Her eyes narrowed.
She stalked across the room like a caged tiger and retrieved the fire alarm from where I’d sent it flying. Then she flipped it over and cocked her head at me. Sure enough, no battery.
“You were screaming,” she repeated flatly.
She plucked a brass key from the chain at her side and drug a chair over to unlock the glass door on the bookcase. I kept my mouth shut about seeing the thing pop open. And about the pounding. She grabbed the red leather notebook, now perfectly intact, and tucked it under her arm.
“Need a place to stay?” She moved toward the open doorway. She put her fingers on the light switch, indicating I should follow her, that this wasn’t the place she had in mind.
“I think I should leave.”
“You sure? It’s storming,” she said.
“That’s all right, I’ll just—”
“It’s not safe. Nick.”
She flicked the switch and seemed to grow several inches taller. I swallowed. Then I grabbed my boots and got the hell out of there. She locked the door behind me with a key that could have cackled, and for the third time that night, I started off down an endless hallway, trailing a riddle that looked like a woman.
“You said Evilyn let you in number thirteen?”
“Well, first Rorke, and then—”
“Rorke?”
She stopped walking and whirled on me. She was so close I could smell the liquor on her breath, and I saw that her eyes were actually light gray. Painfully bloodshot and a little freaky, but distinctly gray.
“Uh, yeah. The bartender,” I said. “Pretty. Reckless. ’Bout this tall.”
“You’re the guy?” Her gaze raked slowly over every nerve from my bare feet to the matted hair hanging in my face. She stared me right in the eye and tilted her head like a curious bird.
She looked like she was thinking about laughing.
I opened my mouth to object, but she turned on her heel and continued down the hall, shaking her head a little. Then she disappeared behind one of the velvet drapes that looked just like all the other velvet drapes.
I counted. She was three drapes ahead of me. When I got to the third, I caught the faint familiar hum of a walk-in cooler. I shoved my boots on my feet, groped behind the curtain for the door and flung it open.
I gotta say, the smell of meat was a surprise.
Especially since I didn’t see any meat.
I forgot to care when I spotted the beer. The room could have been strung with assholes and antlers. All I had eyes for were the rows upon rows of steel shelving lining that magical box full of beer. The labels were flashy. The cases shined. At least half the print wasn’t in English. Drool gathered at the corner of my mouth. I was parched. But I shuffled on.
Then I spotted a gas station turkey sandwich, the kind that stands on its side in the little triangle of plastic. I thought about swiping it, but it seemed rather deliberate, sitting there without any other food. I was afraid it might be missed. Or attached to a tripwire and a pack of devil dogs.
The DJ disappeared behind a baker’s rack that was stacked with nothing but cherries and olives. She didn’t strike me as a hide-and-seek kinda gal, so I wasn’t surprised to find another door. A small brass plate said Luxes Only, and it was guarded by a tiny Betty Page with horns and a tail. I pushed the door open and watched the DJ retreating purposefully down yet another long hallway.
I’ve never been so stoked to see carpet in my life. The gray sculptured kind that looks like a black-and-white photo of earth from space. I thought about kicking off my shoes. I considered lying down in it and rolling around, but I was too busy chasing after this damn girl.
The walls were inviting. Along each side was just one long blue-black prism. I felt like we were underwater. If water were oil. I couldn’t make sense of the pattern, because it seemed to be moving. And there were no visible seams of any kind along the smooth surface, no doors that I could see. However, the DJ stopped walking and produced another key.
“This part of the building used to be a brothel. A nice one. Back in the sixties.” She did not smile. “It’s not common knowledge that we own half the block, and we’d like to keep it that way.” She pushed her key into a face and turned it.
I nodded, because I finally figured out what the hell I was looking at. There were women painted into the walls. Many dark, willowy women with locks in their eyes and slim handles set into their wrists. The one lingering closest to me looked vaguely familiar, but I could barely tell her body from the fish she curled around. She had shadows for clothing and seaweed for hair. I was pretty sure I could guess the artist.
I was also pretty sure the door winked at me.
“You’ll find everything you need,” the DJ said without entering the room. I could tell there was somewhere else she wanted to be, so I said nothing other than thank you as I stepped inside.
“My name is Ash,” she added, switching on the light.
Our eyes locked, she nodded slightly, and then she closed the door. I heard the lock tumble, followed by the fading sound of her footsteps.
At this point, I sighed and dropped my bag on the ground. Maybe I kicked off my boots. Without food, water or a clock for who knows how long, I should have been writhing on the ground, clawing at my eyes. But I felt pretty good.
The air in the room was edible. And everything was gray. Counting Crows gray, not black and _____. Not crowded with dagger-eyed pin up girls. Not foggy, not charred, not screaming or spattered with blood. Nothing but quiet shades of gray, like tumbled stones. No accent of an Ego.
There was a converted sofa along one peppery wall, topped with a blanket and pillow. Next to that, an end table, lamp and phone. I checked the gray drawer for a gray Bible, but instead I found a soft, dove-colored notebook and a pen. There were also some note cards and envelopes. I could write my own ransom note, I thought and wandered into the kitchen, humming The Cure.
A bottle of something drinkable was waiting on the counter next to a key and an envelope with my name on it. I tore it open, and I heard her voice in my head.
Welcome home, Salem…
Help yourself to everything.
If you get lonely, read The Raven.
—Rorke
I glanced around, choosing to ignore the heat in my stomach. A neat stack of books towered between the couch and the wall. Next to it, an oversized cushion, which I promptly fell upon before I started poking around. Sure enough. At the base was a tome of Poe identical to the one that nearly maimed me back in “the office.” I removed the other books, one by one. Several L.J. Smiths with the original cover design, Clan Novel: Setite, two Lenore comics and a Wiccan guide for the solitary practitioner. Once I had Poe in my hands, I realized he was lighter than he ought to be, leather-bound and gold-embossed. I lifted the cover, and it creaked like a hinge.
What I had in my hands was a stash box, folks.
Complete with cut-out center, but still partially readable if you didn’t mind that the pages were all glued together. The tasty center hid a pile of pin bones, rolled in fairy papers and smelling of licorice. Next to the stack was an unused book of matches from somewhere called Moon’s. There was a phone number on the inside, no name.
I set the faux Poe next to me on the cushion and stretched my arms to the ceiling, fully intending to spark one of those babies and kick back with a cute little dead girl. Unfortunately, I got a good whiff of myself and decided the shower was a better idea. Especially if I had a lunch date, and I intended to have a lunch date.
I took a long tug of water from the faucet, washed my hands and poured a glass of Rorke’s gift. There was a tiny radio by the sink, so I switched it on. Out tumbled “Kyoto Song,” the Cure that was already slinking around in my head. Yes, I thought it was odd. But only because most radio stations only seem to have a copy of “Friday, I’m in Love.”
I picked up my sherry and wandered into the linen closet. On top of the gunmetal-gray stackable I found an assortment of clou
d-colored towels. There was also lavender-scented laundry soap, a DVD player, and a life-size cutout of Captain Picard. He had a caption taped to his head that said Obfuscate, Bitch. I moved him out into the living room after I stopped laughing.
Then the arguing started.
At first, I thought I was hearing television through the wall. Some drama where low deeds are discussed in low voices. The kind of show that’s on at night in a place with no time. But I couldn’t make out any words, only the muffled rise and fall of the two voices. I held my breath for a commercial break, but all I got was a pause, a click, and a beat of silence. Then the voices vanished, and all I could hear was the radio in the kitchen playing “Black Metallic.”
I shrugged, grabbed an extra towel and winked at Picard. If the crazies were coming to get my lily-white ass, I wanted a damn shower first.
Thankfully there were no ladies in the bathroom, swimming up the walls or otherwise. There were, however, little soaps shaped like boobs. And a toothbrush holder even I’m too modest to discuss.
The water pressure was phenomenal, and the whole room filled up with steam that smelled like a campfire. I intended to stand under there until it ran cold, but it never did. I eventually got out, dried off and dug some clean skivs from my bag. I don’t remember anything after that. I had Goldilocks’ ass beat. I was beyond just right. I fell asleep with the light dimmed, stretched out on the couch in my underwear, listening to Catherine Wheel on the little radio in the kitchen.
When I woke up, Rorke’s note was stuck to my face. And the bottle she left me was empty, even though I don’t remember finishing it. I don’t remember making a sandwich, either, but I found a knife in the sink and crumbs on the counter.
I glanced around the kitchenette to see what else I might have gotten into, and a French press caught my eye, winking through the smoky cabinet door. I made myself some Tanzanian Peaberry and nursed it while I straightened up the room. With every moment that passed, I felt calmer.
But then I walked out the door.
I was turning my key in the painted-lady’s lock when I felt a flutter at my side. Suddenly there was more than one woman at my door.
Her black kimono wasn’t tied. Underneath it, I could see her shirt from the night before and some cutoffs that seemed to be hanging on by one load-bearing thread. She stood there, examining me, brandishing a tattered stack of request lists and drinking something thick from a mug shaped like a cauldron. Her sexy gray eyes were just as frazzled as her hair. And as usual, she didn’t smile.
“Good morning, Nick.”
“Good morning, Ash.”
I waited for her to whisper, Going somewhere? Or perhaps crack me over the head with her cauldron, but she continued to watch me, completely relaxed in the silence. She took another sip from her cup. She did not ask how I slept.
“Want me to show you the back bar or the backdoor?”
Are you in or out?
I gave her the best grin that residual fear would allow.
She nodded and turned. Again, I heard the flutter of wings, and I followed her. God help me, I just couldn’t go back to Chowder Town. Not yet, at least.
Chapter 5
Rorke was sitting at the back bar, watching ATHF on the ancient overhead television with her slender fingers wrapped around the fattest BLT I’d ever seen. There was a blob of sauce on the outside of her wrist. She looked over at me as I came down the stairs and licked it off. Without releasing her prey, she popped up on the rings of her barstool, leaned completely over the bar, and pulled something from beneath the other side. Her dreadlocks hung loose down her back. Her little leather ass was in the air. I hid my smile with my hand. She sat down, slid a Styrofoam container my way, looked back up at the screen, and continued to chew.
I sat down next to her and lifted the lid. Light beamed from the open container, and a holy trinity wafted right up my nose. There, nestled on a grease-spotted doily, was one substantial sandwich, identical to hers. So impressive, in fact, that it required load-bearing pink plastic swords. There were fries, too. Homestyle ones, heavily seasoned with the skins still attached. I could smell the heat coming off them, and I’m not talking temperature. And there was a pickle. It was wrapped in thick wax paper, tucked next to a generous cup of ketchup that could only be fancy. I could smell fancy ketchup from fifty paces.
“Want a beer?” she asked.
I was unequivocally arrowed in the ass.
“Help yourself.” She nodded toward the seven-foot cooler fixed with Halloween-style coffin doors and a dragon’s head knocker.
It took every ounce of my presence not to bend her over the bar and have my way. But I wanted more than just the bartender. I wanted in. I wanted one more hit of my old life one more time before I was too old to pull it off again, and I realized this fact with frightening clarity. Over a sandwich.
I got two Guiness and glided one down the bar.
She caught it and looked up at me.
The deal was sealed.
A commercial came on, and she silenced it with her mighty remote. “How’d you sleep?”
“Is that what it was?”
She popped a fry in her mouth.
“Karma coma. It was delicious,” I said. “So is this. Thanks, Rorke.” Her name tasted hotter than the cheese.
“You have to order the BLT with pepper jack.” She poked at the bread with her short black nail. “That’s the secret. And if you break a sweat, we’re through.” She winked.
I peered under my bread. Sure enough. Pepper jack. “I thought it was sauce.”
She shook her head and took another tug on her beer.
“Nope. Chipotle mayo.”
I grunted my approval, mouth full of heaven, and the cartoons returned.
She finished her food and swiped crumbs into the Styrofoam container. Then she ducked under the bar, keys rattling, and dropped her trash. I tried to focus on the television as she lit a smoke and clomped back down to my end of the bar, but it was tricky. Then she hopped the opposite counter by the register and sat down, facing me. I could feel her eyes moving over my body. I didn’t want to have to choose between her and the sandwich, so I handed her an ashtray and her beer and took another bite.
“You like the gray room?” she said.
I nodded, swallowed crispy pig, and took a swig of beer. I didn’t know what she’d heard from the DJ or the door girl about the rest of my night, and I wasn’t about to say a damn word. I knew I’d get more information in that crazy place by keeping my mouth shut. That much was already clear.
“Thanks for putting me up,” I said. “I was supposed to meet someone here last night to get a key to a friend’s place. Didn’t quite work out.”
“Sure it did.” Her lip twitched into the slickest smile I have ever seen, and there was an audible beat of silence as the room shifted under my barstool.
I bit the inside of my lip and nodded toward her smokes. She hopped down, plucked a new box from the Camel display, and tossed it over to me. I packed it, ripped the top and lit one up. Then I looked around me with new eyes and exhaled.
“Well, sonofabitch, bartender.”
She raised her beer to me. “Cheers to that.” She clinked my bottle. “Welcome Home, Salem.”
Chapter 6
So last night was a setup.” I didn’t really want to hear her answer.
“Not entirely,” she said. “Some of it was luck.”
“Paige didn’t tell me—”
“Paige didn’t tell you shit. That much is clear.”
We watched one another for a beat too long, and something got trapped between us.
I could’ve said a few colorful phrases about Paige at that particular moment, but I was too stoked to be pissed. And I wanted to avoid the topic and the actual girl for as long as possible. The idea of Rorke and Paige in the same room was freakier than anything I’d seen so far.
“Paige didn’t tell you she works in a Goth bar. And she didn’t give you my name, either. Clever girl.�
� Rorke turned away from me to pitch her empty bottle in the trash. “Doesn’t surprise me. She’s always going on about chance. You want another?”
“Beer? Or chance?”
Our eyes locked.
“I think I might need something stronger,” I said.
She leaned on the bar, and her lips twitched into a smile. “Aw, come on, Nick. I know you’re not mad.”
“Do you?”
She grabbed two more beers and two shot glasses. “From what I understand, you guys have traded lives. For better or for worse.”
I nodded.
“So Paige is shacking up at your pad and working your job. At a pub, right?”
“The Air Square,” I said.
“Well, this gig’s a little different. She works the door here most nights.”
I nearly spit beer down the bar. I couldn’t help it. Everyone has their limits. Mine have a lot to do with riding a register, pinned under the eye of a leather-clad Meatbone with nothing between us but a slim counter and a tip coffin.
“Do I get to wear a corset?” I said, straight-faced. “Will I get to stamp little ankhs on hands of many a club kid?”
“Not that I wouldn’t mind seeing you in spikes and batwings, Salem, but lucky for you, I struck you a deal. Evilyn’s working the door. You’ll be back here with me. I hear you used to be a real badass.”
She took a long tug on her beer.
“Speaking of,” I said. “She jailed me in your office.”
“Come again?”
“The dormouse. Evil Lyn. She tossed me in the clink.”
Her pause was just a little too long. “No shit?”
“None whatsoever.”
She watched me, waiting for me to say more. Finally, I did. “The gray room is Paige’s, isn’t it?”
“What tipped you off?”
“Not a fucking thing,” I said. She started grinning again, and I lit another smoke. “Fess up, bartender. You’ve gotta gimme the dish, or I won’t last another night in this funhouse, and you know it.”
She leaned forward, got so close to me I could almost taste her. “That I do,” she said. She was staring at my mouth.
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