by J. P. Sloan
I picked up half of a tiny crystal ballerina. Its torso and one of its arms held out in a right angle dangled in my fingers. The rest of the figurine and its base were scattered along the floor.
Rolling back to sit on the ground, I sucked in a breath and swore to myself. The ballerina was a gift. A gift for Carmen.
She collected blown glass figurines. For our one year anniversary date, I was going to take her to the Lyric for a performance of Gounod’s Faust. I found the ballerina figurine at a little shop during one of my visits back to New York, and it made me think of Carmen. I was going to give it to her at the Lyric.
But we never made it to the opera. I screwed things up with Carmen the weekend before. It was ugly, and it was public. It nearly cost Carmen her job at the Club. So, the date never happened. Our anniversary was never celebrated.
I checked the stack of cardboard boxes. They were taped up and solid. I must have left the figurine sitting loose on top. Wouldn’t have surprised me, I was an emotional wreck for several weeks after that.
I felt panicky. Something about losing that figurine sent me into a surge of emotion. I swept up the glass, fighting a lump in my throat. I must have tucked it away here in the storage unit out of some kind of hope that preserving it would keep my chances with Carmen alive.
I shook my head and dumped the shards into one of my Mason jars. Broken glass had its hermetic uses, even if it failed in its romantic purpose.
After I concluded my business in the workspace, I returned home and took a blistering hot shower. I fell asleep staring at the cruise photo on my dresser. That night, I woke up twice from dreams that were so intense, so erotic, I felt like I hadn’t dreamt for years.
My mood was greatly improved the next day. I was counting the hours until I hit the Druid Hill Club. I fried myself an egg and ate it on toast, then walked to the café at the corner and had a nice long cup of coffee as the autumn clouds rolled in off the bay.
It would have been a longer cup of coffee if a walking mountain of human flesh hadn’t interrupted.
He was a tall, thick-shouldered Polynesian with a square jaw and pythons for arms. He wore a sharp business suit, which screamed sophistication about half as loud as it bellowed “thug.” He towered over me for a few seconds as I finally pulled my head out of my thoughts and looked up at his lumbering frame.
“Am I speaking to Dorian Lake?”
His voice was clean and crisp, almost intelligent. I gambled whether to answer in the affirmative, and hoped he wasn’t there to collect some debt I had forgotten about.
“That’s me. Who are you?”
“I represent a Mister Neil Osterhaus.”
I might have actually rolled my eyes.
“Really?” I examined the man’s dress and his expensive sunglasses. “Okay. Represent, my friend.”
He lifted an eyebrow from behind his sunglasses and cleared his throat.
“He would ask that, as a courtesy, you discontinue your association with a Mister Julian Bright, as he is currently a client of Mister Osterhaus.”
“Bright? This is about Bright?”
He stared at me without response.
“That’s a nice suit.”
“Thank you.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“I would very much like to return to Mister Osterhaus with your pledge that you will discontinue your association―”
“―with Mister Bright, yeah. I get the picture.” I snickered. “I can’t believe this.”
I pushed my chair back to stand up, but the man held out a flat palm at my shoulder level. I froze, watching him carefully. Discretion being the greater part of not getting my ass kicked, I decided to stay seated.
“Now,” he continued in an even tone, “what can I tell Mister Osterhaus?”
“Really? He’s strong-arming me? That bottom-feeder is trying to strong-arm me?”
His face blanched slightly. He shifted back and forth on his feet.
I shook my head at him. “Look, this is just precious. Honestly. You look like a smart enough guy, maybe even educated.”
His brow wrinkled, and he spat, “Penn State, thank you.”
“No shit? Did they have a good theater department there?”
“Excuse me?”
“Listen. You did a great job. The sunglasses were maybe a bit much. So, I don’t want to string this out too long. Go tell Osterhaus that Dorian Lake says if he has a problem with free enterprise, he can take it up with the Founding Fathers. Until then, he should go crawl back into his playhouse and let the big boys play ball. Can you do that for me?”
He stood silent for a long moment, shuffling back and forth.
“You really want me to tell him that?”
“In the worst way.”
He shrugged and nodded.
“Your call.”
The man turned and sauntered halfway down the block before he looked back at me one more time. I waved back, trying not to look like a complete smartass.
I had to give Osterhaus credit. It took balls to play the Old World Enforcer Card on a complete stranger. It took even bigger balls to push a practitioner who was clearly his superior. Losing Bright’s business must have put him in a desperate situation.
I was positively brimming with self-satisfaction for the rest of the day. I delivered hex anchors to two of my clients, then took my time choosing my outfit for the evening. By the time the sun had set, I was dressed, smelled and looked presentable, and felt oddly giddy. I had spent far too many evenings alone in my home, and far too few out with the people in my life that mattered. Typically, I didn’t consider myself to be a terribly social creature. There must have been a large part of my psyche that was slowly starving to death.
Without realizing it, hanging out with Edgar had become the highlight of my week. As I scoured my bedroom for the car keys, I glanced at the photo of Carmen and me in my room. There was a possibility that Edgar wasn’t the only person I looked forward to seeing. With any luck, she wouldn’t feel particularly hostile that evening.
As I drove out onto the expressway, I realized I hadn’t heard from Edgar yet. I gave him a call as I merged onto the Jones Falls.
Edgar answered after several rings.
“Hey, Dorian.”
“What’s up, Edgar? I’m on my way to the Club. You still good for tonight?”
After a half-second pause, I realized there was a problem.
“Yeah. So, Wren isn’t really cool with me driving out to Baltimore tonight.”
“Oh, come on. What, did you spring this on her last minute?”
“No, she just wants me to help with the kids tonight. There was a thing today, and she’s kind of tired.”
“Shit. Well, okay.”
After a series of thunderous shuffles, Edgar continued in a muted voice, “Actually, man. No. It isn’t Wren.”
“What’s up?”
“Look, I just don’t think that the Club thing is where I am right now. Know what I’m saying?”
“Not really.”
“That isn’t me. The suit-and-tie, the booze, the rich assholes. I’m kind of, well, I never was really feeling it.”
I gripped the steering wheel as a hot wave flashed through my chest.
“Are you kidding me? You’re pulling this on me now? You couldn’t call me before I’m halfway there?”
He didn’t respond, and I checked my tone.
“So, okay. You want to do something else? You still eat hamburgers?”
“Well, the kids wanted to watch a movie, and Wren’s kind of worn out.”
Defeat crashed over me, and I took in a long breath.
“All right, Edgar. I’ll see you some other time.”
“Give me a call sometime, though. Maybe we’ll do that hamburger thing.”
“Sure.”
“All right, man. Peace.”
“Yep.”
I dropped the phone onto the passenger seat and pulled off the expressway. I debated turning aro
und at the first red light. A leaden weight pressed down on me, and I felt a dreadful need for something to lift me out of the funk before it took over.
The Glenrothes would work nicely in that regard.
I pressed on until I reached the dark, arboreal Druid Hill driveway. This time there was a valet. I handed him my keys before stepping directly into the front doors.
Kim, the coat room dominatrix, was standing at her station. I had my membership card ready for her. She examined it with a squint and nodded. Not even a “welcome” or a “hey, it’s that guy.” I kept my eyes forward and stepped into the lounge, and felt a rush of relief when I found at least two dozen club members had shown up that night.
Big Ben was pouring wine, and he didn’t even notice me until I had stepped past him to the corner of the bar. It took several minutes before he could break away to fetch my Glenny, but I didn’t mind. The energy of the room was palpable. Familiar.
I sat on my bar stool perch and examined the place. Six distinct conversations spread out among the sofas and seats. Bright’s pride of yuppies was absent, as he was out of town. But I spotted a few old faces whose names I couldn’t recall.
Ben set my highball down gently beside my elbow and grunted, “Evening, Dorian.”
“Looks like there’s life in the old joint yet, Ben.”
He shrugged and grinned. “It’s a good night.”
“Is, uh, you-know-who working?”
His eyebrows drew together briefly as he poured himself a shot of soda water from the bar gun. “She called in, I think. Hell of a night for her to catch a cold.” He gestured to the conversation pits along the far wall. “Got some horny bastards tonight. Already have at least four upstairs.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah. What can you do?” Ben stared down at the bar with sad eyes. “It’s been hard for the girls these last few months.”
“No business?”
“Not that. Carmen.”
“What about her?”
“You know how she is, Dorian. She’s not good for these girls. Not like Clo. Half of them are scared out of their minds.”
“She’s a little ambitious, I suppose.”
“Vicious is what I’d call her.”
I stared up at Ben with what must have been a withering look. He stepped away quickly, avoiding eye contact. I didn’t know why I was defending Carmen. She had overcome a lot in her life, after all. Refugee parents with a mean Catholic streak. A string of abusive relationships. She had her moments, sure.
Several, once I thought about it.
After a long drag of whiskey, I managed not to think about it.
I sat in relative peace as Ben busied himself at the far end of the bar. The quiet murmur of conversation rolled over me as did the fumes of the liquor.
I couldn’t shake Edgar out of my head. My gut was in a twist over being stood up, but I couldn’t blame the man. He really was out of his element in this club. I had only taken him four times in the past, and each time he ended up sitting on his ass like a wet cat trying not to touch its fur.
At least I could have seen Carmen again. But I couldn’t. She wasn’t here. As much as I wanted to enjoy the environment, my brain wouldn’t stop moving. I kept thinking about my other client prospects. About Mayor Sullivan and his path to the White House. I wondered how long I would manage to remain involved in that man’s career until the Presidium took notice. Surely, not long enough for Bright.
But I had a contractor to pay. I had a reputation to rebuild. I had some mealy-mouthed soul monger trying to push me out of my own market.
I was completely wasting my time here.
In my reverie, I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me before a lead weight of a hand landed on my shoulder.
I spun around on my stool and found a wide-chinned eggplant in a suit glaring at me.
“You son of a bitch!”
I was getting sick of starting conversations this way.
When I had steadied my whiskey and set the glass on the bar, I countered with a brilliant, “What?”
“I thought you weren’t coming back here no more.”
“A man can’t change his mind?”
He looked like he was about to deck me for a second, and an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu crept into my frontal lobes.
“You trying to be funny?”
“And failing, apparently.” I motioned to Ben. “What’ll you have, I’ll buy. We’ll drink.”
He shook his head with a curl of his brow. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
He had me there.
“Sorry.”
“Last time we met, you punched me in the nose.”
I winced when the face finally registered in my cloudy brain.
“Shit.”
“So, you remember now?”
I did remember. His face, anyway. I couldn’t recall his name, but he was the man I jumped in front of everyone in the club because he was about to patronize Carmen.
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. I don’t suppose it’s too late for an apology?”
He squinted and shook his head. I figured it was more out of pity than a general sense of being disagreeable.
“An apology wouldn’t suck.”
“Look, I was in a real weird place then. Haven’t you ever gotten crazy jealous over something?”
“I don’t date hookers.”
“Yeah, neither do I, to be honest.”
“You still haven’t apologized.”
“I’m sorry I hit you. I’m sorry about a lot of things, actually. But that’s right up there with the biggest boneheaded move I’ve ever made in my entire life. And if it makes you feel any better, I’ve been paying for it ever since.”
He loomed in front of me for a while, shifting his weight back and forth. I didn’t think he was prepared for a real apology.
“Yeah, well,” he grumbled as he finally turned away. “You two deserve each other, anyway.”
He stomped away, leaving me with a raging headache.
Ben nudged my arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“That was the guy, huh?”
“That was the guy. You’d think I’d remember someone like him.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Ben rolled his eyes.
“Right, well. I’ll leave you to it then.”
I took another long pull of my whiskey, less to enjoy the spirit and more to finish it quicker.
Ben paused as he started dipping wine glasses in his rinse sink. “By the way, some fellow was asking about you last night.”
“Oh yeah? Who was he?”
“Didn’t catch his name. He wasn’t a regular. Someone phoned in a voucher for him.”
The club was fairly exclusive, but its owners had the right to wave in important guests. The last time I had seen that happen was when the Prince of Monaco’s nephew came to visit.
“Foreigner?”
“Definitely. Middle Eastern. Man was polished and polite. Figured you’d want a heads-up.”
“Did he leave a card or anything?”
“No. Just asked if you were here. I supposed he was one of you people.”
“Us people?”
“Spooky types.”
“Gotcha.”
Polished and polite. Middle Eastern. Had to be Al-Syriani.
So the Syrian had found the club. Lovely.
“Any idea who phoned him in?”
“I didn’t take the call, but I hear he drove up in diplomatic plates. I’m guessing it was someone from the State Department.”
Which meant the Presidium.
I was getting in deeper, and I wasn’t even trying.
“Thanks, Ben.”
I took another long sip, and left the last finger of Glenny in the glass. With a three-finger wave, I bid Ben good night and made a quick exit.
The air outside was downright brisk, and a fresh wind blew from the northwest. Leaves fluttered down from the dar
kening canopy over the porte cochere as I waited for the flummoxed valet to fetch the Audi I had just given him. I pulled my collar up and watched the clouds over the tree line.
I had worked very hard in my years in Baltimore to keep the Presidium off my ass. And now, without warning, they were cutting my best friend from the herd, and invading my private space. The more incredibly stupid part of my subconscious wanted to push back. The remainder of my subconscious, the part that still tried to run from saber tooth tigers from time to time, was screaming to duck and cover.
By the time the valet arrived with my car, I decided that my lethargy for the last couple years was burying me under a mountain of consequences which I didn’t feel were particularly justified. I drove home like a maniac. The sense of something bearing down on me was inescapable, and I could only shake it once I stepped through my door and rushed up to my bedroom.
I stared at the phone for a half hour, debating whether I should call Carmen. My better judgment prevailed, however, as the whiskey finally took hold. I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes, finally drifting to sleep without digging myself any deeper.
hen I answered the thunderous knock on my front door the following morning, the last person I expected to see huddled against the chilly morning air on my doorstep was Carmen. But there she was, without makeup, her hair pulled back under a ball cap, her eyes filled with some kind of nameless, but terrifyingly familiar dread.
“Dorian. I have to talk to you.”
I stepped aside immediately and stood limp as she brushed past me into the house. She pulled off her jacket and hung it on the coat rack. I watched her as she stepped directly into the kitchen, marveling at how easily she could slide right back into some kind of familiarity with the house she had lived in two years ago.
“What’s the matter?” I blurted as I tightened the belt to my robe and ran a hand over my hair.
She took a seat at my kitchen table and folded her arms in front of her. “I need your help.”
“I’m getting that. What kind of help?”
“Your kind of help.”
I lifted a brow and took a seat next to her. “You have my attention.”
She looked up at the ceiling and sucked in a ragged breath. Tears formed in the rims of her eyes, and I reached out to touch her hand.