by Nairne Holtz
She climbs into the front seat. “Nice ride.”
“Thanks.” Omar presses a button and her window slides down. The air is mild and the wind feels soft against her face, portents of summer.
“Who’s having this party we’re going to?”
“Hells Angels.”
Her mouth sags open. “You’re kidding me.”
“I’m a member of the Hells Angels.”
“Were you when you knew my sister?”
“Yeah, I’ve always been a hood. When I was younger, I stole cars, ran dope, collected.”
“Collected what?”
“You know, money.”
Sam gets it. Loansharking, extortion. Wow. She feels as if she’s slipped into a different life, been enchanted.
Omar shifts gears, speeds up unnecessarily—a boy showing her what he can do with his toy. “I could smear any banger in the city back in the day. Now I just run a business.”
The car careers along a southern boulevard beside the river. The street is quiet, with only pizza delivery cars and the occasional cab passing them. Sam stares out her window at the river illuminated by street lights surrounded by fluttering moths. The river is a dusky colour barely distinguishable from the sky. She hears a rushing sound and realizes they are driving by the rapids. Earlier in the week, she hiked here through tall, shaggy wild grasses. The river surface is serene; the real pull of the current would not be felt until you were in the middle of it. Omar has the same smoothness coupled with an undertow. He’s a pimp and a gangster. Is he really taking her to a party? Did he kill her sister and is he now getting rid of her? Sam considers opening the door and hurling her body out of the car, tumbling until she lies in a heap, bruised, bloodied, and with limbs studded with gravel. Or is she overreacting? Maybe his life isn’t like a Hollywood movie. Maybe he has downtime in which he celebrates birthdays and Christmas like everyone who stays on the right side of the law. Glancing at Omar, Sam tries to imagine him eating turkey and opening a box of socks sent by a great aunt living in a nursing home, but, unbidden, another image forms—Omar strangling a crumpled elderly figure.
He gets off the highway and winds the car through a nest of suburban streets, stopping when they reach a circular driveway lined with expensive vehicles: Ferraris, Jaguars, Porsches, and Harleys. The house is a Mediterranean villa whose entrance is flanked by gigantic Ionic columns made of peach stucco—a mansion contrasting starkly with the neighbouring ranch-style homes and fir-tree-lined suburban lawns. The building is pure ego, owned by someone who doesn’t care about blending in with his surroundings. A Cafe del Mar CD drones from an open window.
Sam and Omar climb a trio of wide stone steps, and he opens the unlocked front door. They enter the villa without bothering to remove their shoes, stepping into a spacious interior that looks as if it were purchased in one ginormous shopping spree. Everything is very modern, a magazine showcase. All the rooms are painted a crisp white. The chairs in the living room are in crazy shapes while still maintaining an ergonomic yin-yang. Two couches are covered in white fur, and the cabinets and shelves are made of glass and steel. Hors d’oeuvres and wine are being served by young waiters in typical hotel attire, complete with cummerbunds. Most of the male guests are well-dressed and in their thirties, forties, and fifties with much younger girlfriends. The girlfriends have the look of professional anorexics and are clad in couture garments: a pair of pants made out of silver buckles, a blue vinyl and chiffon dress. Omar, wearing black leather pants and a neon green mesh shirt, has the appropriate rakish elan while Sam feels like riff-raff in the same black jeans and Bettie Page T-shirt she wore to the interview.
Sam nudges Omar with her elbow and murmurs, “I thought Hells Angels were a bunch of white trash bikers, not guys in Versace suits.”
“That’s just at the lower ranks. You’ll see some bikers. But you’ll find doctors here, along with lawyers, accountants, and businessmen. Lots of businessmen.” Omar places his hand on the arm of a waiter and asks him in English to bring over a Scotch and soda. The waiter swivels his head expectantly at Sam, who tells him she’s happy with any kind of imported beer. After the waiter leaves, Omar lightly punches her shoulder. “Cool tats.”
“Thank you.” Sam has everything on her arm from Bet-tie Page to the Amazon rainforest to Inuit symbols. She loves getting tattoos. According to some book she read, endangered tribes tattoo themselves. With the disappearance of both a mother and sister, Sam feels a little endangered.
“I have a tattoo.” Omar shifts his shoulder towards her. Beneath the netting of his shirt, she can make out graffiti-style words inked in black on his bicep: “Only God Can Judge Me.”
“Guess you’re not Muslim.”
The waiter returns, presenting Sam with a tray holding a bottle of beer and a glass. She picks up the bottle, leaves the glass.
Omar raises his drink in the air. “Damn straight. My mom left Egypt to get away from all that. After my father was killed in the Six Day War, my mom quit believing in God or Allah. Anyways, my tattoo is props to my man Tupac Shakur, rest in peace.”
Sam stares at him. “What do you mean?”
“ ‘Only God Can Judge Me’ is a Tupac cut.”
Sam sucks down some of her beer. Did he send her the postcard with the image of Tupac? At his office, he seemed genuinely shocked to meet her. Did someone who knows him send her the postcard as a clue to lead her to him? If she asks him any of these questions, she’s going to sound like a cop or a weirdo. Perhaps she should start by asking him whether he shared Chloe’s interest in conspiracy theories? As Sam tries to think of a casual way to steer their conversation towards presidential assassinations, a man wearing a leather jacket and leather chaps over jeans comes over. He and Omar exchange a handshake in which they bang their knuckles, then rub their thumbs together in a circle. Accompanying the man is a blonde S/M Barbie wearing a latex catsuit unzipped far enough to reveal a silver ring threaded through her navel. In the highest spike heels Sam has ever seen, the woman towers over her companion.
“How’s business?” the man in leather asks.
Omar sighs. “I’ve got clients like no tomorrow, but the Serbian girls who were working for me all took off for Miami.”
The man in leather tsks. “It’s always a cycle—you got too many clients, not enough girls, then you get the reverse. And the fads, that’s what gets me going. I put all this money into setting up a dungeon a few years ago, and you know what my clients want now?”
Omar shakes his head.
“Fur. I’ve had to order custom-made fur bodysuits. Beaver, lynx, rabbit, I got it all. I tell you, you just never know what’s going to happen in this business.”
Sam thinks she should have such problems. The leather man’s girlfriend sits on an ottoman and roots through her purse for a package of cigarettes. Her long legs are pressed together in a perfect L-shape, like a pantyhose commercial. When she brings out a cigarette, Omar takes a Zippo lighter from his pocket and flicks it on. He leans forward, cupping the flame for her. She thanks him with a saucy smile before wandering away with the man in leather.
Omar whispers, “She’s fine.”
“Her shoes look like they could be used to slaughter rats. Besides, isn’t she with the guy you were talking to?” Sam has a sudden vision of walking into a bedroom and finding Omar naked with a knife wound, his blood soaking into a white carpet.
Omar’s eyebrows shoot up. “Are you kidding me? He’s a fag.”
Sam takes a gulp of her beer only to discover the bottle is empty. The man in leather is a Leather Daddy? “There are gay men in Hells Angels?”
“Sure. They’re discreet; they bring female escorts.”
Sam remembers Omar said he would introduce her to Chloe’s roommate. “Where’s the woman I’m supposed to meet?”
“I haven’t seen her. She’s coming from work.” Omar takes his cell from his pocket, a flat silver bar. He opens it with one hand and punches a button. After a moment, he asks, “Where
you at?” Snapping the phone shut, he glances at Sam. “She’s here already, upstairs. Just wait.” He vanishes into the crowd.
Sam sets her empty bottle on the floor and sits down on the ottoman. In front of her, a widescreen TV is showing porn. Two trailer trash girls pretend to be college cheerleaders who pretend to passionately fuck each other. When one of them inserts pink talons into the other, Sam flinches and looks away from the screen. There’s plenty of action around her. A middle-aged man in brown leather is cruising a young woman in red leather. Behind Sam, a group of men are speaking in French about the rising condo market, or so she gathers since some of the words are the same in English. Meanwhile, Fetish Barbie complains in English to anyone who will listen that the ecstasy she took is making her grind her jaw.
Omar returns with a woman who doesn’t walk into the room so much as make an entrance. Eyes dart like fireflies in her direction. The woman is striking, tall and slim with breasts barely encased in a tight orange dress with a keyhole neck. A swirl of blue-black hair, dark velvet eyes, and cheekbones like cut glass also help to draw people’s attention to her. The only feature disturbing the pretty symmetry of the woman’s face is her bumpy, elongated nose. Yet she’s no haughty model. There’s a wry twist to her mouth, which both acknowledges the effect of her looks and invites people not to take her too seriously.
While Sam feels herself respond to the woman, she is careful to keep her expression blank. The best way to get a beautiful woman to pay attention to you is to pretend not to notice how beautiful she is.
The woman says, “I’m Romey.”
“I’m Sam.” She sticks out her hand. Her fingers are given a languid squeeze by a long-fingered hand whose nails are surprisingly short and free of polish.
“So, what do you think of the party?”
Sam gazes around at all the leather clothing. “This wouldn’t be the place for a membership drive for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.”
Romey rewards her with the requisite dry smile. Then she joins Sam on the ottoman and begins to unhook the laces on both of her long black boots. Sam watches the deft movement of Romey’s hands and notes the oddly masculine heaviness of her many silver rings. When she has unlaced her boots, she pivots around and places her feet before Sam. “Can you get them the rest of the way off?”
Sam quickly and efficiently tugs the left boot, then the right one, free. Although she’s never been so in thrall, she’s careful not to seem supplicating. Romey is stunning, but Sam’s desire for her is more basic, a smell she wants to put her face in. Romey wiggles her bare toes. She has perfect feet and toenails; she must see a pedicurist on a regular basis.
Romey says, “That’s better. Those boots are a bit tight.”
Omar sits down on the floor in front of them. Waves a sealed plastic bag containing white powder in front of Romey’s face. “Want a bump?”
“I really shouldn’t.” Which, Sam knows, means yes.
Omar looks around. After standing up, he grabs an empty jewel case, shakes a line of powder onto it, and cuts the dope with a newly minted fifty. He rolls the bill into a tight tube, then holds it out to Sam, who has never done coke before. She and her friends take ecstasy while the fucked-up kids at the clubs do crystal meth. Coke is an ‘80s drug, a drug that goes from your nose to your brain, which she finds creepy. She feels a hand on her shoulder.
“Want to share a line?” Romey asks.
Sam nods. They bend their heads together, sniff, and let the drug race into their bodies. Romey’s long hair tickles Sam’s cheek, and their thighs are pressed together. Sam has never met a woman who both turns her on and intimidates her. She’s not just nervous or self-conscious but anxious, like it’s all too much. She’s got this pang, a sort of panicky feeling in her chest. When she’s heard people talk about love at first sight, she thought they were idiots. How can you love someone you don’t even know? But looking at Romey, Sam thinks, you could be big. The coke kicks in. Even though she’s wide awake with her eyes flying everywhere, she feels as if she’s wrapped in cotton batten. She and Romey are sitting together on the floor with their heads on the ottoman while Omar sits across from them with his legs sprawled apart. Omar and Romey smoke du Maurier cigarettes and discuss the movies they’ve watched. Both of them rent a lot more movies than Sam would have expected. Time breathes, contracts, and expands. An hour or so goes by. Buzz of a pager.
Romey says, “Your married lady, beeper boy?”
Omar takes a pager out of his pocket, clicks a button, and reads the number on the display. “Nope, it’s my mom. She was visiting her cousin in Ottawa, and I asked her to call me as soon as she got in. I should go see how she’s doing.”
“It’s like two in the morning!”
Omar puts his pager back into his pocket. “I haven’t seen her all week.”
“You’re high.”
“I’ve just had one line. I’m fine.”
“You’re such a mama’s boy.” Romey flips onto her side so she faces Sam. “Can you believe he only moved out of his mother’s place two years ago? And then he bought a condo in the suburbs because it’s four blocks from her house.”
Omar holds both of his hands up. “It takes me ten minutes to drive downtown and my building has a gym and a pool.”
“Gee, a pool,” Romey replies sarcastically. Her breasts kiss Sam’s elbow, shooting twinges of sensation between Sam’s legs.
Omar reaches over to give Romey’s knee a pat. “Do you want a ride home?”
She does a hair-flip thing—the mark of a true girly-girl. “Of course.”
Omar turns to Sam. “Are you coming?”
Sam wonders what he imagines the alternative is. She’s out of it, she doesn’t know where she is in the city, and she hasn’t learned anything about the relationships these two had with her sister, let alone whether what the postcard alleged is true. Sam forces herself to sit up. “I didn’t even get to talk to you guys about Chloe.”
Omar and Romey exchange a parental glance, a let’s-talk-later-not-in-front-of-the-kid look. Seems as if they’re hiding something. Sam has always prided herself on holding the better hand in any interaction, on holding back, but these two are out of her league. Romey reaches for her boots and starts to put them on, this time without Sam’s help. Romey didn’t seem to need assistance the first time either. From a little pocket on the side of her left boot, which Sam didn’t notice earlier, Romey takes out a business card and hands it to Sam.
Romey says, “That’s the address of the bar where I work. If you want to get in touch, I’m there Thursdays and Fridays until late. Sometimes Saturdays.”
“Okay.” Romey works at Le Triangle d’Or, located downtown on St. Catherine Street. As Sam puts the card in her back pocket, the edge scores her finger, pricking her. She touches her tongue to the glistening bead of blood—claret laced with salt.
Omar drives back as though they were in the Indy 500. Sam is quiet, trying to take in the events of the evening like a too-rich meal. Omar puts music on, some R&B diva whose name Sam can’t remember but whose hit song she recognizes. She has so many questions she wants to ask she doesn’t know where to begin. Like, what happened between her sister and Omar? Were they together when Chloe died? What’s Romey’s story? She seems like a woman who has one. Could she have sent the postcard? Sam can’t decide what to ask, how to ask it.
Before Sam knows it, Omar parks the car in front of her apartment. She’s run out of time, but then something occurs to her. A question flies from her mouth. “How come you two weren’t at my sister’s funeral?”
Romey glances at Omar, but he looks away, checks the rear-view mirror as if someone is following him. His eyes in the mirror are a burnished brown. They remind Sam of her father’s eyes, except Omar’s are more intense—fire, not ice.
Omar says, “We didn’t find out in time to go.”
Although she can’t say why, Sam is sure he’s lying. She leans forward to scrutinize Romey, who is sitting in the front
seat. “Didn’t my father call you?”
“Chloe wasn’t living with me anymore. She moved out July 1st, quit her job,” Romey explains.
“We didn’t know where she was,” Omar says. “We thought she’d moved back to Toronto. She took her stuff back to your father’s house.”
“She did?” Everything Sam knows about her sister’s death rips open, stitches pulled from a wound. Sam inherited Chloe’s furniture, so the scenario Omar is describing could be right. Chloe could have brought her belongings back to Toronto, but, if so, she didn’t stick around. Didn’t say “hi” or “bye” to Sam. Where was Chloe between the beginning of July and the middle of August when she was found dead in a New York hotel room? Sam always assumed her sister went to New York for the weekend and bought some bad drugs. She thought Dad was the one who retrieved Chloe’s stuff. Guess not. The only thing Sam is sure of is that Omar and Romey know more than they’re saying.
Romey looks as if she feels sorry for Sam. “It was nice to meet you,” she says, a signal to Sam that it is time for her to get out of the car.
During work on the following Thursday, Sam moves like a mean machine because she can’t wait to see Romey. All week it is as if she has been carrying Romey in a tiny, unopened box, saving her up. As Sam slicks gel into her hair after her shift, she thinks of Romey lying beside her in that clingy dress. Romey’s probably not a lesbian, but that hasn’t stopped lots of women from having sex with Sam.
Shortly after midnight, Sam makes her way through downtown. The streets are filled with drunken university students who have just finished their classes—gaggles of shrieking girls wearing flared jeans and tube tops in too-cool weather, and packs of frat boys who leap on one another’s backs and break into exaggerated fisticuffs. Older tourists with Boston accents shuffle out of restaurants with Surf and Turf specials.