by Grant Mccrea
I asked whether the duct tape came only in pink.
Oh no, she said. We have the full range. Do you prefer black? Many do.
I’m not sure yet. Uh, this yo-yo. What exactly is that for?
A yo-yo, she said with a wink, is anything with a string.
I see. And the marbles?
The string is optional.
Ah.
I finished my scotch. Another one appeared.
Gee, I said, I know I’m setting myself up for big laughs here, but as I said … well, what are skull clips?
If you have to ask, darling, she said, a provocative arm on her hip, you don’t need them.
I see, I see. And the … the sewing kit?
If you need something fixed, it can be almost anything you want it to be.
Ah. Well, could it have, I don’t know, a knitting needle in it?
Aha, she laughed. You know more than you’re letting on, don’t you, darling?
Actually, I don’t.
You’re a bad boy.
Well, I try. But, if you wouldn’t mind just humoring me, I mean, say I ordered the sewing kit. With the knitting needle. I guess what I mean is, what would you do with it? Maybe I’m naïve, but, well, I’m thinking there’s probably not a whole lot of your clientele that’ll be knitting sweaters tonight, and anyway, to do that you’d need two. Needles.
She laughed a long, appreciative laugh.
Oh, honey, she said. You really do need help, don’t you. Or you’re a cop or something. Which comes to the same thing.
I laughed what I hoped sounded like a genuine laugh.
A cop I’m not, I said. I’m just curious. Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m a writer. I have a scene that I want to set in … in a place like this. So, I guess you could say I’m doing research.
Sure, honey, she smiled, not entirely convinced. Poured herself another shot of Day-Glo poison.
The mangina? I asked.
If you pronounce it properly, you won’t have to ask.
Okay, you got me. How do you pronounce it?
Man-jyna. Rhymes with …
Okay. I get it. And the doggy bag?
For what’s left over, she said.
Ah. Well, listen, if you wouldn’t mind, do you think I could get a look at that knitting needle? Just curious.
She picked up a wineglass. Began polishing it. Raised her eyebrows. You really don’t look the type, she said.
I know. I just want to look at it.
Okay, she said, an edge of doubt flirting with her good cheer.
She went behind the bar. Came back with what looked like a velvet box. About ten inches by two. Some shade of peach, as far as I could make out in the dim colored lights. She opened it. Inside was, well, it didn’t look like a knitting needle. More like an awl. She lifted it out of the box, displayed it for me. Yes. A knitting needle all right. Fitted with a wooden handle.
Interesting.
She put it back in the box. Closed it. Put it away.
Thanks, I said.
The novelty of my ignorance had worn off. She turned herself to other things. She sat on a stool at the far corner of the bar. Picked up a book, either reading it or pretending to. I squinted over, trying to make out the title.
A History of Hell.
A few minutes passed. I waved for another drink. She poured it silently. I figured it was time to get to the point. The other point.
Do you know a guy named Brendan? I asked.
Brendan? Hector raised her eyebrows. They were nicely painted on. Don’t know any Brendan, she said.
Oh, I said.
She started polishing some wineglasses.
He’s a friend of mine, I said. Five-ten or so? Pale? Curly hair to his shoulders? Small diamond earrings?
Could be a few of the fellas, she said, curious now. He have any tattoos?
Not that I know of.
She gave me a sideways glance. Apparently I hadn’t given the right answer. If I was looking for a guy in here, I guessed, I should know about his tattoos.
Mind if I look around? I asked.
She didn’t answer. Picked up a handset. Whispered into it. Ten seconds later a slick number in a black silk suit and shiny black shoes appeared. Introduced himself.
I’m Randy, he said.
Oh. Well, I’m Canadian. If that helps.
Come with me, he said.
He wasn’t smiling.
My body remembered, if I didn’t, what had happened last time I’d followed some stranger down a hallway. Adrenaline began firing gob-shots of fear at my stomach, my liver, my kidneys. My knees felt numb.
I went with him anyway.
Yes, Virginia, I am a fool.
I followed him through an archway. Into an alcove. The dank smell of unclean basement carpets, mildewed upholstery. The walls papered with peeling silver paint, patched here and there with aluminum foil. A dangling red lightbulb. A narrow corridor.
We passed a wide door. A small neon sign blinked over it. Karaoke Bar, it said. Some familiar chords wafted out. Deep Purple. ‘Sweet Child in Time.’ I loved that song.
Show us the dick! a high-pitched voice called out.
Floor show, said Randy.
The scotch was doing its inexorable work. Was it the scotch? Or just an ordinary déjà vu?
Another room. Lit orange and faded. Ratty couches here and there.
Randy went over to a couch against the wall. Nodded to someone. Nodded at me. One of the guys on the couch looked up. A guy in eyeliner and wig, but definitely a guy. He looked surprised. Nodded at me. Turned back to the guy next to him.
He’ll be with you in a minute, Randy said.
Who? I wanted to ask. But it seemed like I was supposed to know.
Randy went away.
I found a spot on a couch. Sat and waited. For what, I didn’t have a clue. A guy sat down beside me. Charles, he said. He said it with an English accent. Chaws. He was dressed in pink chenille.
He talked about cock rings. He liked them tight.
We discussed that for a while. He told me about how they could get too tight. Stuck. Couldn’t get them off. Cut off your circulation. Danger of gangrene. You could have a purple dick for months. If you survived.
I thanked him for the information. Filed it away. Filed it under Futile.
Chaws had just changed the topic, to anal plugs, when Delgado came over.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised.
Rick, he said, extending a pale and welcoming left hand.
Delgado, I said, taking the hand, feeling its blanched, surprising strength, attempting artfully to conceal my shock at his presence.
Rick, he said in his softly menacing manner. What are you doing here?
I don’t know. But I’m thinking maybe I should be asking you the same question. Or, maybe, the answer is, I came looking for you.
I see.
He said it with a strangely knowing air. The stranger for the fact that my answer had sounded, to my ears anyway, bizarre.
Now, normally I’m not the paranoid type. I don’t see conspiracies dangling off of every curtain rod in every skanky upscale hotel room in these glorious States we call United. But something, Delgado’s attitude was telling me, was up. I was as sure as a two-to-three shot in the Derby. Which is to say … pretty sure.
How to play it, that was the question.
Not by the book, that was certain. They didn’t have a book for this one.
By ear?
Didn’t seem appropriate.
By the bye?
That seemed more like it.
I made a note to check the spelling.
Well, Juan, I said.
I assumed we were on a first-name basis by now.
Juan, I said, there’s more than one reason, actually.
All right. So let’s go talk.
If it’s going to be anything like the last talk, I respectfully decline. I’d rather get choked with a cock ring.
Delgado laughed. It was a surpr
isingly warm, understanding laugh. He put a hand on my shoulder. A surprisingly warm, welcoming hand.
Come on back, he said.
I got up. I followed him. Sucker! I said to myself. Asshole! Worse than a rat in a cage! At least they learn from experience!
The back to which he led me, though, was kind of welcoming. It was all done up in silver and blue. Inviting couches lined the walls. Inviting young ladies lounged about in welcoming clothes, or lack of clothes. I followed Delgado to a cozy corner booth. I was tempted to tell him I didn’t make out on the first date. Or the second, for that matter. But that turned out not to be necessary.
You’re confused, he said.
He said it authoritatively. It wasn’t just an accurate appraisal of my current state of mind, which, of course, it was. It was a pronouncement. Something about my soul. I hadn’t thought, for quite some time, about my soul. I wasn’t even sure, then or later, then or now, that I had one. That anyone had one. That such a thing existed. Well, chickens, of course, had souls. As for us humans, well, one could, I supposed, in the Delgado haze, define it into existence, somehow. The Sum of All Tendencies, or something. The Sum of All Tendencies towards … something, maybe. Eggs, or something.
It’s all right, he said. It’s all right to be confused.
Juan, I said, fighting through the miasma to establish a beachhead of authority in the conversation. I appreciate your concern. But frankly, man, I’m just here to ask some questions. Do you think you can handle that? Or do I have to wade through an hour of hokum to get there?
Delgado sighed. Tapped his cane twice. A frothing blonde beauty in a silver sheath appeared, hair trimmed little-boy short and wearing a beret that matched the dress.
Lola, a double of the best for my friend, said Delgado in a faux tired tone, and—
Yes, sir, she said, in the most melting tone that a Yes, sir has ever been delivered, and turned heel for the bar.
Delgado spent the time before Lola returned giving me the Look that said, I’m sorry you haven’t yet seen the light but I have faith that you soon will. I spent the time eyeing the extravagantly displayed body parts of Lola’s sistren-in-flesh, who surrounded us like snipers hanging from the trees in the Forest of Temptation.
The drink helped.
Let’s start at the start, I said.
Delgado raised his glass in a silent toast that seemed to say, Yes, let’s do that.
What the fuck happened that night? I said.
Ah, said Delgado, that night. I’m tempted to say, what night?
But you know that you’d just be wasting my valuable time.
He chuckled.
So?
What happened happened. You got very drunk. Certain inhabitants of the establishment, who may or may not be associated with me, one way or in some other way, gave you what you wanted.
Thank you for the clarification. You are most kind.
The pleasure is all mine, he said, with the air of someone impervious to irony.
And just what was it that I wanted?
Humiliation, he said matter-of-factly. Lola! he called out.
Lola slinked, or perhaps slunk, over with the next round. Like she’d been waiting for her cue. Like a prop in a play. Instead of just bringing the damn drinks. She hovered over Delgado like a silver hummingbird. A silver hummingbird in a beret.
I slugged down half of the new double scotch. At this point it was superfluous.
The whole situation had stopped me dead. Did I want to know any more? If it involved a crime I was here to solve, sure. If it didn’t, and I had a fair certainty, not beyond religious conviction, that it didn’t, knowing more was just going to make me suffer more. My Tendencies were what they were. If I encountered them again, I’d give them a good dressing-down. Yes. That was it. Give those Tendencies a good talking to.
Brendan, I said.
Brendan?
My ex-brother-in-law. Pale. Curly hair to his shoulders. Small diamond earrings.
Ah. Could be any number of the guys …
Fuck you, Delgado, I said. You know damn well who I’m talking about.
I didn’t, in fact, have any idea whether he had any idea who I was talking about. But if he didn’t, it didn’t matter what I said. And if he did, this was the surest way to make him think that I knew that he knew something, and that therefore he’d better come out with it, or … I don’t know, I’d bring out the heavy artillery, or something, something that I didn’t have but that he didn’t know that I didn’t have.
Call it a bluff.
It worked.
Ah, he said. I think I may know who you mean. But he wasn’t Brendan. I think he called himself Ivan.
That’s him, I said.
I had no idea whether Brendan had called himself Ivan, but given his blind consortium with the Russkies, there was a truth to the notion that was all too clear. And I was going with the rush.
Called, I said. Why do you say it in the past tense?
Delgado looked at me calmly. I don’t know, he said. If you said, Do you remember Joe, he was wearing a sharkskin suit? you’d be asking in the past tense, right?
I had to admit he had a point.
A black albino red-eyed pimp-like scumbag with a cane, and a grammatical point to make.
Something to conjure with.
There’s more to the present than meets the eye, Delgado said.
I’d had enough.
You know, I said, fuck you. I’m tired of this bullshit New Age I’m-creepier-than-thou-so-get-down-on-your-knees crap. You’re so fucking powerful and wise, you pasty dickhead, gut up and take me on with your own scrawny fists. Leave the posse at home. Okay? Fuck you.
Delgado stood up abruptly.
The adrenaline rush hit. I was ready for some serious action.
He turned away from me, leaned over, performed some hand-waving weirdness.
Oh no, I said, is the Wizard going to appear? Will I be zapped into a locked tower in Mordor?
Delgado straightens up, turns around.
His eyes are blue.
What the fuck? I say.
Lola leans towards Delgado, lifts her lips to his. They engage in a long, writhing, what looks like sick passionate kiss.
My, I’m thinking. I wonder how much you have to tip for the extra service.
He turns to me. His lips are red.
A normal red. It isn’t lipstick.
I’m starting to get the picture. I’m starting to get the picture that I ought to start doubting all the pictures of all the things that I’ve purportedly seen, heard and believed for the last … hell, maybe my whole fucking life.
Lola slinks behind Delgado, leans over his shoulder. Begins wiping his face with a tissue. Or something. Something more solvent than a tissue. A hand wipe or something.
Within seconds, the right side of Delgado’s face is a stunning, radiant, revelatory … normal.
I sat back. Surveyed the scene. Lola’s motherly smile. Delgado’s half-revealed face. He was still striking-looking. He was still hairless. But he sure wasn’t any albino. And he sure wasn’t black. And there wasn’t anything menacing about him anymore. He still had the full lips. But they were just … big white guy lips. Mick Jagger lips.
You’re an actor, I said.
I am, he smiled.
Lola, I said, playing the rush. You are, too. And a makeup artist.
She smiled a yes.
Congratulations, I sighed. You’re very good.
Thank you, they said simultaneously.
Actually, I meant Lola, I said. But you’re good, too … What’s your real name?
Andy, he said.
I almost did a spit-take with the scotch.
Andy?
Yes.
I can see why you changed it.
You don’t have to be mean, he said, dropping the affected speech.
He sounded like a regular guy from Jersey.
I was just doing a job, he said. No offense.
So you say. Last
I heard, kidnapping, involuntary imprisonment …
I stopped. Andy and Lola, or whoever she was, were clearly having a hard time suppressing their laughter.
I already told you—Andy began.
I know, I said. There was nothing involuntary about it. Says you. Shit. Lola, can you bring me another scotch? Can you stay in character long enough to do that?
Sure, she said in a light and not quite as slinky voice.
And who was the producer of this little … spectacle? I asked Andy.
I don’t know, actually. I never met the main guy.
Who did you meet?
Whom, he said. Some beefy dude. Called himself Vladimir.
Vladimir.
Yeah .
Shit. I thought about it. I guess I’d left a trail as wide as a semitrailer on a mud road.
Lola returned with my scotch and some more hand wipes. Began removing the rest of Andy’s makeup.
How much did you get paid for your … performance? I asked him.
We haven’t gotten paid yet. Completely.
You haven’t.
No. We got some cash up front.
Let me guess. Small unmarked bills.
Hundreds, actually. New ones. Crisp.
Did he tell you why they were doing this?
He said it was a kind of, I don’t know, psychological ploy, to get some money from you that you owed. When they got their money, we’d get the rest of ours.
Money I owed? What was this? Maybe a different Vladimir? Someone working for Evgeny? But Evgeny had no reason to believe I wasn’t going to pony up. Hell, I was working for the guy. Which reminded me …
This wasn’t computing.
Can you describe this guy any better?
Not really, man. He always wanted to meet in dark corners. I mean, he was big. Strong-looking guy. Usually had a leather jacket on.
Who doesn’t?
Right. He had kind of a square face. Couldn’t see his eye color or anything. He usually had a watch cap on. Didn’t pick up his hair color either.
Why you? I asked Andy. Did you know this guy, this Vladimir guy with the watch cap?
Lola laughed.
I may just be a marginally employed actor slash waiter, Andy said, but I’m kind of well known in this … milieu.
He’s a character, said Lola. He knows everybody. Everybody knows him.
So this Delgado thing wasn’t just made up for me?