by Rob Hart
The vial is from Snow White. Since it’s not empty, and given the pace Chell kept, she must have gotten it recently.
The drive isn’t the cheap plastic kind I’ve seen laying around Bombay’s apartment. It’s brushed aluminum, smooth and cold. Feels like it could take a bullet.
I put the cash and photos back under the floor, take the card, the drive, and the vial. Shove them deep in my pockets and plan my escape route.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, and it keeps buzzing. Call, not a text, from a number I don’t recognize. But as soon as I hear the voice I know exactly who it is.
“Darling.” Ginny Tonic hangs on that word like a portrait. “I hear you’re looking for me.”
“That I am.”
“I have a car waiting for you.”
“I’m not at my apartment.”
“I know. The car is waiting outside, and I have some appointments to keep. Do hurry.”
Click.
That’s the closest thing to an invitation I’ll get from Ginny.
Coming out of her mouth, it’s probably an order.
I don’t even bother with the return trip across the roof. I leave Chell’s apartment through the front door and the Ford is gone, replaced by a black Lincoln Town Car that looks like it was just driven off a showroom floor. Leaning against it is Samson. Ginny’s driver, slash bodyguard, slash the only person I know who I’m pretty sure kills people for money.
I’m not a small guy. Six feet, broad shoulders, and solid enough that I can walk through a bad neighborhood at night without being worried. There are few people I have second thoughts about crossing. I know Samson would rip me clean in two, and that’s coming from someone with an inflated ego.
He’s massive like a childhood nightmare is massive. A doctor might call him obese, but if I bit him I’d chip a tooth. The streetlights make his shaved head gleam but cast shadows on his face, so he’s just a blank object sucking up the light.
I smile wide and offer my hand.
“Brother,” I tell him.
He looks at my hand like it’s a rotten piece of meat. “Ride in back. If you even think of lighting a cigarette in this car, I will curb stomp you.”
Also, Samson doesn’t like me. I’ve never been able to figure out why.
I tell him, “Of course I’m going to ride in the back. Did you think I wanted to ride in your lap? Though I’m not opposed to it.”
Samson takes a step forward, and I’d like to say that I don’t take a step back in response. I would love very much to say that.
Satisfied with himself, he points at the back door. I climb in, and after he gets into the front, he puts up a glass divider, separating me from him and leaving me alone with my thoughts, which is a dangerous place to be.
The ride to the club is quiet. Brooklyn disappears and the city sparkles as we cross the Williamsburg Bridge. I crack open the window and let the cold air wash over me to wake me up.
Sometimes I wish finding lost people and looking disagreeable was enough to pay my bills. Sometimes it’s not, and that’s when I take jobs from Ginny.
Ginny is a district leader. There are at least a dozen scattered around the city. The job description is as vague as the title, but it generally means anything that’s fun and illegal, she gets a cut. At least, anything fun happening in her district, which is: 14th Street to the north, Delancey to the south, the Bowery to the west, and the FDR to the east.
Most of the time I carry things for Ginny. Things in briefcases. I don’t ask what’s inside because I don’t want to know. Sometimes I track people down. Occasionally I hit people, but I always make sure they have it coming.
If not for Ginny, I probably wouldn’t be able to sustain my lifestyle. I’d have to get a suit and sit in a cube and make somebody else rich. Not how I want to spend my life.
Anyway, working for Ginny is another way I can keep an eye on my neighborhood and contribute to the community. Make it a safer place to live. Do the right thing.
It even works, sometimes.
I’m dozing off just as Samson pulls up to the front of Chanticleer.
He waits for me to exit the car and squeals away from the curb, without even checking to see if I get inside safe. But it’s okay because after I push through the crowd of smokers packed around the front, the doorman waves me in without asking for ID.
It’s just about last call but the club is packed shoulder to shoulder. The walls are painted black so the boundaries of the room are impossible to make out. Men in thongs dance on the bar while softcore gay porn plays on flat screen televisions mounted on the walls. Like Girls Gone Wild, but with frat guys, and penis. Some poppy European band is blaring from the speakers.
I’m a fan of gay bars. There’s no pretense. The guys aren’t itching for a fight, and the girls, the ones who aren’t hunting for a fierce gay to go shopping with, they’re in it for a good time. The music is better, too. Despite my love for Johnny Cash, I’ve always had a soft spot for Madonna.
I push my way through the crowd toward the back, where a monolith in a suit pushes on the wall and a door opens to a corrugated-metal staircase. I make my way to the door at the bottom and enter the second bar, which features a little less clothing. A couple of people look at me like I’m an intruder, which I am. I try to look nonchalant as I duck around the side of the bar and find the narrow door nestled in the corner. I turn sideways to get through it and make my way down the dark hallway to the final door, opening it onto what looks like the setting for a Turkish sex party.
The room could be huge or it could be small. I can’t tell, because of the ivory curtains hanging from the ceiling, creating passageways and sheer partitions. Blood-red satin pillows dot the floor, which is covered with a patchwork of Oriental rugs. It smells like incense and cinnamon and sexual lubricant.
After catching myself in a curtain, I manage to work my way toward the center of the room, where I find Ginny stretched out on a chaise that’s draped in brown suede, surrounded by half-naked servants. One of them is actually holding a giant feather and fanning her like this isn’t completely fucking ridiculous. Everyone stops and looks at me like they were just talking about me.
Ginny is wearing a gold dress that clings to her body, and an elaborate headpiece in her blonde wig, which culminates in a sparkled piece of mesh that reaches across her face. Her Adam’s apple looks like a boulder in her throat. She gestures with a long finger, tipped by a brown-painted nail, to the pillow and low table in front of her. Then she waves, and all the servants disappear through another door at the back of the room.
I point around the room. “Marrakesh-chic?”
Ginny nods. “You have a good eye.”
“Not really. You did the Moroccan thing last year.”
“Ah. Well, we repeat the things that give us comfort.” Ginny sighs and leans back in the chaise. “Ash, darling. I’m so sorry to hear about Chell. I know this is a difficult time, and I don’t wish to appear insensitive, but I’m going to have to ask you to remove that thing from your head.”
I touch the brim of the fedora, having forgotten it was there. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s dreadful.”
“It’s not dreadful.”
“You’re right. It’s a fashion abortion that was discarded on your head.”
I take off the hat and hold it in front of me. Ginny’s shoulders relax, and she takes the piece of mesh off her face, clipping it into her wig. She offers me a smoke from a jewel-encrusted case, but I shake my head as I sit on the pillow.
She pinches the end of a thin cigarette and puts it in her mouth. “I hear you’ve been poking around for me. I have a meeting, so if we could get down to it?”
I light my own smoke and put the business card on the table. “I heard you hooked Chell up with a new job. I figure it has something to do with this. Can you enlighten me?”
She takes the card and holds it up to the light, then tosses it back on the table like it’s a piece of trash. “
I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Either one works fine.”
“Look,” I tell her. “I remember when your name was Paul. And in fairness, you wouldn’t have made it through high school without me standing behind you. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
She frowns. “Don’t use my straight name in this place.”
“Ginny.”
“Here’s the problem, darling. Both of us want to get laid, but no one wants to get fucked. Where is there a dyke when you actually finally need one?”
“After all I’ve done for you.”
“Jobs for which you’ve been handsomely paid. Last time I checked, I wasn’t in debt to you.”
I drop my voice to just above begging. “Ginny. This is bigger than that.”
She sighs and her body sags. “Ash, there are things I can’t discuss. You need to understand that if I help you on this, it will come at some cost.”
“Name the price.”
“A favor.”
This is a bad place to be. I’ve always been happy to work with Ginny, but I’ve never owed her anything. People who have always ended up regretting it.
I ask, “What do you want me to do?”
“I’ll let you know. But I have your word?”
“Yes.”
The devil wouldn’t make a deal with Ginny, but what choice do I have? We shake. Her hand nearly crushes mine. She stamps out her cigarette and picks the card up again. She studies it for a little while, sounding out the words like it’s in a language she can’t read. Then she looks me in the eye and says, “LARP.”
“Elaborate.”
“Live action role playing. Think of it like Dungeons & Dragons, except instead of swords and sorcerers, it’s dames and dicks. And you don’t play in your mom’s basement, you run around the city shaking people down for information.”
“Where did Chell fit into this?”
“They need actors and actresses to play the parts. You pay some money and get to act out your hardboiled fantasy. But really, that’s the extent of my knowledge on this.”
“Why the secrecy?”
“Spoilers, honey. Even without press, it’s a word of mouth sensation.”
“Who runs it?”
“I don’t know the man personally. I had the number, and I passed it along to our dear, departed Chell. The number doesn’t even work anymore. I just know he’s based in Brooklyn.” She holds up a finger. “I’m telling you this on the condition that you do not hop on a train and go over there and start beating the shit out of people. I know it isn’t your strong suit, but you must keep your feelings in check on this. And we never had this conversation.”
“Fine. So you got her a job. What else has Chell been up to lately?”
“You mean you don’t know?” She leans forward and rests her fist under her chin. “Now that’s interesting.”
“Why is that interesting?”
“Oh, darling. Please.”
“Have you seen Chell lately?”
Ginny leans back, a wry smile on her face. “I have not. Not since I got her the job a few weeks back.”
“Final question. Did you see me last night?”
“You are just full of fun questions tonight. I’ll play along. No, I did not.”
I stare at Ginny. Try to look past the mask she wears to her true face, but I don’t know what it looks like anymore. It’s amazing to me that we’re the same age. Though, the upward mobility in New York’s criminal community is staggering, if you’re willing to work for it. I get up to leave. As I push the curtains aside, Ginny says, “Ash?”
The playful tone is gone from her voice. It sounds almost like I remember it.
“Forgive me for being so bold,” she says. “But for all that Chell put you through, I’m left wondering what you think you owe to her.”
I tell her the best answer I can come up with. “I loved her anyway.”
She laughs a little under her breath and the veil goes back up. “Oh, straight people. Your social customs are so foreign to me.”
I want to say something back, but it’s generally best to let her have the last word.
I walk north up Avenue A. The sidewalk is crowded with dumb kids who came here via bridge or tunnel. They’re loud and obnoxious and more than once someone walks into me like I’m invisible. I hate being sober around drunk people. Partly because it makes me see what I’m missing, but also because it makes me see what I’m missing.
As I dodge out of the way of another gaggle of drunken gents, my foot smacks into a bundle of copies of today’s Post outside a bodega, still wrapped in twine. Chell’s picture is on the cover next to the headline: GREENPOINT GOTH MURDER MYSTERY.
The picture of her is one I’ve never seen before. Someone else is in it with her, but that person is cropped out. It looks like the back patio of St. Dymphna’s. Chell is smiling and holding up a beer, the birthmark in her left eye obscured by the dull gray ink.
I wave over one of the guys working at the bodega and ask him to cut the twine so I can take a copy, hand him some change that I don’t bother to count, and flip to the inside cover.
A violent sicko killed a gorgeous goth from Greenpoint, wrapped her in packing tape, and dumped her naked corpse in Queens early yesterday morning, according to police.
The victim, a piercing and tattoo enthusiast who worked as a burlesque dancer and an actress, was strangled and raped by the heartless predator, sources said. Cops have questioned several people who knew the woman but don’t currently have any leads.
The murder sent shockwaves through the downtown bar scene. Although she lived in Greenpoint, she was identified as a regular at a number of East Village bars, and patrons said they were terrified to hear that the young woman had been so brutally murdered.
The rest of the story is filler. A lot of vague nonsense to boost the word count, and more tripe about how it’s terrorizing the nightlife. From the ridiculous amount of people out tonight, that doesn’t seem true, but hey, whatever makes people afraid enough to buy papers.
I rip off the front page with Chell’s photo, fold it up, and stick it in my back pocket.
Snow White is sitting on the steps of her building, same place she always is when I’m looking for her.
Her gray hair is knotted together in greasy clumps, brushed back and out of her face. It’s chilly, but she’s wearing clothes that show off a lot of leg and cleavage for a lady her age.
She exhales a massive cloud of Newport smoke and smiles at me. In a leaden Bronx accent she says, “Babe, you lost some weight. Are you eating enough?”
I bend down and kiss her on the cheek. “Hey sweet pea.”
She pats the stair next to her but winces a little when she stretches over. I ask, “What’s the matter?”
“It’s going to rain.” She touches her thigh. “Steel hip.”
“You’ve got a steel hip?”
“I never told you that story? I was a stock car racer.” She pats the skin of her thigh and it jiggles. “All metal.”
Snow White tells great stories. Like stock car racing, or how Debbie Does Dallas was based on her. I don’t have the heart to call her out on her stories, because I’m not sure she’s lying. Instead I tell her, “I had no idea.”
“Well, you would know these things if you ever came around to visit. You missed my birthday party last week. I made ziti and special cookies.”
“I’m trying to clean up my act.”
“Are you telling me I’m about to lose my favorite customer?”
“I’ll still be bringing people by. Don’t worry about that. I need to ask you for a favor.”
She doesn’t say anything to that.
I tell her, “I know Chell bought from you, probably within the last week or two. I need to know if she said anything or did anything that stands out. Anything.”
“Babe, you know I don’t talk about other customers. I know
you were friends with her, and I’m sorry as hell she’s dead, but the only business I feel comfortable talking to you about is your business.”
She extends her pack of cigarettes toward me. I nod her off and look for mine. I’d rather smoke ground-up fiberglass than a Newport, to see if I could tell the difference. After I get a cigarette in my mouth I fumble with my wallet like I’m looking for a book of matches, count off sixty dollars, stick it in the coin pocket of my jeans.
She shakes her head. “Because I know you so long. And if you tell anyone I did this, you’re cut off. Worse than that.”
“Deal.”
Snow White pulls the money out of my pocket. From the sidewalk it wouldn’t have looked like anything. She says, “Chell came by. Stocked up. Said she’d been stuck in Brooklyn working a job.”
“What kind of job?”
“She didn’t say. Just that she felt like Nellie Bly. ‘Nellie fuckin’ Bly’ she said.”
I take a long drag of my cigarette and flick it to the curb. I am tired. So tired. My brain is frayed at the edges. And sitting next to Snow White, it’s killing me. I’ve got Chell’s half-vial of coke pressed up against my leg, which I wish was burning a hole in my sinus cavity, but even that wouldn’t be enough. I’ve got enough money left for another vial, which will keep me going for at least another six hours, if I’m conservative.
Which I won’t be, but still.
As I’m about to form the words, I feel it. The cold hardwood against my cheek.
Stay in control.
I tell Snow White, “Thanks for that, sweetheart. I really do appreciate it.”
We both get quiet, smoke our cigarettes, watch the people for a little bit. A woman walks by in a grotesque gorilla mask and an orange dress so tight I can see her DNA. A guy I’m pretty sure was the rapist cop in Pulp Fiction walks two enormous pit bulls past us. Three young Mormons attempt to hand us pamphlets, and we tell them to fuck off.
I like this neighborhood at night.
Snow White says, “You’re wearing the hat she got you.”
“How did you know she got me this hat?”