by Ruth Vincent
I stared at her blankly. Fashion was not my forte.
“Um . . . this?” I said, gesturing to the jeans and black T-shirt I’d changed into after the interview.
Eva shook her head in disapproval.
“Come with me.”
“Eva . . .” I protested.
But she grabbed my hand and led me towards her bedroom.
She parted the long curtain of beads that covered the door. The strands tinkled and clinked behind us. As I stepped through, I could smell the lingering sweetness from her altar on the windowsill—the scent of beeswax candles, mixed with the spice of sandalwood incense and the heady fragrance of Florida Water. Her row of resin statues stared down at us from a high shelf. There were a few fairies in the anachronistic mix of goddesses, angels and Catholic saints—I wondered what she’d think if she knew we were nothing like those pink-cheeked children with wings.
Sometimes I’d thought maybe I could tell her the truth, about me having been a fairy. Maybe Eva’s belief in magic would make her able to believe me? I watched her as she rummaged through her closet, humming an old folk song tunelessly to herself in Spanish. Maybe she would believe me . . . but probably not. No one really believed in fairies.
Eva emerged from her closet with a sound of triumph. She had tossed aside her piles of nursing school scrubs and found what appeared to be a very low-cut black dress and a pair of high-heeled boots. I eyed them both skeptically.
“Um . . . Eva, this is business . . .”
“You want to look the part, don’t you?” she countered.
Reluctantly, I agreed.
“You know I’m too flat chested to wear something like this,” I said as I slipped off my shirt and pulled the dress over my head.
“Hush. It’ll look good. And you never know—you might meet someone at this club tonight.”
I rolled my eyes, though I knew Eva couldn’t see it with the dress over my head. She had taken on my dating life, or lack thereof, like it was her pet project. Not that she was always the greatest dating role model. Personally, I didn’t have much hope. Twenty-two years in this body and human relationships were as baffling to me as ever.
I smoothed the dress over my hips and pulled on the high-heeled boots. Eva whistled, but I couldn’t see myself yet. I walked over to her full-length mirror, wobbling in my heels, and then stopped, staring at myself. I had never felt so naked wearing clothes before! The sheer black fabric stopped before I’d even fully lengthened my arm. It was slightly scandalous. And yet—as I looked at my reflection, I saw that I was smiling, involuntarily. As I turned to see the back, the skirt swirled flirtatiously around me. I blushed.
“Oh my god, you’re like the girl version of James Bond in that!” said Eva.
“You really think so?” I asked. I still wasn’t sure.
Eva smiled at me. “You’re going to rock this assignment.”
She paused.
“You sure it’s safe, right? I mean, a girl who went to this place did disappear.” Eva’s forehead wrinkled. She was worried about me.
“I had the same fear,” I said. “But I keep telling myself it’s a public place. Reggie wouldn’t have sent me on this assignment as a newbie if he thought it was dangerous, right? And I’m just there to observe. It’s not like I’m coming in to bust this guy.” I gave her a thin-lipped smile, trying to reassure her. But I was also trying to reassure myself. “I’ll keep my wits about me.”
“Write down the name and address of the club.”
I nodded.
“And text me when you get there. Then text me periodically, just so I know you’re okay. And text me when you’re headed home!”
“Yes, Mom.” I smiled at her, but I appreciated Eva’s concern. It was good to have somebody worried about me.
“I promise I’ll text you,” I told her.
I got out of the subway, clutching the little slip of paper where I had jotted down the address of the club and the name of the proprietor, which Reggie had given me. I peered at it in the halo of a lone streetlight to make sure I hadn’t gotten lost. I wasn’t familiar with this part of Brooklyn. The sound of my borrowed heels click-clacking over the sidewalk was too loud, and I was feeling self-conscious in this too-short dress. Not that anyone could see it under my bulky winter coat.
The street was dark and unusually quiet for New York City. The buildings were old and tired. A few of them had sheets of plywood nailed over the windows, the front doors decorated with scrawls of graffiti. Occasionally I heard shouts or peals of laughter from inside one of the buildings, but then the sounds faded into an eerie quiet.
I was alone on the street. Every so often a car would pass, its stereo cranked up loud, the beat vibrating in my internal organs. Then the sound petered out into the distance, and I was alone on the silent street once more.
At last I came to the door that matched the number on the little scrap of paper. This was it? This was not what I’d been expecting. The whitewashed brick building in front of me looked like a warehouse or abandoned storefront, a rusty fire escape running up the front, windows boarded up, paint peeling from the door. I double-checked the address, but it was right. I stepped closer. Then I heard the muffled sound of music coming from inside.
It wasn’t the kind of music I was expecting. It sounded like a brassy, jazzy swing band. There were lights too, flashing now and then from beneath the dark window shades. I heard a lull drone of voices and occasionally a peal of high-pitched laughter.
My stomach fluttered nervously.
Human social interactions were confusing enough when it was one-on-one; throw a whole group of humans together and add alcohol—and I had no idea what to do. I mostly sat on the sidelines at parties, an awkward observer. And those were the parties that were supposed to be “fun”—at this party I had a job to do. But maybe that would make it easier, I told myself—at least it would give me a focus. Still, I wasn’t sure. What if this “Obadiah Savage” Reggie wanted me to talk to found out I was working for a private detective? Worse, what if he thought I was an undercover cop come to arrest him? Would he be mad? Would things get ugly?
I paused on the sidewalk outside the door. I could turn back, I told myself. I could return to Reggie’s office tomorrow and say, “I can’t do this alone. I need backup.”
But it was Friday, and that would mean I couldn’t talk to Reggie till Monday, and then we probably wouldn’t have another chance to interview this guy till next weekend. I didn’t want that much time to elapse. I knew this much about missing-person cases: the more time elapsed, the less chance we had of finding Charlotte alive. Plus, it wasn’t like I was coming here to bust this man. As far as we knew, he hadn’t even done anything wrong. I was just here to observe, ask a few questions, then leave.
Get a grip on yourself, I told my fluttering stomach. You could help find this girl. You could finally stop being unemployed.
I took a deep breath. “Please let this go well,” I whispered. Then I knocked on the door with a nervous heart.
There was no answer.
Maybe my knock was too soft? The music was rather loud. I knocked again. And then I realized the door was open. Feeling foolish, I stepped inside.
A swirl of light and music and moving bodies accosted me. For a second I stepped back into the door frame, like an animal in retreat. But remembering why I was here I took a deep breath and walked forward.
The room was full of people. The walls were lined with smoky glass mirrors, framed in peeling gold, with little flickering candles beneath that multiplied their numbers even more. Everyone was dancing and talking and laughing, and the air in the room was thick with their heat. On the far side of the club was a small stage where two saxophonists, a singer and a bassist were rocking out a raucous ballad. I felt like I’d gone back in time to some sort of twenties speakeasy.
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I found a sliver of space in the crowd and perched myself there, a vantage point from which I could see both the door and the stage. I stared at the dancers, my mouth gaping open. Everyone was ridiculously good-looking, their statuesque bodies swaying in perfect rhythm to the bluesy beat. I’d never seen dancing like that. They all moved like professionals, like this was some sort of movie set, but their ease and familiarity with each other told me they couldn’t be actors. The dancers’ hips and limbs glided with a sensual grace I could only marvel at. I knew I didn’t dance like that. Was I going to have to dance in order to play the part here? My stomach did a nervous flip.
I glanced back towards the door and noticed there was a row of colored lamps hanging over the front entrance. The big glass globes looked like whale-oil lamps, fitting the old-fashioned décor; except that they flashed bright colors whenever someone walked under them. There were different colors turned on depending on who was walking through.
A sallow-cheeked girl in a blood-red cloak sauntered in; I caught a whiff of the heavy perfume she wore as the purple lamp illuminated over her head. But when a group of scruffy young men entered, laughing too loud and playfully punching each other, the light changed to white. Then a bevy of ethereal blondes passed by, and the lamps flashed an eerie emerald green.
My attention returned to the dance floor. I could see now that there were distinctly different groups and factions within the crowd, whereas before it all seemed like a big, swirling mass.
The young men who’d just entered were showing off now, breaking out hip-hop moves and manly acrobatics, egging each other on into more and more dangerous stunts. Elsewhere other cliques were emerging; the ethereal blonde girls had formed an impenetrable circle and were dancing almost in unison. The best dancers were a group of dark-haired women closest to the stage. The band had switched to a sultry tango and I watched the women’s legs in awe as they sashayed and serpentined and slipped coyly between their partners.
As I observed them all, I became aware of a few people who weren’t on the dance floor. They were hanging to the sides—some seated at the tables, some just standing by the edge of the stage, their hands jammed in their pockets, gazing longingly at the dancers. Unlike everyone else in the room, they weren’t perfectly beautiful, and their bodies were of all shapes and sizes. Instead of resembling Greek statues, they looked like ordinary folks. At least I’m not the only one. But I didn’t want to be one of the gawkers. If I was going to do this assignment, I needed to be on the inside.
I walked towards the glittering black-haired tango dancers, and then stopped. I could smell their heady perfume, so chokingly sweet and thickly floral it made me feel dizzy and faint.
“Can I help you, miss?” said a growling voice. The tone was threatening. I nearly jumped as I turned around. I hadn’t known anyone was behind me, but when I saw him, I didn’t know how I could have missed him. The man staring down at me was enormously tall and hulking, his arms like two boulders, with a rough, whiskery beard. He wasn’t bad-looking, though there was something wolfish about his eyes . . .
I remembered the name from the scrap of paper Reggie had given me.
“Obadiah Savage?” I asked.
The man grinned, showing yellowed, unusually large canine teeth. I heard him chuckle deep and low.
“Oh, I’m not Obadiah,” he said on a laugh, his voice thick with a Southern drawl, out of place in New York City. He gestured with his head to the far corner of the room. “He’s Obadiah.”
Of course he is, was all I could think as I turned to where the bouncer had pointed.
A man was standing with his back against the bar top, next to the velvet stage curtains. He was devastatingly handsome, but unlike the perfect bodies of the dancers, there was something rough about him, restless. His skin was a sun-weathered brown and there was a dark shadow of stubble along the square lines of his jaw. He leaned up against the shining marble, one hand cocked on his hip—seemingly relaxed, but I could see a tension in his muscles that reminded me of a jaguar poised to spring.
He was wearing a crisp white linen shirt, like a gentleman from days of yore, rolled up at the elbows as if braced for a fight. The material was thin, and I could see the flat planes of his chest as a shaft of stage light hit him. His dark eyes sparkled with a keen intelligence as he surveyed the room—he was taking in everything, like a director watching his play being performed.
From his body, I would have guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties, but the expression in his eyes was much older than that. It lacked innocence. It cut right through the sparkle of the party and hinted at something dark at its core.
The floater hovered just above his head.
Then Obadiah turned towards me.
I almost lost my footing as the full force of his attention landed on me, his gaze boring into my skin. He was staring right at me, not even pausing to blink. It was as if his eyes were searching me, trying to figure out who I was, what I was, what right I had to be there. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was staring—just looked straight at me with such intensity that I had to lower my eyes and turn away because I couldn’t bear it a moment longer.
The man I’d been talking to before, the bouncer, walked over to Obadiah. As he did so, he glanced back at me from over his shoulder, and I detected nervousness in his eyes. He whispered something in Obadiah’s ear. Without taking his eyes off me, Obadiah nodded.
Fear simmering in my stomach, I stepped closer, trying to hear what they were saying.
“Boss, I think it’s her. Should I . . . ?”
“No.”
“But you saw . . . !”
“I saw both.” Obadiah held up his hand for silence. “Just wait. I’ll take care of this.”
The big man stepped back, his head down, like a wolf submitting to its pack leader. Clearly Obadiah was the boss here. But what was he saying? Was the “her” they were talking about me? What had he seen?
My stomach clenched. He knows, I thought, beginning to panic. He must know you’re a P.I. Why else would Obadiah be staring at you like that?
My breath was coming faster, and I tried to slow it down, tried to think.
But how would he know? I hadn’t done anything to give myself away. All I’d done was come through the door, walk a few steps, notice the dancers. I was being paranoid, I told myself.
He knows you don’t belong here, the little voice in my head chastised me. How could you? Look at the people on the stage and then look at yourself.
Maybe he doesn’t know, I thought, trying to comfort myself, trying to get my breathing back to normal. Maybe they were talking about something else? Maybe you’re just reading way too much into a stare?
I took a deep breath, hoping for the best.
When I looked up, Obadiah had stopped staring. But then the other man turned away and Obadiah was walking towards me. My stomach fluttered as I wondered what I should do or say.
As he approached me, his manner totally changed. His full lips curled upwards into an amiable smile. I noticed the floater moved with him, following his every step, hovering just above his head. There was a slow, sensual confidence in the way he walked; almost a swagger, but more restrained. The crowd of people parted to let him through; it was obvious he owned this place in more ways than one. He walked right up to me, and I felt my heartbeat quicken as he got closer, so close I could smell him—the rich old-world scent of his cologne mixed with a darker and earthier masculine fragrance all his own.
His eyes sparkled darkly and he gave a little bow.
“I hope you will forgive me for being so rude,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. “I didn’t mean to stare at you like that. For a moment, I thought you were someone else. But I must have been mistaken. My apologies.”
He had a hint of an accent, but I couldn’t place where it was fro
m. Then I realized it wasn’t really an accent at all, just a more formal, deliberate way of speaking than I was used to.
“I’m Mabily Jones,” I said, nervously extending my hand.
“Welcome to my club, Mabily Jones.” His hand was warm as he shook mine, and he gave another little bow.
“Thank you,” I replied, trying to sound breezy and confident, like Eva would have. But inside my heart was fluttering nervously. Who was this man? Right now he seemed so nice—the perfect host—but a moment ago I’d felt genuinely afraid of him.
“So, what do you think of the party?” said Obadiah, making a sweeping gesture that seemed to encompass the whole room and everyone inside it.
“I didn’t know anything like this existed,” I replied. “I feel like I stepped back in time, or into some other world.”
He smiled at me enigmatically. “Perhaps a bit of both? But where are my manners? May I offer you a drink?”
I demurred. I was, after all, on the job.
“As you wish,” said Obadiah.
There was a pause, and I wondered if now would be a good time to say the speech I’d been preparing, to ask him about Charlotte. There was a twinkling light in his eyes, a mischievous sort of gleam, and for a moment it distracted me completely from why I’d come here. The last song had ended and the room was quiet.
Then all at once the musicians struck up again. But the music was very different now. The new song was a slow dance, the tune almost mournful, but with a sensuous rhythm. The dancers began to couple up and slowly sway, while the others took their seats and watched them enviously from the tables next to the floor.
“Would you like to dance?” Obadiah asked, with another little bow.
The question startled me. I couldn’t read the expression in his eyes. It was like he was still trying to figure me out. You and me both, I thought.
I hesitated. I wanted to say yes, but I wasn’t the greatest dancer. Slow dancing wasn’t that hard—all you had to do was sort of rock back and forth—but it always left me in perpetual fear of stepping on my partner’s toes, which had happened on more than one occasion. This human body thing . . . it didn’t always work out for me. And yet—the thought of dancing with this man, to be that close to him, skin against skin, sent a little tingle through my spine. Don’t even go there, I told myself. You have a job to do. Maybe Eva was right—maybe it had been too long since I’d been with a man. I wasn’t even able to hold my concentration in the presence of one. But then again, I needed to talk to Obadiah about the case, and slow dancing was often a good way to talk . . .