.”
“What I like is the petit type. Hazel eyes. Black hair in a pageboy cut. Fair skin and a Greek nose. A mole on her cheek. I’d prefer it to be the left cheek, but I’m not overly fussy about that. And, as I mentioned before, this person should have some experience with the private rooms.”
“My sister would meet most of your criterias. Maybe even all of them on the right day.”
“Criteria.”
“Sorry?”
“As far as I know criteria never has an s at the end. Even if you have a long list of them like me.”
“Criteria. Thanks. My English improves.”
“Your sister have a name?”
“Reverie.”
“Are these names spelled the same in Hungarian as in English?”
“What do you think.”
If you can get a smile out of Melody you’re a higher pay grade than me.
“Is there a way you could send your sister to my table?”
“No. She’s off. She’ll be on tomorrow night.”
“So I should arrive the same time as I did tonight?”
“She’ll be later than me. But there’s no harm getting here first. You might meet someone you like even better.”
Sibling rivalry. It’s there even when they grow up on opposite sides of an ocean.
“You two being sisters I’m guessing she’ll come up and introduce herself to me like you did. Right?”
“She’s the shy one in our family. They’ll announce her for a stage dance. Or you can describe her to one of the other girls. Just don’t use her name. Or mine.”
“You really think I’m a cop?”
“I don’t think anything. It just starts trouble.”
“Good policy. You and your sister got any names other than the ones you use here?”
“Uh huh. You ever dress other than how you dress for here?”
“Uh huh. I’d say we both know how to dress for a gentlemen’s club. You sure I can’t buy you a drink?”
“How about you pay me for a drink and I’ll get it somewhere else.”
I smiled and slid the remaining three bills to Melody, put my hat back on, and stood up.
“Tell your sister I have more of these than I know what to do with and I’m dying to meet her. Maybe describe me to her. If you can remember what I look like.”
Melody nodded. But she wasn’t looking at me. She might have been nodding to anyone in the room.
When I got back to the hotel, the ectomorph was asleep on the loveseat in the lobby, his legs dangling over the far arm like he was boneless. The comic book was open on his stomach and his hands crossed on top of it. It didn’t look like he’d made much progress since I checked in.
I walked the four flights of stairs and went into 2046 and undressed as far as my underwear and got into bed. In the middle of the night I woke up for a few seconds when something bit me but otherwise I slept just fine.
REVERIE
“Again.”
“No. I’ve got it.”
“It could be better.”
“I’m fine with it not being better. I don’t plan to make a career out of this.”
Melody would satisfy anyone’s description of an east European instructor. She’s relentless when she gets into coach mode. It’s no mystery why those countries produce the best dancers and gymnasts.
“I’m not talking about how it looks. You need to know everything the pole is capable of. What if the friction of your thighs isn’t what you thought it would be at a certain point on the pole, and you slide?”
“You’ve seen how strong my abs are. I’ll pull myself up.”
“What’s the speed of free fall?”
“9.81 m/s2 at straight Fg=mg. If you want to be fussyand compensate for air resistance, Fd=21CdρAv2, that would bring it down to—”
“Uh huh. And your head is how far above the floor?”
That was the first time since leaving Mexico anyone bothered to care about my safety. It shook me enough that I just nodded and got back on the pole.
That’s how I got started here. In the interview I’d lied about my experience in Mexico City, naming a lot of clubs I hadn’t worked in, half of them made up. I knew the names wouldn’t mean anything to the owner, who really does have a half-smoked cigar in his hand at all times (to call everyone in this industry a cliché doesn’t do justice.) I claimed to be the Anna Pavlova of pole dancing and I could tell the name meant nothing to him. But I knew it wouldn’t matter. Everyone North of Tijuana thinks Latinas are good at this stuff.
But after sitting and watching the other women for an hour I realized I didn’t have a clue. I introduced myself to a few local girls, but they where all as dumb as the pole and took an instant dislike to anyone foreign. Melody was different. She was in the same boat as I was. Hungarian in her case, but had survival skills in six languages, including enough Spanish that we could talk privately. I said I’d pay her to teach me laybacks and spins. She answered that if she taught me I’d owe her, and that was worth more than money in this place. So the next morning, two hours before the club opened to the lunch crowd, we started training.
Basically, you jump up onto the pole, grab it with both hands, and straddle it. Then with your right hand firmly on the pole you release your left hand and use it to grab your right foot and pull it across the left leg so that the right knee becomes a brace against the pole. At that point you can extend your upper body. Getting back up is all about ab strength.
Once you have that down you can start to play around with the gravity points. How it feels to shift the relative height of your hips and your shoulders. It’s different for everyone, so you just have to figure it out on your own. Once you’re comfortable with that it’s fun experimenting with all the spins and reconfigurations you can do while you’re inverted.
I have fond memories of the days I spent with Melody, learning the acrobatics. I still don’t mind that part of the job. It’s working the private rooms that takes its toll. And because I’m illegal, cash from those dances is the only money I make.
The regulars aren’t a problem. But every new guy requires full attention.
He could be the guy who confuses this place for a therapist’s office and you’re not sure if you’re supposed to dance for him or take notes on a pad. Or he could be the guy who says nothing and makes you do all the work, staring at you the whole time in a way that doesn’t see you but still manages to make you feel violated. Or he could be the guy who has a lot to say to some woman who doesn’t even pick up the phone any more, so he says it to you instead. Or he could be the guy who seems decent enough and who’s probably just too shy to meet women any other way, until the moment he stops being shy and you discover he’s a long way from decent. Or he could be the guy who just wants to talk about his car. Each type requires a different strategy. And because you never know which ones will turn very bad very fast, you can’t let your guard down for a second and it’s exhausting.
Which is why all of us need a few minutes to ourselves over the course of a shift. We all get it differently. I know women who find a table in the corner and go into their heads and make all the eyes that are staring at them disappear. That doesn’t work for me. I need to go physically invisible. So I head to a corner table at the back of the VC floor and sit underneath it with my back to the wall. It helps that I’m 151 cm and fit easily with my legs up tight against my chest so no one can see me.
The tables on the VC floor are there so a guy can leave his friend sitting in front of his overpriced beer when he goes with one of the women into a private room. Except that not many customers bring a friend because not many customers have one. And absolutely no one ever sits at this table.
Melody had prepared me so I knew who it was even when all I could see was his legs. Slow. Measured. Like how men walk in the movies when they’re on the way to a meeting that has a good chance of ending in gunfire.
He plunked a couple of glasses onto the table over my head. Then stepped back and grunted in the way that men of a certain age do when they bend over to look under something.
“The server said I’d find you here.”
I expected it to be weird, but this was insane. He couldn’t have been over 40 but in that outfit he should have been 100. The guy put his whole palm over the crown of his hat and lifted it. Like when a man meets a woman in the same kind of movie I just described. His hair was lacquered and shiny from some product I didn’t think you could buy anymore. A stage light reflected in it could do retinal damage.
Grey slacks and brogues and a coat almost ankle-length and an even less interesting grey. He was like a ghost from when this town still had hope and this building housed the fanciest restaurant around and the ghost brought his wife here every year because it’s where he proposed to her.
Best case scenario, I’d exchange a few words with the ghost and then he’d disappear back into the emissions and the asphalt and the rain.
I should have been so lucky.
All the time I was thinking these thoughts he was scrutinizing me. Close enough I could see his eyes scanning my face and fixing on the mole on my cheek. I’ve gotten that from guys all my life and I’ll never stop hating it.
“Comfortable there?”
“I’m on my break. A lot of guys don’t know what that means so it works best if they don’t see me.”
“Happy to wait.”
“We’re good. I was just finishing.”
I wasn’t but I tossed the last third of the cigarette into my glass anyway. You really don’t want to touch the carpet here, so I’ve trained myself to shift onto my heels without using my hands, duckwalk out from under the table, and then stand up. It’s hard to look sexy that way but from what Melody told me, that wouldn’t matter. As far as this guy was concerned I was already hired.
Knowing I was already hired wasn’t a great feeling.
I figured I’d just hear him out and go with my instinct. Everyone who works here says go with your instinct but if they took their own advice they wouldn’t work here.
“Your sister said I should talk to you.”
“Which sister?”
“You have a lot of family working here?”
“There’s nothing like family.”
“It was Melody I talked to. From the Czech Republic.”
“Right.”
“You from The Czech Republic too?”
“Venezuela.”
“Must’ve been rough on your mom picking you two up from school.”
“Are you always this much of a dick?”
“I’m actually on my good behavior tonight. The people I’ve talked to say you’re just what I’m looking for and I don’t want to mess things up.”
“Imagine what you’d be like if I wasn’t just what you were looking for and you wanted to mess things up.”
“Well, you’re not going to believe the proposition I have for you.”
“Órale, vámonos.”
Always toss in a couple of words from your native language. Ones that just fill space and don’t require him to say anything back. It makes him feel cool and it gets bigger tips.
He picked up the drinks and followed me to the farthest room. The one that Ahmad watches the hardest.
I closed the door behind us and looked straight into the camera no one can see. Which is how I signal to Ahmad that this one is iffy so keep an eye on me.
In the reflection of the big window I saw my new friend put the two glasses on the low table you can dance on if that’s all that’s required. It’s the only furniture in the room other than loveseat, which if we’re being honest gets way more action that the table. All the private rooms have two-way mirrors installed. It’s required by law, and it means that we can’t see out but anyone can look in. The right money makes sure nobody does. Ahmad manages that.
Ahmad has every skill you need for his job. What’s weird about it is that I can go weeks without seeing his face and he sees every inch of me, on every shift.
I’ve only had one tense moment with Ahmad in the entire time we’ve worked together. And it wasn’t in the club.
I’d been thinking it would be great to come home to a pair of eyes that don’t care if I’m dressed or undressed. So I went to the pet store to buy a fish, since fish are the only pets allowed in my apartment. The second I saw this purple betta swimming in its little plastic cup I fell in love with her. None of the other fish were doing anything much, so it was like this fish was signaling that she felt the same way I did and we just had to be together. But as I was reaching over for her I heard a voice I recognized speaking a language I didn’t. When I looked over to the rodent cages, there was Ahmad, with his little girl, looking at gerbils. I almost had a stroke. Just the thought of Ahmad and me under the fluorescent light facing each other like normal people. I’ve never felt so naked. So I left fast before Ahmad could turn and see me, and I’m doing fine without a fish. Though one night I dreamed that a woman came in just after me and bought the purple betta and gave her a good home. I could tell the woman worked in the same business as me, and could relate to life in a glass bowl.
I stopped thinking about fish when the new client slapped $500 on the table next to the couch.
“I should introduce myself. My name’s Chester.”
For a few seconds I had trouble breathing. As if his size required so much oxygen there wasn’t enough left in the room for me. But I got it under control as he bent towards me, offered his hand, and shook it like a man whose contracts are always a handshake. Then he stepped back and sat on the far side of the couch, making sure there was lots of space between us. He didn’t strike me as a guy who liked small talk so I started in on the rules.
“Here’s how it works. We agree on—.”
He waved it off.
“That handshake is the only physical contact we’re ever going to have.” He reached in his pocket. Pulled out two cigarettes. Put them between his lips. Lit them both and passed one to me. It’s a move you usually only see in movies as old he was trying to look. I wanted to slap myself to make sure this was all really happening.
Then he reached into a side pocket and pulled out a polaroid I could tell was a photo of a computer screen. When I didn’t reach for it he held the photo about 35 centimetres from my face.
“Since you’re one of the two people in the picture I’m betting you can tell me something about the other one?”
I looked him in the eye and nodded.
“He pays well. Right?”
I sat back. Didn’t look at anything. Didn’t say anything.
“You and Melody. People can say what they like, but intelligence is in the genes.”
“What makes you call us intelligent?”
“You knew not to touch the photo and you both know better than to talk about clients. But I have a few questions that need answers. That’s what the $500.00 is for.”
“OK.”
He nodded.
“When you’re together he takes pictures with his phone. Right?”
“Lots of pictures. That’s mostly what he wants.”
“Thought so. He lets you take them?”
“Yeah. He likes that.”
“You’re doing great Reverie.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled a bigger stack of bills and just held on to it.
“You only get this if you decide to take the job. If you don’t take the job the $500 I put down is still yours and it’ll pay for us never having had this conversation.”
“OK.”
“His phone. He doesn’t have face recognition. Does he?”
“No he’s always punching in a code.”
“I thought so. I’m guessing it doesn’t work in this light.”
“Or he doesn’t trust it. A lot of guys are like that. They drink too much. Anyone could get the phone and hold it in front of their face.”
“Right. So you know what I need. And just to make things perfectly clear, if you want to walk away, you still keep the $500. If you decide to take the job, the K I’m holding is the first half. You don’t come through I want it back. You come through I give you another K. What do you say?”
I grabbed one of the rye and gingers, leaving the money for the time being.
Memorizing phone codes is the new Murphy scam. Someone gets the passcode and a partner nabs the phone on the street. Gets to the bank info before the guy sobers up.
This setup he described was way too easy for what he was paying. So I knew he was after something big. And it’s hard to pass up that kind of money for so little work.
“What good will the passcode do if you don’t have the phone?”
“I think you know the answer to that.”
He looked at me and smiled.
“But you don’t want to overthink it. Do you.”
It wasn’t a question. I drank slowly pretending I hadn’t already decided. It’s pretty hard to look anywhere else other than the mirror, and I was trying not to meet his eyes in it. Not that it would have mattered. The few glimpses I’d got of his facial expression told me nothing. If I had to guess what he was thinking I’d say he was reminding himself that he was out of clean shirts and underwear and needed to hit a laundromat later tonight.
“Alright. I’m in.”
“That’s very good news for both of us.”
He pulled out his phone and showed me his number.
“Text me your schedule. With arrival times as accurate as you can make them.”
I got my phone and keyed his number into my contacts. I didn’t want to record the name he’d given me so I typed James Knox Polk. No Mexican has trouble remembering the gringo who stole Texas.
He didn’t say anything else. Just tossed the stack of bills onto my lap, put his hat back on, and got up and went back out into the rain, which had just started up again. In this room you can always hear it against the fire-escape.
He hadn’t touched his rye and ginger and I’d only taken a sip of mine. I never drink at work but I downed both of them in a minute and then stood up and left the room. I don’t recommend that if you’re my bodyweight and in heels. I barely made it back to my happy place under the table where I sat for a long time smoking and trying to think of something happy.
DARYL
The meeting with Millicent was feeling a lot like my last meeting with the faculty of a university I no longer attend. I’m not going to name it because it gets enough promotion just by existing and doesn’t need or deserve my help. Let’s just say it’s considered by many to be the best school for science and technology on this continent. If not this planet.
My paper was flagged because Dr. Raban said its thesis and the proof of it were identical to what Fahire Hisar had proposed. And since Fahire had submitted hers 47 minutes before I submitted mine she must be the honest one. Clearly, I’d waited until she uploaded it to e-mail, hacked into the university server, found it, paraphrased it, typed it up, formatted it, and submitted it. All in 47 minutes.
And the staff here are supposed to be good at math.
What actually happened was that Fahire came up to me after Dr. Raban’s game theory seminar saying she was interested in something I’d said about the Nash equilibrium. And I was dumb enough to open the file on my tablet and show her what I’d been working on.
I was summoned to the student judicial committee to defend the integrity of my paper. I’d titled it Von Neumann, Nash, Tucker: How the fathers of game theory built a ladder to scale the prison wall. One of the members of the committee said that I’d come up with a better title but that a better title didn’t mitigate criminal behaviour. Another member disagreed about the title, taking exception to the word ‘fathers’ as metaphor, which ‘screams patriarchy, and in the name of incontrovertible first principles are we ever going to get past that?’
When they told me that Fahire was in a separate room being questioned at the same time I laughed. When the one who’d liked my title asked why I was laughing I said that I was laughing because we were playing out the Prisoner’s Dilemma. The one who’d taken exception to my title said that if I found humour in deception, mendacity, and shame, a comedy club would be a better fit for me than the most prestigious science university in the country. I wanted to point out that comedians get cancelled even faster than academics these days, but I was tired of these people and just wanted the meeting to be over.
Fahire got off, even though there was no proof against either of us. I doubt that it had anything to do with the time sequence of the submission. When in doubt, punish the white girl.
Game theory is a joke. That was my thesis, and apparently Fahire’s too. It’s a joke because the argument starts with a unilateral decision. And unilateral decision-making presupposes restricted information. That information systems are subject to entropy is hardly news. My point was that any encryption strategy—analog or digital—is also subject to entropy. I even came up with an airtight proof. Oh, right. I forgot. I stole it.
Actually, the situation between me and Fahire provided a real-life example of the thesis. Nice meta-irony.
They told me I had until midnight to collect my things and leave the campus from which I would be persona non grata for 99 years. I said 89 would have been more mathematically resonant since it’s a Fibonacci number and the product of 89 x 365.24219 is still guaranteed to be a number larger than my remaining days. Unless they bought into Nietzsche’s theory of eternal recurrence in which case not even ∞ would suffice because we’d be back doing this with minute variations each time the universe rebooted. Inevitably in one of the reboots I’d be a mass murderer and obliterate everyone in the room. When none of them responded I got up and walked out.
Game theory got one thing right. Criminal savvy always trumps fairness.
After getting expelled from one of the best schools in the world, I landed a low-level job in a slimy investment company. And my performance is substandard even here. Or so Millicent, the head of its HR department, had been telling me before I was distracted by memories of past injustices.
I pulled myself together and did my best impersonation of someone who gives a shit.
“So what do you suggest I do to improve my performance?”
“Objectively, Daryl, you perform as well as anyone. Better than many.”
“Last I checked that was a good thing.”
“We’ve been through this. The problem is in the way you talk to people.”
“Do you know how many calls I’ve had on how to use the VPN?”
“These are new technologies Daryl.”
“I’m not asking anyone to build a can opener. I just expect them to use one without my help.”
“An interesting analogy. Since can openers are used to get into things and a VPN is used to keep people out of things. Also I might remind you that the security breach we had was related to your implementation plan.”
“Given that I was the one who informed the CEO that we were woefully behind in having such a plan, then built it and trained everyone for it, it’s unsurprising that I’m the one who’s going to be held accountable. I can’t help it if the staff are idiots incapable of following procedures.”
“Are you suggesting, Daryl, that our staff is different from the staff of other organizations?”
“We’re not a Fortune 500 company.”
“Might I suggest, Daryl, that more is gained by encouraging success than by censuring failure.”
“A noble sentiment, Millicent, expressed with the eloquence I’ve come to expect from you. Are we done?”
“For now.”
Back at my desk in the sub-basement—some cryptogenius thinks putting us in a concrete bunker prevents hacking the server room—I noticed a new e-mail. With a suspicious URL, as though this were a test to identify the employees who get tricked by phishing requests. Except that I’m the only one here who creates those tests. They’re a lot of fun. I can see why God got off on dropping random ordeals into Job’s life and watching them shred his nervous system.
The guy who wrote this e-mail claimed to be a friend of Todd Ramsey, who works in our company. That gave me a chill. And the tone of the e-mail was too aggressively unprofessional to be phishing.
The man said he was starting an investment brokerage and Todd had recommended me as the most knowledgeable person he’d ever met when it came to cyber-security. He said there’d be a lot of money in it for me. I could write him back, but if I didn’t, he was in town and would drop by and introduce himself in the next few days. He didn’t say where he planned to drop by so I figured it would be wise not to be anywhere I usually am.
I ran some diagnostics on the e-mail and found it had been set up as a scheduled release for 3:33 today.
Here’s the thing. It may be easy to find me. But it’s just as easy for me to find the person who found me. And I was pretty sure I was better at this than he was. Which was why he was after me in the first place.
It took me ten minutes.
His hardware was in a hotel called The Stardust six or seven blocks away. That meant he’d come into town specifically to see me. Not just locate me as a cyber-presence but actually interact with me, flesh and blood. I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing but right now my best bet was to install myself in a hidden cranny and plan my next move.
Shouldn’t be hard. This is a town of hidden crannies.
I’d been here since 7:00 am and done well over a day’s work. So I packed up and left the building and walked our town’s main drag which street signs simply call The Meadows. The Meadows slices diagonally southeast from the sadly indestructible Richardsonian city hall—on whose clock 9:11 is as frozen as the 1927 carved above it—and ends abruptly at a block’s worth of mangled shopping carts, graffitied rubble, and inert vagrants.
Before the droughts came the lot was an unlandscaped greenspace so my best guess is that The Meadows was named by someone in municipal planning who privileged the destination over the journey.
Just across the street from The Stardust is a narrow lane that has no name either on signs or maps and ends at a metal gate topped with razorwire. The only business still operating on the lane is a lonely coffee shop whose angle gives a full view of The Stardust.
The shop has a name, but you have to have lived here a long time to know it. The smashed
mosaic tiles over the door used to spell ‘The Garden Wall.’ The sign pairs well with the dead
rosebushes against the crumbling brick.
I went in and sat up at the window so I’d have a full-on view of The Stardust. There was a single lit room on the fourth floor and in its window I saw a man in a fedora scanning The Meadows and everything in its vicinity.
I couldn’t imagine a guy like that owning a computer or a smart phone. But maybe that was the point. And the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.
I hadn’t planned on him seeing me but I was glad it worked out that way. That his eyes didn’t stay on me meant my hunch was right and he’d never seen me before. That was a small comfort.
The only employee in the place walked over to me. His voice was just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the coffee maker and the refrigeration unit.
“I like your T-shirt.”
I didn’t do anything with that. I have three of these T-shirts, and I only wear them so that I’ll look like I’m such a computer nerd I could never be a threat to anyone.
“Just coffee. Nothing in it.”
“No problem. And it’s free.”
“Free?”
“Yeah. Because it’s your first time.”
As though caffeine is a new drug and creating addicts is a loss leader on future return. His smile didn’t improve things. It was the smile of a stranger on an elevator telling you he could sure use a hug.
“I know everything about my customers which is how I know I’ve never seen you here before.”
That’s so creepy it amazes me that anyone comes in here twice. But I let it go because I didn’t want us to talk more than we had to. He brought the coffee over and I drank it very, very slowly.
At 7:00 the guy on the fourth floor still hadn’t returned to the window. And no one had appeared in any of the other windows. I got up and put down a $10.00 bill which as a tip percentage is mathematically incalculable, given that the bill was $0.00, tax in. Maybe I got played. Maybe saying there was no charge was a trick to activate an agreeableness gene I’ve never been accused of having.
But really, I was paying for an excuse to kill as much time here as I needed to if I had to continue my surveillance later on.
I left The Garden Wall and crossed to The Stardust. Two girls were standing in front of the barbershop next door to the hotel. Texting. I’ve seen them there before and my guess is they’ve figured out how to tap the barbershop wifi. There’s no way in hell that girls this surly and hermetic have boyfriends, so they’re probably texting each other. Hoping that someone from school might notice them and think they’re popular.
As I reached the far sidewalk one of them bent over to stroke a black cat and it scratched her and she used the obvious expletive and then told her friend she had better things to do and walked away. The friend didn’t even look up from her phone.
There was no one in the lobby of The Stardust other than the clerk who was asleep in a chair behind the desk. His head was tipped back as he snored and his mouth was open to the crumbling ceiling medallion. There was a comic book in front of him open to page 12 and 13. I couldn’t see a service bell, so I just knocked on the counter.
When he opened his eyes he didn’t seem surprised about where he was. Or embarrassed about being asleep on the job. Or even mildly startled. But his pupils were dilated. One more than the other. So I guessed he was on a ton of dope. I probably would be too.
“Any rooms?”
“Rooms?”
As though that was a strange thing to ask a concierge, if I can call him that with a straight face.
“I’m not sure what my plans are. I just wanted to know if you still had occupancy. In case I end up needing it.”
This time he responded with the stoner laugh. That uninflected, barely audible laugh that consists of the limbic system taking way too long to call a meeting with the prefrontal cortex and the two eventually agreeing to wake up the brainstem and make it tell the vocal cords to laugh.
“There’s, like, no one here. Ever.”
“Funny. I saw a guy in the window. Dressed like a gangster.”
“Yeah. Well it’s him and one other guy we see every month or so, when he’s not getting along with his wife. And a working girl on the second floor. She’s been staying in room 6174 for a month or so now. Oh, and there’s a couple of religious guys on the top floor.”
“Religious guys?”
“You know. White shirts and thin ties and Bibles. They leave early in the morning and don’t take the free coffee. Just go door to door selling God.”
Where would you even start on security training if you hired a guy like this? Was what I was thinking. And that I wouldn’t drink the free coffee in this place either.
“You said something about a working girl? Meaning?”
“You know. From the club around the corner. My guess is they’re not employed legally so it’s hard to get references for apartments. We’ve had them since forever. They’re no trouble. They don’t bring work back to the hotel.”
The things you learn.
“The guy with the hat. Sounds like he’s been here for decades.”
“Nah. Just checked in yesterday. Said he might be here for a week.”
I didn’t acknowledge that information. Just changed the subject.
“This place got a gym or a spa?”
That started him laughing again. What is wrong with me?
“Alright then. If I decide to stay, I guess I don’t have to reserve.”
I went out. The religious guys and the guy who came and went were non-starters. I didn’t think club girl was my problem, but I don’t underestimate anyone in that business. One of the women in our operations department cleaned out all the cash boxes one night. When we investigated, we found out she’d been a club girl. Went by the stage name of Paradise. No one ever saw her again so she probably headed back to Montenegro or São Paolo or wherever.
I went back into The Garden Wall and I think the server was a little scared to see me again so soon. You get that from guys when you’re a woman as grumpy as me and come back into their space right after you left it. They’re worried you’ve just gone home to grab your can of mace or a pistol.
“It’s the coffee. I don’t know what you do with it but it’s magic.”
“Do you want a butter tart to go with it this time?”
“Do you have a dinner menu?”
“Dinner?”
“Yeah. It’s something a lot of restaurants have. Dishes that are more than a snack and have all the food groups. Big portions of the unhealthy ones.”
“Yeah. There are places that have that.”
“The name made me think this was one of them. The Garden Wall. Sounds established. Maybe even historic.”
“The original owners were a Priest and his brother. It was to remind customers of how Jesus and the disciples went to the Garden of Gethsemane after their last supper.”
“Right. I remember that from Sunday School. They were still hungry so they grabbed some coffee and butter tarts and ate them in the garden.”
He was at a loss for an answer to that and I felt he’d earned his tip just from having to deal with me.
“I’ll just have another coffee. Anywhere I can get a paper?”
“Is that still a thing?”
“Never mind.”
He was right. Even if a paper would cover most of my face, it would be more conspicuous than staring at my phone. Anyway, I didn’t have to wait long. The guy in the fedora hit the street looking so much like a gangster no one would ever think he was a gangster. The classic Hollywood disguise is counterintuitive, but I get it. He’s not trying not to be noticed. Everyone sees the outfit but not the face.
I threw down $10.00 again. If I keep paying tips like this and the guy will have a shrine of me in his room. Back at the basement apartment where he lives with his mom and half a dozen aunts and nephews who showed up in this town one by one because, heaven help us, it’s better than where they came from.
I followed my man to the corner of Refrain Drive and watched him enter the Velvet Inspiration. Then I went home.
I’d found out where he was staying and one of the places he went. A fair payoff the few hours I’d spent on the problem.
It shouldn’t be hard to keep an eye on him as I planned my next move.
I didn’t have a clue what that would be.
REVERIE
It’s common sense that the trunk of a car wouldn’t be climate controlled, I just never thought of it until I got thrown into one.
But I guess the world is full of things most people don’t bother to think about. Like why women in clubs never tell you where they’re really from.
Here’s how it works. If you meet her in a club and she tells you she’s from Venezuela that’s code for any Spanish-speaking country that isn’t Venezuela. Since Venezuela is the Venn diagram where beauty pageant density and plastic surgery density intersect, people figure it must have the most beautiful women in Latin America. (Seems to me the phenomenon could just as easily mean the opposite.)
If she really is from Venezuela then she says she’s from Colombia.
It’s not that the dancers here are worried they’ll track down our families and tell them what we’re up to. It’s about protecting everything you possibly can about who you are. Your real name. Your real home. Your real history.
But if a client drops a lot of money and keeps coming back to you, give him little nuggets. Like your actual nationality. It makes him think he’s different from all the other guys.
So I told him the truth. That I grew up with my parents and an older brother in a two-room apartment at 15 Avenida San Juan de la Cruz, Santa Lucia, Mexico City. Santa Lucia’s not a terrible colonia. Just not one that you’d boast about being from, or that a tourist would ever wander into. And if you escaped a Catholic education, or you tuned out whenever the nuns got talking about saints, Saint Lucy was the one who saved her virginity by gouging her own eyes out. Which I guess is a mood killer even for a rapist. I’d opt for gouging out the eyes of the rapist, but that’s just me.
The second I saw him reach for his phone, I launched into a narrative pretty close to the one above. That’s how you bring off the password scam. All the women here have done it with someone. Once you confirm you have the password there’s a guy waiting outside, hoodie up, head down. He snatches the phone from the mark and runs, then passes it invisibly to a guy in a sport jacket half a block up walking the opposite direction. Even if there are street cameras it’s too many moves to put together.
But that’s not your problem. All you do is get the password and get paid and you’re done.
So I told my story to the client and it froze him for a second. He could tell I was giving him something real, which meant I was confident and relaxed about having my eyes on the phone as he keyed in his password. I’d carefully set my own phone next to me, where he couldn’t see it, and I was so sure of myself that even before he’d finished keying I pressed send with the OK icon, letting Chester know we were all good.
There’s a lesson in hubris. We were light years from all good.
As soon as I’d sent the message, I realized that his password was ‘Reverie.’ That sure as hell threw me. And my eyes went back to the phone when they had no business doing that. And he noticed.
The bad side of being small is that it means I’m easy to grab and carry out of the exit, down the fire escape, and into the trunk of a car. The scariest part was the last flight of steps, which falls when the weight on it passes the centre of gravity that keeps it horizontal the rest of the time. When we hit the tipping point I was sure we were going to be thrown onto the asphalt.
I imagined the sirens. I imagined the EMS workers strapping us to twin gurneys. I imagined the surgeons piecing us back together. I imagined the nurses assuming we were a couple. I imagined them positioning us so that we were motionless and staring at each other. I imagined the day we were pronounced medically unsalvagable and they switched off our life support.
Compared to that, the trunk of a car isn’t so bad. That’s what I was thinking when the vehicle lurched backwards and then tore into the street. I moved my arms and legs as much as I could in the space, and confirmed I hadn’t broken anything.
The good thing about growing up in Santa Lucia was that I could live at home for most of my school years. By the time I reached the age for primaria my Dad and my brother were able to scrape up the tuition for the best English immersion school in CDMX. The teachers were old hippies who’d left Harvard for a place their trust funds would stretch further, and that offered an endless supply of psilocybin. That’s why I speak better English than most of the people born in this town, for whom its their first and only language. After preparatoria I was accepted into medicine at Universidad Nationale Autonoma de Mexico. But when it became clear that that was going to be more years than we could afford, I switched to studying civil and chemical engineering, completing a double program in four years. With that I was sure I’d have a high paying job and permanent residency here in no time and be able to send money home.
Still working on permanent residency. In the meantime, I have to keep taking basic math classes at a community college where I just show up for exams that I can ace in my sleep. It allows me to keep renewing my student visa and not get deported. Right now I’m between visas due to yet another ‘adjustment’ to Federal legislation. This is code for the country getting tax money out of us and then getting rid of us without looking like that’s what it’s doing.
That things didn’t go the way I’d planned is irrelevant right now. What’s relevant is that my chemical specialization was polymers, so I know a lot about polymethyl methacrylate (specific gravity 1.19) which you likely know as Lucite. Think of me in transparent size-five Lucite shoes with a 6.3 cm platform and a 15.25 cm heel tapering to a 0.7 cm2 surface area at the point, a heel to toe ratio that, standing, puts 58.7% of my weight onto the ball of my foot. At 0.385 kg per shoe, my footwear constitutes 86.5% of all that I’m wearing (piercings in) and the pressure on each of these heels, with my weight distributed evenly on both feet, is 1,393 kilopascals. Give or take. With those numbers you can calculate my weight to within half a kilo. Make sure to show your work.
What makes Lucite a great polymer is the acrylonitrile groups that form ultra strong interactions between the chains. That’s why we wear them on stage. We aren’t likely to break a heel.
Here’s what else is good about them. They’re a weapon.
A dancer friend in Zona Rosa once wacked a guy through the head with a shoe very like mine. Heel went through the periosteal layer of the skull, the meningeal layer, the arachnoid, the pia mater, and finally came to a stop four millimetres into the frontal lobe. I don’t think that’s incommensurate with the stuff the clientele in that place dish out. But the courts gave her two years at the Centro Feminil and they know best.
So be educated about your weapon and use it accordingly. I usually keep my footwear on when I’m with a customer. But if I sense it going bad, I’ll coyly pull one shoe off and keep my hand on it. Men love having you semi-discalced and don’t bother to imagine that anything’s up. Sure, you have more power in your legs, but that only helps if you’re positioned right, and the strike is harder to direct accurately. Whereas a good swing with the shoe in your right hand can take out an eye. I’ve never done that, but I have delivered a quick blow to the windpipe, which is a great nerve centre. It doesn’t take much to have the guy wailing for his mother until Ahmad gets there.
Sorry. My thoughts are usually a lot more organized. I guess that’s what happens when you get kidnapped.
The guy who put me here goes by the name of Todd, which is almost a default setting for men who come into the Velvet. I’ve had about a dozen Todds since I started in this line of work, but who knows? Somewhere there must be a guy with Todd printed on his birth certificate.
Todd’s a bad guy to underestimate. He knew where the back door was and had me down the fire escape, and in the trunk of the car in 15 seconds. Ahmed’s fast but not that fast.
Todd’s a regular and we have him on video. But so what? We don’t know his last name and aren’t even sure about his first name. We don’t have a clear image of his face and the only people who could ID him are me or the other girls. And like that’s gonna happen.
But he did leave me with my shoes on. And with my phone. Which is thanks to Ahmad chasing him as far as he could and distracting him as he dumped me in the trunk.
Todd talks a lot about his car, and much of what he says about its capability violates the laws of physics. But if you’re in my profession and the guy tells you technical nonsense the way Todd does, the best way to keep the money coming in is to make your eyes big and nod like this stuff is really interesting but way beyond what your tiny brain could ever comprehend.
Another reason to listen rather than talk is that you never know what information could be useful to you someday.
Here’s what turned out to be useful. Todd drives a mid-70s e-series Jaguar. Which means no luminous trunk release inside. But it also means a latch with a wire release.
I pulled off both shoes (No way I’m running with one of them on.) The best thing going for me was that the stereo was turned way up, which meant he wouldn’t hear anything coming from the trunk. The Jag’s updated sound system was blasting Bad Guy by Billie Eilish, which I guess Todd doesn’t get enough of in the club. Or maybe it helps him relive the magic. It’s heavy on bass so probably he was using it to drown me out if I yelled for help. Not that he needed to be worried. The e-series is loud. A V-12 engine with 400 Newton-metres of torque and a roar that, according to Todd, emulates the growl of the eponymous jungle cat. It’s probably how he’d like his women to sound in bed. I’d mostly describe it as deafening. Even more so in this case, given the poor state of the exhaust manifold, whose emissions could kill me faster than hypothermia or being jostled to death by the lousy suspension.
From the way he was stopping and starting I could tell that we were still downtown. So it was now or never.
I hit the inside of the trunk upholstery where I was pretty sure I could reach the cable even if I couldn’t see it. The trunk molding is stronger than it looks and I was in a terrible position for a good swing. But my third attempt cracked it, and my fourth widened the gap enough for me to get the heel in and use it as a lever to snap off some of the stuff. Two further whacks and there was a big enough hole for me to get two fingers in and break off even more. Both my nails broke, and it hurt like I’d just lost fingers and I absolutely did not care. I found the wire and I pulled upward with all my strength until I heard the CHUNK of the latch release. And that CHUNK was the best sound in the world.
I waited until he stopped at the next light, then pushed up the trunk and got out and ran.
One option was to get a car between myself and him and keep it between us as I screamed until someone helped me.
Yeah, right.
I just kept running.
Todd had wasted his time going around a block of one-way streets, which meant we’d barely gotten any distance from the Club. In fact we were on The Meadows, right across from the vacant lot next to The Stardust, where Melody lives.
He’d have no problem parking on this block, which wasn’t in my favour. But even so I knew I’d have a good jump on him. There’s something wrong with his left knee. I noticed it whenever he walked up the stairs to the VC. So I knew he wouldn’t be as fast as me. I figured that if I went through the lobby I might be seen by someone, and Todd’s the kind of guy who’d pay people to tell him where I went. So I headed up the alley, found the wire attached to the bottom stair of the fire-escape (in this job you share tricks like that with the other dancers) pulled it down, put my left foot on the bottom stair and kept it there as I released the hook, and then ran up the steps. I was more careful than Todd had been at the gravity point, but I knew he was far enough behind me that the stair would have risen all the way back up before he could get a piece of the bottom step in his hand.
I ran up the second set of steps and banged on the emergency door and screamed ‘open the door’ in English and then Spanish and then English and then Spanish, which would be a good indication to Melody that it was me. In between episodes of screaming I stopped for a second to text Chester where I was and what was happening. That may not have been a good idea, but in my profession there aren’t good ideas. Just bad ideas and really bad ideas, and this felt like it was probably just a bad idea. I pressed send and went back to pounding and screaming.
“This little stunt is completely unnecessary. All I wanted to do was talk.”
Todd sounded like he was right below me, but I didn’t look. Just kept banging and screaming ‘help’ and ‘open the door’ as many ways as I knew how. It’s unlikely anyone around here would call the cops just because someone was in trouble, but I come from the most Catholic country in the world, so the outside chance of a miracle is a hard delusion to let go of completely.
When I was ten-years-old a street cat climbed a jacaranda down the street from our apartment and from there made it onto the ledge of a condemned building surrounded by a metal wall with coiled razorwire at the top. Getting up turned out to be easier than getting down, and the cat got trapped on the ledge. I’d hear it meowing when my brother walked me to the pesero that took me to school, and again when he met me at the pesero after school and we walked home together. And I remember people on the street discussing how the animal might be rescued. Most of their ideas had to do with ropes and a basket and a very long pole and even at ten-years-old I knew none of their ideas would work. That’s probably the moment I first thought about becoming an engineer. As for the cat, it went silent after a few days and everyone just got on with their lives.
I wondered if I’d end up like that cat.
Todd was right underneath me now, trying to keep the conversation going.
“You know, you owe me for damage to the Jag.”
I just kept yelling and banging on the door.
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Next Installment Friday, December 5
This has been an Albatross Event.
