Drawing Dead (45 page)

I turned around.

He patted me down. He did a good job. I’m not sure how I felt about that.

He didn’t find a gun.

I didn’t have one.

Shit.

He turned to the door. For the first time I noticed it. It looked solid. Painted black. Crosshatched metal bracing. Huge bronze hinges. There was a small grate in the middle. He bent over. Whispered into it.

The door swung open. He stepped aside. Just enough to let me squeeze by with maximum humility.

Inside, there was a cage. Behind the cage, a counter. Seated at the counter was a woman. She had purple bouffant hair. Pink lipstick. A scarlet bustier. A startling cleavage. And a very deep voice.

Fifty bucks, she rumbled.

Seemed like this was the standard rate in Vegas for entry to places you didn’t want to go.

I just gave Mr. Big fifty bucks, I lied. Outside.

She looked at me. She rolled her eyes. She sighed.

Fifty bucks, she repeated.

How much are the drinks? I asked. No, let me guess. Fifty bucks?

You’re funny, she said, unamused.

I found a fifty in my pockets. Folded the bill in half, lengthwise. Placed it neatly on the counter. Flicked it with my fingernail, shooting it under the grate. It neatly stopped inches in front of her.

Made me feel good about myself. Like maybe I should have made the team.

Second door on the right, she said in the same bored baritone.

I went down a corridor. The walls were too close. The ceiling too low. I could turn around, I said to myself, go back to the motel. Let Brendan rest in peace. The cops can handle it. Write off the fifty. Go to the Wynn. Play in a fat cash game. Win it back, with vigorish.

I kept walking. It was dark enough I had to feel my way. It seemed ten minutes before I found a door. The first door. Unless I’d missed the first door. I could have missed the first door. I looked for a doorknob. Here at the first, or second, door. An aperture. A buzzer to ring. More likely, I thought, a brass knocker. In the shape of a large male member, perhaps.

The door was blank.

I kept walking. The walls seemed even closer. An illusion, though, I figured.

Fear will do that to you.

The corridor suddenly widened. The second door hove into view. You couldn’t miss this one. A startling blood red in the unrelenting black. A large brass knocker. In the shape of … I wasn’t sure. Symmetrical mounds. Buttocks, perhaps. Yes. A puckered aperture between.

An ass knocker.

Jesus.

As I was steeling myself to touch the thing, the door opened. A tall black creature in a yellow vinyl miniskirt, ripped muscles and nipple rings gave me a white-on-white smile.

Welcome, it said.

Thanks, I mumbled.

First time? it asked.

Uh, yeah. Is it that obvious?

Don’t be shy. Come on in. We don’t bite. Well, not right away.

It laughed. A high-pitched shriek of a laugh.

I’m Heather, it said.

Hi, Heather. I’m Rocco.

Its laugh tinkled.

Inside, they’d done it up in classic … antique hospital. There were anatomical charts on the walls. Things from the forties and fifties. Genitalia, the crosscut view. The digestive tract. Unappetizing skin conditions. Didn’t want to know. There was a gynecological table against the wall. Stirrups. The top covered in fifties green plastic. On it were artfully placed a too-large speculum, a mock-up vagina and a set of mammaries originally designed, it appeared, to assist in teaching the art of breast examination.

An educational institution.

The hospital green was relentless, relieved only here and there with splashes of yellow. Parachute ceilings in green. Small green lamps. Arched doorways, leading to other green places.

That must have been where everybody was. The other places. Where the fun happened.

There was a bar against the left wall. An oasis.

I headed straight for it.

Hector will be right with you, Heather tinkled.

I pulled up a green velvet stool.

The bar was fully stocked, I was pleased to note. Tier on tier of beautiful bottles, lit green from below. A nice aquatic green. My mouth watered.

Hector appeared. She wore a chain mail halter top. She had a square jaw and a soul patch. She smiled. She winked. I admired her fishnet stockings. She handed me a menu. The menu offered:

• Thermometer
  

• Turkey baster
  

• Sewing kit
  

• Pink duct tape
  

• Yo-yo
  

• Fishing rod
  

• Selection of marbles
  

• Skull clips
  

• Mangina
  

• Disposable diapers
  

• Cat-woman
  

• Doggy bag
  

And that was just the first page.

Uh, how about a scotch? I asked.

We can do that too, she said.

As she poured me the libation, I decided to take the straightforward approach.

I’m kind of new to this, I said.

She looked at me in mock surprise.

Oh, I said. I guess you can tell.

You never know, she said, laughing a friendly laugh.

So, I said. I may have a few questions about the menu.

We’re here to assist. In fact, it’s my middle name.

Really?

Yes. My full name is Hector I Gonna Assist Yo Ass to Have a Good Time Charlie.

Charlie, I said. An unusual family name.

Hector laughed long and loud, spraying the bar top with whatever pink and green substance it was she’d been ruminating out of a shot glass as we talked.

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 surprisingly 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.