Then she took my cigarette. She pushed back and poured two more shots with it dangling from her lip, hopped the bar, and sat down beside me. I had a feeling I was going to be ripped to the tits just in time for my first night behind a bar (again).
“It’s nice in here, isn’t it?” she said. “Before we open, I mean.”
I looked around. She was right. It was cold and dark, and the place still smelled like bacon. The AC had been pumping all night, minus several hundred bodies, and the only light came from the candle nooks and Rorke’s coffin cooler. The DJ booth and the dance floor were in total darkness. Portishead was thumping so low I could feel it more than hear it.
“I just noticed there are no neon beer signs.”
“Nope. No pinball machines, either.”
“Disco ball?”
“Bite your tongue,” she said. “The only disco ball is in Ash’s bathroom, and it’s got horns.”
I had absolutely no response to that.
“It’s all right, Salem. I don’t think it can get down.” Rorke sighed and kicked back in her chair. “So you wanna hear the story, huh?”
I nodded.
“How much time you got?”
“I don’t know, boss. You tell me. Does it exist here?”
Chapter 7
Ages ago, before I cut my own piece of the pie, I was just another regular. This was the first place that ever felt like a home to me, so I started hanging out here all the time. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, or anything else to do. Eventually, I got to know all the employees and most of the other regulars. After spending a rainy Thanksgiving night alone with the owner, I knew I had to find my way into the family. Somehow.
Back then, the bar was owned by another woman. The papers called her Mommy Fearest. Mofet, if you were her friend. She had this killer smile that made you feel like you were the only one in the room. She liked to wear kimonos over silk pajamas. Black, black and more black, with heels. And she spoke fluent French, especially when she got pissed off. She was always up to the best kinds of no good. But what I loved about her most… She could create time. She was never too busy for anybody. Even when she was.
The gossip about her was a kick. I heard she was a witch, a devil, a saint. Some people even said she used to be a man, because she owned so many chokers. None of it was true, of course. She was just a good catch that couldn’t be caught. And like any unattainable woman, that’s what made her so magnetic. She was having a mad affair with the greatest love of her life—the bar. And it made everyone want to be near her.
Somewhere down the road she saw a mirror in me.
And she was right. I did want more than a job from her. Something in me needed to be in this bar, or I just couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. It scared the shit out of me, but what scared me more was walking away.
So yeah. Try putting that on a job application.
I’d never been a bartender or a DJ, the obvious gigs, so those options were out. Plan B for me was to do whatever needed doing, free of charge and without being asked. So I scrubbed sidewalks, bar mats, piss off the bathroom floor. I fetched ice, fetched food, fetched drugs, whatever. If an employee needed something, I found a way to take care of it. Soon they started to rely on me, and I got training in return.
However, after a couple years went by with no full-time offer from Mofet, my patience was zapped. I became resentful, showed up less and less. Then I started tasting other bars, trying the wrong kinds of things with the wrong kinds of people. It makes you feel dirty, straying from home when it’s not what you really want. It sucked. Psychoanalyze me all you want.
So Thanksgiving rolled around again, three years after the first one I spent with Mofet. It was raining out, just like before, and I knew she’d be doing the same thing she did every holiday—cooking up a scandalous feast for everyone in her world who didn’t have a home or didn’t want to go to the home they had. I could feel the bar in my bones. Warm and dark, like a cocoon. I could smell the air. I could taste the food. I thought I was punishing her by staying away, but I was really only punishing myself. I still don’t know how she found me that night.
A guy I barely knew let me crash on his couch while he took off to see his folks. So there I was. An orange cat on my right, a bottle of Kamchatka on my left, and a Dark Shadows marathon before me. I was hellbent on avoiding downtown and continuing my campaign to pout like a jilted lover.
Then there was a knock at the door. I almost didn’t get up. When I opened it, I heard a flutter of wings, and there was a bunch of lilies and a black envelope on the doormat. Inside the envelope I found some cash, a sprig of sage, and a note that said a cab was on the way. So I cleaned up, and I showed up. Then just like that, over dark chocolate pie and a glass of Framboise, Mofet offered me a new life.
She taught me everything I know. I found out that once you’re taken into the fold, the rules of the game are yours for the making. I learned everybody’s secrets, regulars and employees alike, and started landing private passes to all the best gigs. I had my finger in the panty of every party in town. But I paid hell’s dues three-fold before I got the back bar to myself, and then I paid them all over again to win my own regulars. I loved every minute of it. Still do.
That’s the trick, Nick. The Luxe treats you pretty damn good when you decide you gotta have her, no matter what.
Still, nobody ever slips through the backdoor of this place. Nobody gets a ride that’s entirely free. It doesn’t matter what it looks like from the outside, don’t make assumptions. We’ve all done our time somehow.
Even Ash. I’ll never forget the night she showed up.
The goddamn AC unit crashed in the middle of August. It was the weekend before school started, so the place was packed. People that don’t go out all year long go out that weekend. We had these huge cannon fans jammed into every corner, and the whole building was humming like an airport runway. When we ran out of ice, Mofet went to the bar up the road to borrow some from one of her buddies. She came back with a girl.
And oh, what a girl.
Ash looked like she rode without a helmet straight up from Satan’s Sidebar. In leather that’d seen Judgment Day, no less. Her hair was a masterpiece, truly an entity all its own. Robert Smith would’ve written her a song. Every edge she had was frayed. That girl came with more strings attached than the Swamp Thing. I wanted to push her out back, hose her off, and pour some whiskey down her neck.
Okay, fine. Maybe that’s not all I wanted to do, but Mofet had designs on her, too.
You know what a blood doll is, don’t you, Nick?
Rorke watched me lazily, her finger running the rim of a shot glass that I hadn’t noticed her fill.
I swallowed the heat crawling up the back of my neck.
Yeah, I knew all about blood dolls.
A blood doll was somebody with a sixth sense for drawing people in. A blood doll made a social butterfly look like a pariah. A blood doll could pack a club, no matter the night, no matter the format. If you had a blood doll, you had a reason for customers to come to your bar other than the music and the booze. I was looking at one of the bartender variety.
I nodded slowly, and she handed me the shot.
Mofet could spot them through walls. But, as you know, they come along about as often as unicorns. You have to lure them in quietly when they’re not expecting it, before they figure out what they’re really worth.
Most dance clubs have a revolving door for mediocre jocks, these people that are completely disposable because nobody ever told them they gotta take chances. Just one forgettable face after another. And way too much Depeche Mode.
Mofet wanted more for the Luxe.
There were rules about hierarchy within the family. She said they came with the building when she bought it. I was always under the impression she had a right to scrap the rules if it was in the best interest of the bar, but my opinion was only one of four. And I was the baby, meaning I was the newest, so what the hell did I know. Lily a
nd Zayzl were Mofet’s right and left hand. They’d been around since they were kids, just like me, but they signed on at a younger age than I did.
Lily was a siren on the dance floor. And I’m not talking about Goth dance, either. She didn’t screw the light bulb, lose her keys, or keep the orb off the ground. None of that shit. She was just a damn good dancer. And she knew everybody downtown. She was always coming through the door with fresh meat. At any given time, you could walk up to a customer and ask how they first heard about the place, and three out of four would mention Lily. People wanted to be near her. They didn’t seem to mind how unattainable she was. Sound familiar?
Lily had a skill you couldn’t quite put your finger on, but none that were traditionally employable, so Mofet created a position just for her. Ambiance Artist. Professional Butterfly.
Fuckin’ cheers to that, right?
I know you want to roll your eyes, Nick, but think about it. Getting paid to look pretty and hang string lights? Come on now. I’d say that’s some serious business to the girl who scores it. Nobody ever called Lily a joke, if that’s what you’re wondering. We needed her. She cast a wicked spell when she stepped out under those lights. Dance, baby, dance.
Mofet wanted Lily playing tag with Ash. She got wet over the kind of pull the bar would have with double dolls in the booth, and it had nothing to do with money. Lily knew the music inside out, but she wasn’t interested in being a DJ. She just wanted to tear up the dance floor and let somebody else play the music. She didn’t even like to go up in the booth, said it made her feet tingle. Foreshadowing, I suppose. But more on that later.
That night in August when Mofet came home with more than just ice, Zayzl was the jock on deck. He was spinning some underground New-wave, Retro-clash noise that did nothing but piss off my regulars. Typically, he was a half-ass bar back. But he was an even worse DJ, god complex fully intact. He was trying so hard to impress the crowd with his obscure music knowledge that he didn’t seem to notice they hated it. It was so bad that particular night even Lily vanished into the walls, and the dance floor was a ghost town. We were selling lots of liquor, sure, but the spirits were restless.
Mofet knew exactly what she was doing.
When she came back, she walked straight from the front door to the booth without saying a word to anybody. She faded out the song Zayzl was playing right after he’d started it, which got everybody’s attention on her. Then she popped in something flashy to jumpstart the crowd and sent Zayzl back down to the bar. He was too proud to get angry, especially in front of an audience, so he fetched her a couple drinks and disappeared.
The mystery girl remained a mystery. She was up in the booth alone with Mofet all night. They acted like old friends, bent over the books of music, talking and drinking while Mofet ran the board. Nobody asked any questions. Nothing was out of sorts.
Well, almost nothing.
Chapter 8
After last call, Mofet parked the mystery girl with me while she went to the office to do the night’s books. I couldn’t complain. I’ll babysit some eye candy any night as long as nobody hurls on my bar. And she seemed nice enough. We shared a couple of beers while I broke everything down. That was it. Lots of looks, little talk.
Mofet wanted her to have the guest room for the night, which, back then, was a converted attic. I accidentally slipped her the key to the private washroom instead. Mofet wasn’t happy to find her girl sacked out on the stage the next morning. Ash never insinuated I did it on purpose. Neither did Mofet. But since Zayzl was acting weird, too, we both got sent on mandatory vacation. In retrospect, I think Mofet would’ve found a reason to send us away that week if we hadn’t given her one. The bottle she’d corked needed time to breathe. Know what I mean?
So Zayzl and I returned just in time for a huge bash.
Second only to the weekend before school starts is the weekend after school starts. I felt like I’d been gone a month instead of just a few days. I knew the back bar was closed while I was gone, because nothing was out of sorts by my regulars. I found a copy of Friday’s paper by my register, folded open to the club’s weekly spot. Usually it took up a third of a page, but that week we covered the whole damn thing.
“Helluva Luxe: Cendres d’été,” it read.
Ashes of Summer.
There was the silhouette of a woman and a bird behind a spiky new font, and the ad was talking up a new format and a new DJ with quite a bit of sexual innuendo. It was brilliant. And it was obvious Mofet spent some extra dough. Even more obvious when I looked up at the booth and caught sight of the makeover queen.
Pay attention now. This is the part of the story where the killer slips in wearing leather for days. She had on a black vest with no shirt underneath, for crying out loud. And that hair, my god, I just wanted to knot my fist up in it.
She was on fire.
Mofet cut something loose that girl had kept hidden when I met her before, and it was crawling all over the bar. I recognized it the minute I saw Ash in action. Blood doll.
I crossed my arms and thought, now let me get this straight. Mofet pulls some puppy in off the streets, slips on a shiny new collar, and it turns out this stray is an amazing jock, with looks and skill, who can pack the club in under a week?
Hell, yeah. And that’s not even the best part.
Lily was up in the booth with her. Almost the entire night. She was perched on a stool in the corner, and every once in a while I caught the white of her teeth through the flashing lights from the dance floor. I was transfixed by it.
I’d never known Lily to actually befriend anyone. Hell, I was a member of the family, and she barely let me peek over her big walls. I mean, sure, she had lots of groupies, but she didn’t stop moving long enough to make any real friends.
But with Ash, she sat still.
You gotta hand it to Mofet. Introducing those two, giving Zayzl and me the week off so we’d be out of the way. If I couldn’t keep my eyes off the booth, you can be damn sure there were plenty of customers drooling down their drinks.
And vampire wannabes the world over could smell Zayzl’s blood boiling. I got his version of the dish on Ash after close when he was half-lit and helping me stock my cooler just so he could complain. He kept looking over his shoulder and calling her colorful names. But he didn’t have any real dirt on Ash, just jealous bullshit speculation. He said she had a dark past, one so dark it hit a nerve with Mofet. And inspired her to violate every house rule she ever made concerning loyalty and family as she shuffled this total stranger right on up to the top.
I wasn’t bitter.
Seriously. I was making too much money and drinking too much booze to be bitter.
But Zayzl thought he was being weeded out. I tried to talk him outta his tree, but he’d climbed too high up there, man. The crazy eyes had set in. He wouldn’t stop ranting about the horrid injustice handed down on him from the DJ booth up high.
I gotta say, I don’t understand insecure men and this demon that sneaks out whenever they get upstaged by a woman. Being upstaged turns me on.
However, in the next few weeks, Zayzl resorted to base levels of trickery. He did his best to submarine the new DJ when he thought nobody was watching.
That’s the thing about this place.
Someone is always watching.
He slipped things in her drink, swapped out her CDs, hid her wires, and stole her tips. He was the quintessential bad boy who couldn’t get enough of mama’s attention. At the fucking age of thirty.
Ash ignored him. And she was phenomenal on the board, in spite of the rumors she’d never set foot in a booth before. She could ride a crowd like no jock I’ve ever seen. I heard she did radio once upon a time, but I heard she did a stint in the loony bin, too, and that was a lie, so who knows.
The rumor never matters anyway. Right, Nick?
Only that there is one.
And people were definitely talking about Ash. Talking, paying the cover, buying drink after drink. They couldn�
��t get enough of her. Again, I considered being jealous, but my pockets were too full. And she seemed completely blind to all the attention. She was totally likeable, if not a little scary. Nothing touched her.
Well, nothing but Lily.
If Lily wasn’t up in the booth or out on the dance floor, Ash could summon her without looking up from the board. And her bag of tricks was pretty badass. I don’t know where she found half the shit she played for Lily. It was Goth music to crawl out of your clothes to. Sex just rolled from the speakers behind these songs with beats thick as blood. The crowd didn’t know what they were feeding off of, just that they were starving. Sometimes Ash would dance, too. Up in the booth alone, head bent, hair falling in her eyes, cigarette in her hand. On those nights, when they both got going at the same time… Well, let’s just say we could’ve charged more at the door. They could still a room and not even notice.
Before long Ash was taking most of Mofet’s shifts, as well as her own. And they were both pulling in live music, the likes of which this place had never seen before. Everybody who blew through town wanted to play the Luxe all the sudden. The bar was out of the red for the first time in years. We were flying high.
And that’s when Mofet died.
Here, have a beer, Nick.
Chapter 9
Death shocks the hell out of you whether you see him coming or not. We all knew she was sick; we just didn’t want to talk about it. Then one night after we closed, she fell. Right there on the stairs behind where you’re sitting. She had a glass of wine in her hand and a smile on her face, and she was giving me grief about finding a lover. I flipped her off, she winked at me, and then she was gone.
She wouldn’t have had it any other way.
At least that’s what we told each other.
Lily and Ash were up in the booth. They got to her first. I just stood there with a bar rag in my hand, wondering if the damn Cure song that was playing was going to make me completely lose it from that night on.
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