by Jason Mather
“Two for two,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“The baggage lady and the chauffeur. You seem to enjoy making them uncomfortable.”
“Women are not supposed to be in charge here. Any form of female assurance and confidence is strongly discouraged. This is one of the last bastions of ancient idiocy. I hate everything about this place.”
“Haven’t seen much worth liking yet.”
“You won’t. This place is what happens when archaic morality overpowers common sense, not the least of which is the continued state and church encouragement to breed out of control.”
“How can they fit them all? There’s no more room.”
“Most of the buildings here extend down into the ground further than they do up. The tenements extend downward for miles, with poorer and poorer families continuing to dig the holes deeper. The federal government has held them to their initial square mileage, same as any other city-state.”
“So, they’re cave dwellers?”
“Yes.”
Hans could see where the rumors of cannibalism had come from. To apply for city-state status, a city had to prove that it could provide for its current populace without expanding its borders. Once it was accepted it could not extend its limits. This was why Denver had invested so heavily in its massive vertical farms and enacted strict birth rate controls. In the few moments Hans had observed any part of Salt Lake’s external structures he had seen some large buildings, but nothing like the mile-high towers in Denver. Still, if they were housing everyone underground there could be giant farms on the outskirts. The alternative was gruesome, the Eloi eating the Morlocks.
“You think they’ll pull over somewhere so I can get a pack of cigarettes?”
“There’s no smoking here.”
“In the car?”
“In the city.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“No. No smoking. No drinking. No mind-altering substances of any kind.”
“I thought cigarettes were one of their main exports?”
“They’re perfectly happy to sell vices to others, just not partake. At least not out in the open.”
“Something you know for a fact.”
“There will always be a market for vices, Hans. In places like this the price only goes up.”
“You make a lot of money here?”
“No. I refuse to bankroll this failed travesty.”
“Y’know something, Yana, for a criminal you got a lot of strange hang-ups.”
“Some would call them ethics,” she subtly bridled at his familiarization of her name, but let it pass.
“Only those who don’t know you’re one of the bad guys.”
“Bad girl. I will never be one of the guys, particularly not here.”
Hans had heard about the state of women here. Polygamy, state-sanctioned prostitution, girls married as early as ten or eleven. Not even countries like India and China did that kind of thing anymore. Women were property here, second to even the lowliest man. Yet the city had no legal way to keep them here, at least officially. Despite this, people of any gender leaving Salt Lake were few and far between. A cult of personality overriding common sense. Membership as a city-state required adherence to the human rights documents drafted as an addendum to the original constitution. No state had the right to restrict rights the way they were here, but religious groups were in a different category all together. Fear of divine punishment was at least as effective as civil threats.
The car continued its slow progression. Hans could faintly hear its horn, honking regularly. Probably clearing away pedestrians.
“Have you ever met this guy Brigham before?”
“No.”
“No dealings with him.”
“He and I have been in a state of aggression for the last year or so. He’s taken an interest in opening up business in Denver. I cannot abide that.”
“That where you and Grit met up?”
“Yes, we had a common interest in keeping him out.”
“Enemy of my enemy and all that?”
“Exactly.”
Hans had been doing his best to keep the questions to a minimum, though the atmosphere between them had lightened a bit since they arrived. A united front against massive insanity. He had enjoyed helping her annoy the drivers by playing the servant. She may have taken it a bit more seriously than that. Still, he’d come to her almost literally baring his neck, and she’d spared it. Maybe she thought she owned him now and could treat him like a pet, though that was probably being a bit disingenuous on his part. Still, too many things sat between them for trust to exist, not the least of which being that she had played some sort of horrible prank on him last night. If she thought pretending to save his life from whatever that neutered thing was meant he owed her something she’d be in for a surprise. Whether or not she was actually ignorant of his other visitor was harder to decipher. Either she was in on setting him up for what was about to happen, or her benefactor was working a different angle.
Either way it didn’t bode well for his continued survival. He didn’t think anyone really expected him to leave Salt Lake alive. He had other plans.
CHAPTER 5
The limo canted downward slightly, headed down a ramp. A couple of turns, down another ramp, then the car’s engine ceased its quiet rumble. Doors opening at the front, closing again. Onyx waited calmly for the doors to open. Hans tried to follow her lead.
The doors didn’t open. Instead the floor beneath the car began to rise.
“The guy has an elevator for his car?”
“Ground level is for peasants. Height is hierarchy here.”
“Let’s hope he’s not short then.”
When the car finally came to a halt the men who opened the door bore no resemblance to the dress code out on the street. Three-piece suits in tweeds and linens, leather shoes, immaculately coifed hair. Still looked like thugs, though.
A pair of giant hands reached in and removed him bodily from the seat. The man placed him, off-balance, on a marble floor and turned to extend a hand to Onyx. She gave him a look that could melt the floor. He rescinded the offer.
The garage, if one could call it that, was decked out like the Sistine Chapel, with every surface covered with ornamentation, painting, and sculpture, all in a style that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Renaissance, though Hans was no expert. The whole place was dimly lit by ancient incandescents.
A small fleet of limos exactly like the one they had arrived in extended down the corridor, jet-black modernity sitting anachronistically in the middle of the room. There were no windows to break the oppressive atmosphere. Luxury was not seeing outside to the travesty on the streets.
Thug One gestured for them to follow. Onyx moved in front and followed, Hans behind, Thug Two taking up the rear. These guys needed numbered nametags. They moved through a heavy wooden door and into another massive hallway, a near duplicate of the garage. Whereas Onyx’s headquarters had been a statement of sparse, modern elegance, this place was designed to cow its visitors under the weight of overwhelming gaudiness. Upon closer inspections, the walls showed their true tackiness. It was not merely Renaissance ornamentation, but a great, incomprehensible mess of styles and ornamentation and copies of significant works of art, any era, any style, as long as it fit the available space. Numerous shoddy recreations of Greek sculpture, modern abstracts, paintings of nude debutantes toe to toe, splashes of all styles. No wonder the place was lit so dimly; it could never have held up under real light. It was a cheap movie set trying to emulate greatness, hoping the audience would not pay too much attention to the backdrop.
The hall they moved into next nearly dwarfed the massive figure standing next to its great gothic fireplace. High ceilings arched thirty feet above the floor, pillars connecting them to the ground, with giant tapestries covering stone walls. Windows along both walls stretched nearly their full height, yet the view was peculiar. Beyond the glass was not the massive di
rty sea of Salt Lake’s humanity, but a view more akin to the Scottish Highlands. There was an ocean stretching below craggy rock cliffs, mossy hills extending into mist.
“He’s built himself a throne room,” Hans muttered under his breath, the comment for Onyx only.
“It’s a perfect room for a tyrant.”
The man himself did not disappoint. A mountain of tweed and leather, nearly wide as he was tall, posing stiffly in front of his fireplace for effect, turning casually, faking warm surprise and a friendly smile, propelling his bulk toward them, hands extended. He moved first toward Hans, standing more than a head taller.
“Welcome,” he said, his meaty mitt swallowing Hans’ hand, slapping him on the back with other, jowls vibrating. “You are Hans?” He hadn’t even looked in Onyx’s direction.
Hans took a step back, reclaiming his hand from the fleshy cave. “I’m the help.” He gestured toward Onyx, enjoyed watching Brigham’s false smile crumble slightly before altering again into its grotesque imitation of warmth.
Brigham shifted to take in Onyx, beady eyes now decidedly predatory, disapproving. Onyx was unmoved.
“Surely I will not be expected to deal with a woman in such important matters as this?” The comment was still directed at Hans.
“Fraid so, Mr. Brigham, I’m just the muscle.”
Onyx sniffed quietly. Brigham forced a nod in her direction, did not extend a hand, and instead left them nervously fluttering over his vested gut.
“Mrs.… Onyx?”
“Just Onyx.”
“Sorry?”
“Just Onyx, no Mrs.”
“Ms. then?”
“Just Onyx.”
Brigham noticed his loose hands, pushed them into expansive pockets, retrieved a blinding white handkerchief, and wiped his brow. He retreated to one of the great windows with its impressively fake view. He probably thought he struck a dashing silhouette.
“Well, Onyx, Hans.”
“Mr. Ricker.” Hans couldn’t help adding to his discomfort.
“Onyx, Mr. Ricker, my men will show you to your rooms.”
“That won’t be necessary, Brigham,” Onyx’s voice was dark, lethal. “We came here on business. I would prefer it ended quickly.”
“Surely you would prefer to freshen up, make yourself pretty, have a good meal.” His smile had returned.
“Not really. What I would prefer is to have my property back in my hands.”
“Your property, I hardly think…”
“Yes, Mr. Brigham, mine. I came here for an exchange. Where is my property?”
“A discussion for this evening, after a meal and a drink.” His voice did not sound warm anymore. “My men will escort you.” The two thugs moved to either side of Onyx, each placing a hand on her shoulder.
Hans didn’t see what happened next, as he was looking out one of the windows, noticing that there were actually sheep moving around on the hillside. He heard a soft crack followed by scuffling feet, a sharp intake of breath, an insistent grunt, a yell as a body hit the ground. All this in the time it took him to turn and glance back at her.
One of the thugs was lying on the ground, holding his knee and cradling a hand against his chest; two fingers were broken. The other thug had backed up against a nearby pillar, scrabbling at his throat and unsuccessfully trying to draw breath. Onyx stood where she had before, legs slightly farther apart, arms across her chest, one hand holding the frighteningly sharp black blade.
“Bitch.” Brigham sounded petulant, childish. “I can have twenty men here in thirty seconds.”
The knife whisked across the room and buried itself in the window next to Brigham’s head, shorting out the screen, ruining the view. “But can you get them here before I bury the next one in your fat face, Mr. Brigham?”
Brigham reached out, grasped the blade, and gave it a tug. It stayed in the screen.
“Please, Ms.… Onyx, just Onyx, you must give me time to retrieve the item. I do not keep it on the premises. It’s too dangerous. If you would be willing to partake of my hospitality for a short time, then join me for dinner, we can make this go much more smoothly.” He wiped his forehead, now glistening brightly.
Onyx stood for a moment, considering. “All right, Brigham, but I have ground rules.”
Brigham raised his eyebrows.
“One, the next person that lays a hand on me loses considerably more than a couple fingers. Two, I am in charge here, no matter what your primitive pubescent mind considers proper. You speak to me as an equal. Three, do not think that because I came here seemingly alone that I have no backup. Any bullshit from you and I’ll bring this building down around your ears.”
Hans would say this for him, Brigham regained his composure quickly. Already the warm, avuncular smile was back on his face. He folded his arms across his belly, cocked his head slightly.
“Very well, Onyx. Your conditions shall be followed. Now, if you please, I have other business to attend to. I humbly request you avail yourselves of my considerable hospitalities. I have prepared a pair of suites for you. If you would be willing to retire to them for the time being I will handle my previous commitments and we can finish this despicable business quickly.”
“Fine. I don’t want to wait too long, Brigham, and don’t send me any of your special luxuries.”
— «» —
There was a naked girl in Hans’ bed.
They’d separated him from Onyx and walked her off in another direction, four men following her at a distance as she clicked down the marble hallway.
The room was an explosion of crass ornamentation. The decorator, unable to decide which culture contained the gaudiest schemes, had turned the room into an eye-bleaching mixtape of brightly colored sashes, pillows, gauze, stripes, dots, and paisleys. The front room held a small table, a loveseat, a wingback chair, and a viewscreen that took up the entire wall. The back was a sultan’s harem, pillows strewn everywhere, the circular bed taking center stage, raised on a pedestal.
The girl was sitting up on her knees, sheet pulled up over her breasts, posing how she had probably been told men liked.
“This your room?” he asked her.
“No.” She was trying to sound sultry, wasn’t succeeding. “It’s yours, I’m a luxury.”
“Luxury, that your name?”
“No, I come with the room.”
“So, what, you’re a prostitute?”
“I am here to satisfy your needs.”
“Sex?”
“If that’s what you want.” It would have been more seductive if she hadn’t sounded so scared.
Hans walked through the doorway, leaned against the wall.
“How old are you?”
“Old enough.”
“What is old enough in this place? Eighteen? Sixteen? Ten?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where are your parents?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s not a hard question.”
Hans walked over to a large closet door and opened it to reveal a cornucopia of tired sex clichés. Harem girl, schoolgirl, cheerleader, even a nun’s habit. He riffled through, looking for something for the girl. He found a terrycloth robe, dusty and unused, shook it out a little.
“Do you have any normal clothes?”
“I can wear whatever you wish me to.”
He threw the robe at her.
“Put that on, I’ll turn around. Let me know when you’re decent.”
She had no response, confused by his lack of interest. He heard her shuffle off the bed and into the robe. He turned around, realizing too late she’d left it open in front. Hans put his head down, told her to tie it shut.
“You don’t like what you see?”
“Tie the damn robe!”
She closed it, pouted at him, gave the belt a sharp tug, and stood staring with her arms across her chest. Hans returned to the front room, flopped on the loveseat, feet up on the side. He was exhausted. His body
was nearly recovered, but it had been a strange day and now he’d been imprisoned in this wonderful slice of hell. He didn’t know if this would be his final resting place, but they’d locked the door behind him and he didn’t see another exit.
The girl stood in the doorway, unsure of what to make of him.
“You got a cigarette?”
“Cigarettes aren’t allowed.”
“What about a beer?”
“Alcohol isn’t allowed.”
“Cigarettes aren’t allowed, beer isn’t allowed, but it’s OK to fuck a ten-year-old on a bed where the sultan threw up. What kind of screwed up place is this?”
“I’m not ten.”
“Eleven, forgive me.”
“I’m twelve.”
Hans didn’t respond, pulled a bright blue pillow under his head.
“Do you have anything to drink?”
“I can get you some soda or fruit juice, maybe some milk.” Her lip trembled. Way to go Hans, the terror of young prostitutes everywhere. He tried again.
“Can I have a glass of water… please?”
She frowned at him and walked back into the bedroom. He heard her talking softly, requesting water from somewhere. She returned to stand in the doorway, staring at him, trying to start a sentence. Minutes passed.
There was a soft bing and she went to the door, retrieved a small silver tray with a single glass and a carafe of water. She placed it on the table next to him and returned to her place by the doorway.
“Will you sit down or something?”
“I’m not allowed to sit in here.”
“You’re shitting me?”
“No.”
“Look, you have to do what I want right?”
“Yes.”
“Sit down. It’s an order.”
She paused for a second. He gestured angrily to the large wingback chair across from him. She took the seat. Hans sat upright to face her, poured some water in the glass. The carafe was heavy, real glass, maybe crystal. He looked at her, small tears running down her face. The Big Bad Wolf had scared poor Little Red. What an asshole he was.