|
irginia called around six and told me she was running a little late.
I ignored the muffled sounds in the background as best I could, and
waited until after nine before going to her room. Before I could knock,
though, the door swung open and I collided with a short, well-dressed
man. His hair was sticking up in several places and there were red splotches
around his neck. I offered to help him off the ground, but he pushed
my hand away and struggled to his feet. "Enjoy your evening?"
I asked. He scowled and limped away.
Virginia came to the door in her bathrobe. "Sorry I’m running
a little late. He took longer than usual."
“A regular?” I asked.
“Yeah. He likes the domineering schoolgirl shtick.”
"You really go all out, don't you?"
"I believe if I'm going to do a job, I should do it right."
Virginia winked, turned, and let her robe fall to the floor behind her
as she walked into the bathroom.
"You really go all out," I said as she shut the door.
I sat down on the edge of the bed to wait for her, but I couldn't help
thinking about what went on in it over the past couple hours. I opened
a window and rested on the inner ledge, breathing in the chilly air.
Off in the distance, tiny clouds were lit up with lightning bolts. The
storm was still a few hours away, at least, but it was going to be heavy.
"Ready to go?" Virginia asked.
"That was fast," I said. I turned to see her wearing a tight
red chiffon cocktail dress with a tapered skirt and thin shoulder straps.
For a minute, I forgot I was working. "You look good. Looks like
rain, though. Are you sure you want to wear—you know, never mind.
You look very—elegant."
"Thanks, but this isn't a date. You don't need to fawn."
"I take it that means I won't be getting lucky at the end of the
night."
She smiled. "I never said that."
We drove downtown, where she had me park in front of Troy's Maggot,
a bar for those who enjoyed the smell of vomit and the crunch of peanut
shells underfoot. She took my hand with a half-smile and led me past
a group of tattoo-laden men with broad shoulders and thick bodies clad
in black leather. Several of them whistled at her, and she gave them
a sly flip of her hair. We walked through a small doorway next to a
jukebox, down a long, narrow hallway, until we came to a closed door,
where she turned to face me, our bodies much closer than I was comfortable
with. She touched the side of my face, then turned to the door and gave
three sharp raps. An electronic voice coming from a speaker behind us
asked for the password. "Frank Chambers sent me," Virginia
said. There was the clap of a large lock being released, and the voice
told us to proceed.
I pulled the door open, and before us stretched the longest unbroken
staircase I had ever seen. The bottom was just barely visible from where
we stood. Running along one side of the passageway were thick, rusting
pipes and bundles of cable. The lights overhead pulsed slowly. A constant
dripping of water could be heard, as well as the faintest hints of music.
Several people, dressed in everything from black leather jackets to
sport coats, leaned up against the walls, smoking cigarettes and watching
the two of us as we squeezed past them. The further we went, the louder
and more defined the music became. It was techno, with plenty of emphasis
on the bass and percussion lines. The air gradually became heavier,
and a slight haze appeared around our legs. At the bottom, a muscular
man with a shaven head and large teeth slumped on a wooden stool, his
chin resting on his fist, guarding the door beyond.
"Alan?" Virginia said. He didn't move. "Alan?" She
reached out and touched his shoulder.
"I asked you not to call me that," he said, still unmoving.
"It's Brutus now."
"Okay, Brutus, can you let us in?"
Alan—or Brutus—slid off his stool and once risen to his
full height stood almost half a foot taller than me. He took a step
forward, leaned down so that his face was nearly touching my own, and
squinted. "Who the hell are you?"
"He's with me," Virginia said.
"Is he?" He continued looking at me. "He looks like he's
going to be a problem."
"Just open the door," I said.
He grinned and, with a grunt, he pulled the door open. A thick cloud
of smoke floated into the stairway. Virginia took my hand and led me
through the entrance.
The room was large but cramped. A red-carpeted path ran down the center,
leading from the door we had just come through to a stage with two thick
poles, one near either side. Midway down the path, a second path cut
across, running from a deejay booth near the left wall to a bar set
against the right wall. In the four quadrants these paths divided the
room into were crammed tiny tables, each with a small globe-shaped candleholder
in the center and two small chairs facing towards the stage. In the
wall on either side of the deejay booth were a series of narrow recesses,
each with a padded ledge about a foot deep. Tubes of constantly changing
neon lights lined the outside of the deejay booth, the bar overhang,
and the edge of the stage. A thick cloud of smoke clung to the ceiling.
Speakers pumped techno music at high volumes from each of the darkened
corners. The deejay, his head just visible in his booth, shook his head
to the beat. Several of the tables were occupied by men sweating around
their cigarette stubs. Women in thongs and novelty bras walked along
the carpeted paths in high heels, carrying trays filled with drinks.
On the stage, a young woman who couldn't have been more than eighteen
was busy wrapping her thin legs around the leftmost pole and climbing
it upside down. On the bar overhang, written in Day-Glo pink paint,
were the words Club Elsinore.
We found an empty table near the bar, sat down, and ordered drinks from
a brunette with small breasts: a dry martini with two olives for Virginia
and a bourbon on the rocks for me. We sat in silence. Virginia appeared
to be enjoying the show, and I kept to my drink.
A short, thin man in a dark suit walked up the table. In an unusually
high voice, he introduced himself as Nicolas, a buyer of souls. At first,
I laughed, thinking it was a joke, but when he asked what I was laughing
at, I realized he was serious. Judging from his mannerisms, the way
he pursed his thin lips and held his hands together like an undertaker,
he was very serious. I asked him what a buyer of souls was, and he removed
a slim notebook from inside his sport jacket. He opened to a bookmarked
page and handed it to me: I, the undersigned, do hereby relinquish all
claims, explicit and implicit, to my eternal soul and do transfer said
claims to the care of Nicolas Chikovsky. I understand that in relinquishing
my soul I also relinquish all rights, explicit or implied, physical
or metaphysical, to my eternal soul and transfer said rights to the
care of Nicolas Chikovsky. I furthermore agree that I enter this contract
of my own free will. Beneath this were four lines, two for the buyer's
name, printed and signed, and two for the seller's. When I asked what
he was offering in exchange, he said the next round of drinks would
be on him. I laughed and handed the notebook back. He returned it to
his coat pocket, nodded his head, and walked off to another table.
"Don't mind him," Virginia said. "He came to town a couple
of months ago, and he's been buying souls ever since. I think he sells
them online."
The woman on stage finished her dance, gathered up the clothing she
had removed and the dollar bills that had been flung at her, and walked
off stage. Another woman, this one almost painfully thin, took the stage
and began her routine as a new song began. She started off slow, gyrating
her hips and running her hands all over her body, but as the music intensified,
so did her gyrations, her hips working against her legs and forcing
her body into positions that were more masochistic than erotic. She
collapsed to the floor, her legs bent beneath her, and then lifted her
pelvis, arching her back and slowly raising her torso, her head hanging
back. Her hands caressed her thighs, her hips, and then her flat stomach,
and finally she seized her breasts and snapped her head forward, her
face twisted into a grimace of pleasure. She tore off her bra and thrust
her chest forward. The crowd surged, their cheers temporarily overwhelming
the music. On her knees, she coyly fondled herself with closed eyes
and a smile. Moving lithely to her feet, she hunched down with her knees
together and ran a hand down between her legs. The crowd roared. Her
legs spread to reveal her hand on the inside of her thong teasing herself.
Her legs closed back together as she feigned embarrassment, then she
spread them again and resumed her playing with more intensity, her face
a mask of pleasure and agony. She leaned back until she was lying on
the floor and pointed her legs toward the ceiling. In one swift motion,
she removed her thong and gave the crowd what it wanted. They cheered
and tossed crumpled bills at her. She fell forward into a sitting position,
her head tilted back, and stretched her legs out to either side, exposing
herself further.
Virginia tapped her hands together lightly. "Marvelous," she
said. "Simply marvelous. What beauty. What poise. What grace."
"Not a big fan, I take it?"
She snickered and signaled for another drink. "I don't like liars,
and this"—she gestured towards the stage—"is lying
of the worst kind."
"Lying?"
"Daddy's little girl as a nymphomaniac. A virgin and a whore. If
someone wants to sell sex, then they should sell sex, not the idea of
sex." She ate one of the olives, stirring her drink slowly as she
chewed.
"Like you," I said.
She stopped stirring, and lifted the other olive to her face. She stared
at it, her lips pursed. A bead of gin ran down the side, down the toothpick,
and came to rest at the corner of her thumbnail. "I like sex. I
like it, and I am very, very good at it. Now, if these little girls
aren't any good at it, fine, but they should stop pretending to be."
"Some people don't come to these places for sex, you know."
She looked at me with a raised brow. "Then what? Intimacy?"
"Point taken."
"Sex is not a bad thing. It's not something I should be made to
feel guilty about."
"Do you feel guilty about what you do?"
"I love what I do."
"Then what—"
But I didn't get a chance to finish. The music had stopped and the stage
was empty. Suddenly, there was a loud popping coming from the speakers.
I looked over at the deejay booth to find him tapping the microphone.
"Testing," he said over the speakers. "Testing. Can you
horny bastards hear me? Good. Then sit down and shut the fuck up! We've
got a special treat for you tonight, and you greasy shits won't want
to miss this. Are you ready?" There was scattered applause. "I
said, are you motherfuckers ready for this?" The applause was louder.
The crowd wanted fresh meat. "All right, then. Ladies and gentlemen,
Club Elsinore is proud to give you the very lovely, very tempting, very
dangerous Sherri Baby."
Surprisingly, no one clapped. In fact, there was no sound at all. Those
who had been whooping and hollering only moments earlier were now completely
still. I looked at Virginia, who nodded, a slight smile touching the
corners of her mouth.
And then there she was. Angelica Quints, standing not much more than
five-foot-five, stared out at the crowd with a deliberately vacant expression.
When the music started, I thought there was something wrong with the
sound system. The first several seconds were nothing but a series of
layered drones played with varying frequencies. Then came a soft pop,
as though someone had squeezed a plastic sandwich bag full of air, followed
by the main notes of the piano section. Beneath the piano was a constant
drone, like the sound of electricity grafted onto the sound of a breeze.
Every so often, bells could be heard. It was simple, with only slight
changes to what little melody there was, but the overall sound was horrible.
What I heard sounded less like actual music and more like the mauled
remnants of music. The reverberations sat at the forefront of the mix,
as if I was listening to noises echoing through a very long steel pipe.
Angelica's performance was a beautiful contrast to the noise. A ballet,
not a striptease, her body acting and reacting to each motion. She let
her slip fall, and the material seemed to billow outwards in slow motion,
each individual curve holding, however briefly, the lights that shone
down. Her thin legs, so smooth and finely sculpted, flowed from one
position to the next without stopping or slowing, as if constant change
was her most natural state. Her face, though, maintained the same blank
expression throughout her routine, as though her mind had separated
from her body, as though she knew what was coming. Near the end, she
reached her arms toward the ceiling, tilted her head back, and let herself
fall to the stage, but even this seemed fluid, as though she was a wave
on the ocean, raised only to fall. The music faded into echoing echoes
and she lay there, her chest rising and falling slowly.
All through her performance, the crowd remained silent, but at the end,
they erupted with incredible ferocity. They stood in the aisles, shouted
her name, pounded on tabletops, and pelted her with crumpled bills.
A few even tried to climb onto the stage and touch her. She collected
her clothing and tips, then exited through a side door guarded by a
large black man. The crowd continued to rave, even as the deejay tried
to calm them by offering an hour of discounted lap dances. Tables were
overturned as the crowd became more frenzied. I motioned to Virginia
that it was time to leave. As we made our way to the exit, I could hear
glass shattering.
Outside in the cool night air, Virginia began laughing almost hysterically.
"Holy shit! That was unbelievable! I need to figure out how to
do that."
"I guess. Where's the other exit?”
"What other exit?" she asked.
"When Angelica left, she left through a side door near the stage.
How would she exit the building from there?"
Virginia pointed towards an alley that ran alongside the bar. "Probably
somewhere in there."
I gave her the keys to my car and told her to leave them at the front
desk of the hotel. When I told her I was going to follow Angelica, she
looked at me with narrowed eyes and asked, "Why?"
"Because this is what I was hired to do," I said.
There was a single door in the alley leading into the Troy's Maggot/Club
Elsinore building. I hid in a darkened doorway in the opposite building,
at one end of the alley, and waited. An hour passed, then another. Several
women did come out the door, so I expected this would be the exit Angelica
would use. Another hour passed. The temperature dropped and all I had
was my sport jacket, which I wrapped tightly around me. Soon I was shivering
and sniffling. I considered leaving and coming back another night, but
I stayed, cold as I was, in that doorway, and waited.
Around one, it began to rain. Shortly after that, Angelica walked out
the door and into the alley. Anyone who had seen her strip would have
been hard-pressed to recognize her in the denim skirt and jacket she
wore. Her hair was pinned up and a small purse hung from her left shoulder,
but as she passed beneath the lamp that hung just over the doorway,
I could see that same empty expression on her face. She walked towards
the north end of the alley, away from me, and I followed. She turned
right onto Ashland Street and went eleven blocks, into the cardboard
factory district. The rain was pouring down. Lighting bolts tore across
the sky and illuminated the almost deserted streets. I followed a block
or two behind her, just far enough to keep her in view, but as I trudged
through the rain-slicked streets, I couldn't shake the feeling that
I was being followed. Every so often, a dark-hued car would roll past
me, continue for a block or two, then turn and disappear. I couldn’t
be sure, but it seemed to be the same car each time. But by the time
Angelica turned left at Mills Street, the car had vanished. I followed
her another six blocks, to the very edge of town, where she went into
a church. There was no sign outside indicating the denomination. My
jacket was soaked through, and I was shivering all over, so I welcomed
getting out of the rain, but I circled the building first to make sure
she wasn't trying to give me the slip. There were only two exits, one
in the very back, which was locked, and the main entrance. After waiting
a few minutes, I stepped inside.
It was a church just like any other, with vaulted ceilings, pews, hymnals,
stained glass windows, an altar covered with white cloth, a baptismal
font, confessionals, and a tabernacle. A monstrance, turned sideways
and surrounded by unlit white candles, stood on the altar. The thick,
smoky scent of incense hung in the air. A flash of lighting, filtered
through the colored glass of the windows, cast long shadows from the
numerous pillars, crosses, and statues.
I couldn't see Angelica from the back, so I moved closer to the altar,
my wet shoes squeaking against the smooth tile floor. If she didn't
know she was being followed, she at least knew she was not alone. Another
flash of lighting came, and I could make out her profile seated near
the front, her head bowed in prayer. I walked to the pew behind her
and sat down. We sat there for a long time in silence. She never moved
or gave any indication that she knew I was there. Finally, I leaned
forward. "Angelica," I whispered. Nothing. "Angelica."
Still nothing. "Angelica, your father sent me." Something
was wrong, and even as I reached out to touch her shoulder, I knew what
it was.
I turned her head towards me and saw a smoking hole in her forehead.
A small amount of blood had trickled down into her right eye. But her
expression was still blank, her eyes empty. Her mouth was not twisted
with shock or fear.
There was a sharp hiss, and the back of the pew exploded into splinters.
I threw myself to the floor. Another shot caught the cushion of the
kneeler less than a foot from my face. Rapid footsteps retreated. I
crawled to the opposite end of the pew and down the side aisle, moving
as quickly and quietly as I could. One of the doors at the main entrance
opened. I leapt to my feet and ran outside, realizing too late my error.
It felt like someone punched me hard in the shoulder. My entire arm
burned, my vision blurred, and I collapsed to the wet cement. Somewhere
far away, I heard a voice say, "Thank you."
|
|
