There it was, the ugly truth of it all. It all made a terrible sense, one that Franco punctuated with his tone. ‘And Juniper knows this criminal. All the history that comes with him. The sheriff has been keeping eyes on you, and by extension, us. Because of your involvement with that man, we’re stuck here. Because of you, everything we have done is at risk.’
‘You just don’t understand.’ Misu sighed tearfully.
‘Try me,’ Franco demanded, his voice rising in anger. ‘In fact, Misu, why don’t you finally come clean? I never took you to be one who turned to deception, but seeing as there’s a great deal of people here who you decided to screw over, I think you need to spill as to what it actually took.’
If that’s what it would take, Misu decided to talk.
* * *
She gripped on to the filthy sink as if it were her only anchor to a sensible world, a place where decisions weren’t steeped in regret and where her conscience didn’t berate her for being disgusting. It continued to jabber away, unloading all manner of insults regarding her behaviour. They were right of course but this made them no less stinging.
Misu hung herself over the sink – a filthy sink in a filthy backstage cubicle barely bigger than herself. It was one of an identical strip that ran the length of the wall, illuminated sparely with gas lamps, which shadows wrestled against. Before her lay the usual tools of the trade, some hers, some the property of others: make-up, cigarettes, a half-empty tumbler of water, a completely empty glass of vodka with a lipstick-painted rim, nail file, perfumes, and a heaving tip jar.
She dully spied the jar and attempted the mental arithmetic to deduce how much it contained. It wouldn’t be enough to go on the run with, not by a long shot, though it was not an untidy sum. It was dirty money sure, but no matter the conditions under which it was earned, she would spend it like it was made decently.
Again she stared back at the mirror. A falseness gazed back with dead eyes and sullen lips, moving this way and that thanks to the bevy of drinks needed to be at peace with her work.
And her employer.
Misu carefully applied mascara to her lashes, willing her hand steady for just a moment to get the job done.
The reflection mocked her with a sly giggle.
‘Silly, stupid girl,’ it whispered, ‘you’re a rabbit in a foxes’ den.’
Ignoring it, she traced a rose shade of lipstick over her lips, pressing them together to ensure coverage before it slipped from her fingers and skimmed around the dry sink. She glanced up to her accuser.
‘Do tell me what concord you have made to ensure you are free of their jaws? For foxes are the hungriest of creatures and rabbits are the tastiest of things. How did you manage to outrun the fox? Tell me.’
Misu knew it was the drink talking – that much was for certain. Or was she? Maybe she was going mad with this preposterous juggling act. Next she grasped the ornate perfume bottle and squeezed a couple of puffs on her skin. It was considerably pungent, not her choice of course.
‘Tell me,’ the reflection demanded more sternly as it banged against its prison. Misu jumped in alarm. She hesitated for a moment before reaching for the powder, dabbing it onto her cheeks. The reflection turned from snarl to smile.
‘Oh I forgot. You didn’t need to outrun the fox, did you? You just had to outrun everyone else.’
Misu clenched her free fist into a ball, the nails biting into her skin. Simply ignoring her conscience wasn’t working. Not this time.
‘How easy it was to trade their lives for yours?’
With a clatter, the powder brush was slammed down, wood striking wood – enough to draw the attention of anybody present. But there was nobody. Her anger was enough to warrant throwing a punch at the mirror, enough for her to scream and shriek and spit her justifications but there was nobody to justify them to.
‘Misu!’ someone called aloud, searching for the woman in urgency. ‘Misu, where in tarnation are you hiding this time? Get out here now!’
She said nothing and checked her appearance for any faults. It was as flawless as ever, from the outset at least, dare anyone brush aside the reams of make-up that she used as a cover.
The reflection watched silently as from behind the trolleys of costumes and props, a flush-faced man searched the dressing room. Eventually he noticed the woman who made no effort to make herself apparent. He paced the floor in his impeccable grey shoes, which matched the ashen lounge suit and the tie that was pinned to his stocky frame.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Putting up my hair,’ Misu replied, slowly easing a pair of lacquered sticks into the inky curl-dripping bun. Her lack of urgency was downright frustrating, she knew. It was only now that she noticed the music playing from outside, the slow drone of a lone trumpet that was soon accompanied with others in its family.
‘I’m getting plenty tired of having to chase you around this joint,’ he grumbled. ‘Now get the hell out there before I drag you out myself.’
Misu sighed and waved a hand in dismissal.
The mirror copied this perfectly.
‘You wouldn’t dare touch me, you stupid little cretin.’
He puffed his cheeks out in annoyance, much like a fish would. ‘Give me one good reason –’ he began but was immediately interrupted.
‘Because you and I both know that Wilheim would break your fingers.’ Misu examined her eyes, batting her lashes over and over. ‘Then your hands. Then your arms. Then your legs. And every other little piece of you that wasn’t busted, he would set upon, simply to ensure that you understood that I am not like any of the women beneath him. Now get away because you bore me.’
With another beat of the lashes, Misu adorned herself with a fake smile. It had been worn for as long as she could remember, a staple of her trade and her most treasured gimmick. The illusion was now complete. Skin resembled porcelain, her eyes subdued like steady rivers.
He folded his arms, meeting her forked tongue with his own. ‘Then you can answer to Mister Fort himself. He’s been asking for you personally. Don’t think that these little attention-seeking displays haven’t gone unnoticed. Some day he will tire of your silly ways and get rid of you. You’re not special. You’re not unique. You’re just another under his employ who he will brush aside when he finds you of no use.’
Misu rose from her stool and checked her dress for any marks or imperfections. There were none. There never were. She took to the floor in her heels and made her way out.
‘Best you accompany me then, little man.’ Her heels clicked across the floorboards though she checked the mirror one last time on her exit.
The visage had moved for a better view of her other, decorated with an oh-so-amused smile.
‘Run along now little rabbit,’ the reflection mocked with a parting wave, ‘the foxes need to feed.’
* * *
The Lavender Club was an exotic establishment where people of all backgrounds could congregate and let their hair down after a hard day’s toil. From the outside the club resembled a place of revelry no different to any other in the city. Through its doors, though, it was quite a different tale. Close to its entrance the bar was regularly heaving – seeing that the drink was cheap, the crowd was mostly made up of labourers who craved more booze for their buck. They formed a rowdy throng running from the entrance, past the public bar, all the way to the steps down into the first tier – but then no further.
The first tier had a number of long and round tables, favourites of those who frequented the club and performed their dealings audaciously out in the open. Wilheim’s club accommodated those of a criminal nature as long as they had sworn loyalty and paid tribute. These were the moneymen, the ringleaders, the gang runners of Windberg, who underpinned Wilheim’s shady dealings. They enforced his power. They were the fingers of his reach. As drinks were poured, deals were made, and dangerous strategies were discussed. It was a hive of the dangerous. It was, for
Wilheim, perfect.
The second tier led down to the open floor space before the stage. Star-covered black curtains flanked the stage itself, illuminated by a bevy of lights at its lip. Normally this would be accessible to the thugs and the terrible, but not tonight. Tonight was the weekly performance that was enforced with strict rules and even stricter muscle. Nobody would dare misbehave, nor speak about what they had seen. Everybody was familiar with the routine. Everyone was acquainted with the threats. One could venture past the burly men who flanked the stairways to the second tier only if you were part of Wilheim’s special clientele.
These mighty individuals were welcomed personally upon their arrival, with a shake of the hand and hearty conversation as only Wilheim could offer. They consisted of men and occasionally women across the entirety of Windberg’s elite spectrum. Politicians, businessmen, and titans of new industries were in their midst: the wielders of power and substantial monies. The assembly settled in large, leather-backed seats, accompanied by a table, paperwork, and anything else they so desired. The finest smokeables were on hand and indulged in – as was the private bar, which was always liberally used. Each of the men was adorned with a woman who spoke with wisdom, laughed at his humour, and advised on dark matters that none should be advised on at all. These clients watched the stage intently with their collaborators, with the exception of one who was devoid of such company.
Misu strolled from a side entrance out into the smoky haze. She walked with swagger and confidence, relieving a passing serving girl of two filled tumblers without a break in pace. The house band had begun their set, with brass and string melded in energetic harmonies. Though late, a lonesome man acknowledged her entrance. He watched her approach, fold her bare legs across the side of his seat, and plant her behind on the leather.
‘Drink?’ she offered, beckoning with one of the glasses.
‘I am quite comfortable, thank you,’ came the reply as he turned back to the stage and its matters.
‘Suit yourself. More for me,’ Misu exclaimed. She drained the first of the drinks with one almighty mouthful, drawing the glassware only when she saw her eyes at its base. The other was held on to, the brown sour mash stirred daintily with a fingertip.
The man, heavily built and imposing, was by no means blessed with handsomeness but was still agreeable to look upon. His thick black hair, roughly swept back, would have matched Misu’s own if it wasn’t littered with small blazes of white at the temples. His jowls were just large enough to be pronounced, giving the impression that a frown was worn much more often than anything else. Judging from his hands, hefty and showing the scars of labour, Misu assumed that this was an individual quite at ease about getting his hands dirty. She licked her finger to cleanse it of drink.
‘Quite the display tonight, wouldn’t you agree? Mister Fort has truly outdone himself,’ she said, taking in the stage performance. Misu was right. It was.
But for all the wrong reasons.
A buck of the hips. A stamp of a heel. A toss of the head. The pout of lips. Serving alongside the music pranced a cacophony of women, impeccably dressed in their own unique style. Tassels hung down bare thighs, shaken suggestively as each woman rocked with her arms held high, like candle smoke dancing in the ghost of a breeze. Sequins and silks clung to skin, some more revealing than others, parading their femininity like cattle at market. Blonde curls were tossed side to side. Sweat wetted brows. Cleavage was pressed. Buttocks presented. Bodies pushed against one another, lingering at times, detaching immediately at others. It was a cauldron of burlesque, with twisting bodies contorting in performance, moving to the music the way they had practised time and time again.
Those of importance took in this recital with silent depravity.
Each participant on the boards was cold-eyed, gazing past every feasting patron as if they simply didn’t exist while they danced.
To them, they may as well not.
For everyone on stage, eyes were set upon the only individual whose opinion mattered, past the guests and into the private booth that housed the club’s owner.
A unison of gasps from frozen poses signified the end of this particular performance, a respite for these first players before a second batch took over.
Wilheim Fort slammed his hands together in applause, showing what most would take to be considerable pride in those who worked so hard under his roof. It wasn’t pride of course. It was nothing resembling that feeling, but as long as the pretence was there, everyone else fell into line. Others joined in with clapping, quite appreciative as to what they had the pleasure of witnessing.
Fort unbuttoned his rust suit jacket, revealing a pale white shirt barely restraining the folds of his neck and the bulge of his gut, which shook with every strike. The first of the night’s purchases was made by a bespectacled gentleman who approached him, quite keen to rush a transaction. Money was paid. Contracts signed. Promises made. Property exchanged.
Misu watched patiently for her time to speak, observing the man next to her taking in everything before him, entranced. It was a feast for the eyes and when he had digested the new bodies on display, she engaged with him once again.
‘Marvellous are they not? Every one a peach. Mister Fort is quite the collector. Only the best come through his doors, even some fair-haired beauties from the grasslands up north.’ Misu sipped at her drink. ‘My yes, quite a breathtaking assortment, though he is willing to let these particular ones go, at a price of course.’
‘Have they outdone their usefulness? Whatever would I need with tarnished goods?’ He gave a snort.
‘Not in the slightest. Mister Fort has plenty of those willing to perform entertainment in every capacity. Immense talents as you can see – nothing but supreme quality. He doesn’t offer them dismissively. He’s giving you a chance to take home finery, to have them perform in your own establishments, knowing full well that they are the best.’ Misu purred, ‘I assure you, dear. They are the best.’
‘You’re not like the others here, are you?’ he deduced. ‘You’ve not even told me your name.’ He assessed the body language of the other benefactors sitting nearby. The women were half draped, some with hands roving to coax sales by dubious means. By comparison Misu seemed less enthused, which provoked some curiosity.
Misu’s lips parted in a smile and she ran her tongue over perfect teeth.
‘Do you want me to lie to you about what we do here? Maybe roll in your lap like some obedient pet? Could I secure your business with hot kisses, appeal to those baser instincts all men succumb to? The answer is, of course, no. That is not how the deal is to be done. You’re a man of good stature, meaning that you have experience of the transparency of others. To give you falsehoods would be a waste of my time and yours. All this you see here, I have no stake in. I take no money when it’s exchanged. I’m just here to broker any sales. Would my name even matter?’
Misu drank again, slower this time, while he watched silently. ‘And that way you know that I have no interest in deception and all decisions will be your own. I can fetch you one of these silly girls who cavort for attention if that is your preference?’
He reached for a cigar on the table before him and cracked a flame from a match. After a series of testing puffs, he rasped, ‘I think you could stay.’
‘Good decision.’
The bodies vied for attention before them.
‘Let’s say I’m interested. Elaborate on that one there.’ He pointed to a girl with baby-doll features and long legs, whose flurries of kicks sent her gold sequined dress to shimmer this way and that. Misu curled her mouth in agreement.
‘Ooh, Quinn. Decent eye you have. As you can see, she dances like a bird in the rain. She’s feisty, though like all wild things, she is made to be tamed. Sure one could be content with a horse that obeys your command but where’s the fun in that? Life is about challenge. It took a while for her to fall into the way of things, a significant amount of convincing. Now she’s
aflame with spirit, agreeable, but might be prone to more emotional displays. Put that one in front of punters and I assure you, wallets will be opened as much as mouths.’
Misu’s companion tossed his head back in delight and erupted with a deep belly laugh. He clearly found Misu’s candour refreshing.
‘And that one?’
‘Gypsy Dame.’ Misu tipped her glass to the performer. ‘She’s half settler as you can see from the skin. Now if you’re one of those types who has plenty of mill folk she would be an ideal take. I don’t know how she does it, but the way she sings is delightful, really. Seems to placate any of the more troublesome people though riling the blood in the romantics if you get my meaning. Why, just last week she had no less than three propositions of marriage. Not that these were seriously considered, mind. The poor thing is wed to her work.’
‘Such a shame.’
‘Agreed. What she needs is a nice place to call home. The Lavender Club really isn’t the place for her gifts. If you can provide that, then she’s a fine addition.’
‘Who is that one?’ he continued, gesturing one last time.
Misu’s eyes flickered, watching the sauntering figure clad in black lace and long tassels. The woman rolled her body before hanging her head back in profile. Unlike the others, this one caused a momentary hesitation. Misu knew full well who this was and every facet about her.
‘That is Corinne. She’s what we call a desert flower. A rarity. One of a kind. Corinne joined us hearing that she could make her fortune in Windberg with dance. Now, looking closely, you can see here that all these frisky movements are quick. There’s no thinking there. That’s ’cause it’s in her blood. That’s not learned; all you’re seeing is one hundred per cent natural talent. If you’ve got room for someone who can do that, she’ll bring in coin faster than she can drum the boards.’
Corinne suddenly locked eyes with Misu, causing the pair to exchange the briefest of smiles. More than that, she was the only damn one Misu could call a friend in this entire joint. Drinks were shared between, frank and honest conversation about dreams or the lack thereof. Wilheim claimed all things of a person and their fancies were no different. Corinne had a very peculiar skill, having learnt to throw her voice from a young age, useless on all accounts but still considerably charming. Surrounded by persistent malice as they were at Wilheim’s, good company was a scarcity. If it wasn’t for Corinne’s, there was no telling what desperate acts Misu might have resorted to.
Den of Shadows Page 18