Helluva Luxe (6 page)

“Can’t. I got it for him.” She grinned at me. “I’m in deeper than you think, baby.”

Several heavy beats of silence passed while we watched one another, and she took a long tug on her beer. I was choking on questions, but she picked up her food and stood to leave.

“I like you too much to get you involved.”

“Ash, wait.”

“Can’t,” she said. “Not anymore.”

Rorke stood up, dumped the ashtray, cleared our empty bottles, and grabbed her rag. She was suddenly a bartender again, but I felt like I’d been dropped from a high place.

“Whoa there, Nelly,” I said, reaching across the bar for her hand.

She snapped me with her rag. “We open in an hour.”

“You can’t leave me hanging, woman. Keep talking. I’ll help you set up the bar.”

“You’re doing that anyway, Salem.” She pushed an apron at me. A red one with black lace and horns on the pockets.

“Wearing this?”

“Nah. I just wanted to see if you’d put it on. Now be a good boy and stuff my box.” She patted the cooler and twitched her ass.

I chucked the apron back at her. “You’re finishing the story after last call.”

“Baby, the story ain’t ever over.”

Don’t I know it.

An hour later, my skin was on fire from the number of times she almost brushed up against me. Every inch of space behind that bar smelled like a woman. Like that woman. I’ve never been so hot without breaking a sweat. Too much leaning, too much eye contact, too many twisted smiles, and way too many smartass remarks. Her spicy friends were sharp as tacks, too, and they were damn thirsty. Even the coffin cooler mocked me.

And the music. Don’t get me started on the eerily suggestive music. Ash riding the board alone was like one long sexual encounter, building from open to close. If I survived the night, I planned to have a word with her about giving a guy a friggin’ break now and again. I needed the audio equivalent of a cold shower. Something like “Friday, I’m in Love.” I’m just not cut out for martyrdom anymore, and last call never sounded so good.

Rorke had me break down the bar while her ass watched a
Burns and Allen
retrospective and counted piles of cash. She was banding stacks of bills much heartier than ones. Every time the actors plugged Carnation Instant Milk, she started cackling like a voodoo queen, and she caught me watching her more than once. Then a commercial came on, and she muted the sound.

“You’re a trick behind the bar,” she said. She didn’t look up, but I saw her lip twitch.

I kept polishing the liquor bottles and let a beat pass. “What did you expect?”

“I forget,” she said. “But you’ve got a breakfast date, if you’re interested.”

“You don’t wanna crash?”

She stopped shuffling money and rolled her eyes at me. “Please, Salem.” Then she stood on the rungs of the stool, leaned over the bar, and retrieved a brushed metal thermos that was etched with the club’s twisted logo, black on black. Her name was monogrammed underneath. She set it on the bar in front of me, grabbed the waistband of my pants, and pushed a huge wad of bills down my front pocket. “Drink me,” she whispered. And then she whisked the rest of the cash away and disappeared through the swinging doors.

You’re damn right I drank it.
Bring it on,
I thought as I tossed it back. Whatever the hell was in that thermos tasted like melted sex. It was so good I even started watching
Burns and Allen
.

Rorke reappeared about twenty minutes later and led me out the back door to a private parking garage, lit with purple bulbs and painted like the inside of a spider web. We drove to a greasy spoon on the east side of town, right off the highway. The flickering sign spelled
Moonstems
, but half the bulbs were out, so it looked more like
Monsters
. And it sounded like a prehistoric bug zapper. When we walked through the door, the first thing I saw was a sandwich board with a list of cleverly worded rules about how not to piss of the wait staff. This meant we were in the place to be seen afterhours. And sure enough, we turned a corner and every square foot of available space was occupied by people who looked like they’d just left the Luxe. Angry punk was playing on the stereo, but you could barely hear it over the inebriated buzz.

Rorke suggested we sit outside, and I followed her.

The back patio was completely deserted. There were several metal tables with beach umbrellas attached, and no signs of life but a few grackle eating Splenda packets off the ground.

“Are you sure we’ll get waited on out here?”

“They know me,” she said.

She pulled a flask that matched her thermos from the inside pocket of her leather jacket and set it on the table occupying the darkest corner. Then she sparked the red candle in the middle of the table and used it to light her cigarette. She kicked up her boots on the extra chair, looked me dead in the eye, and exhaled. The air smelled like burgers and rain. I felt like I was participating in a ritual.

“Have a seat, Salem.”

I thought about pulling her up outta that chair and having my way with her, but I needed to eat first, so I sat down.

“What do you order?” I said.

“You get points for asking.” She leaned forward. “What you want is a basket of cheese fries with extra crispy bacon. They’re known for their breakfast tacos, omelets, and such, but you gotta trust me on this one.”

You would’ve thought she was giving me a racing tip, she said it so succinctly. I was obviously not dealing with a Diet Coke girl. I suspected as much before, but now I was certain. This was a woman who knew how to eat.

But then she said, “Jalapeños on the side.”

“Wait. What?
On the side
?”

“Your points have been retracted,” she said. She even crossed her arms.

“Now, hold up, woman. I know the rule. We’re on your turf, and I respect that. You obviously come here all the time, so I’d be a fool to order blind. But come on now. You could kill somebody with that knife in your hair, or the fork, for that matter, and you’re ordering japs on the side?”

“Lordy, lordy, look who’s waited tables.” She looked proud. “
Japs on the side.
I dig you, Salem. You know, waiters are the only people who can use that word. In any other world you’re gonna piss somebody off.”

“And you wouldn’t know that unless…”

“Oh yeah, sure. I’ve waited tables,” she said. “Are you kidding? I’m a lifer, obviously. And if you’re not man enough to order on-the-side, you’ll eat your own soggy fries.”

“The juice,” I said.

“You’re damn right, the juice. They’re not fresh.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Fair enough.”

She took a swig from the flask and handed it over. Then a pink-haired waitress banged out the back door, wearing more tattoos than clothes and singing a better than average Al Green. Rorke stood up, lazily wrapped an arm around the girl’s waist, and dipped her backward. Her lips brushed the girl’s neck as she whispered something, and they were both grinning when she introduced me. Then Rorke ordered for us, and the waitress banged back through the door, singing and grinning the same way she came out.

“Kari’s a good friend of mine,” she said, as if she knew what I was wondering. “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed, though.”

“Is that what you whispered?”

“Nah. I ordered you a side of ranch, pussy.”

“You’re such a bitch,” I said. I shook my head at her, but my smile was harder than anything I’d felt in a long time. “Finish your fucking story.”

“He fell in the doorway,” Wolf said.

I was in the back office with the staff, afterhours. We were rolling quarters and slinging dish about the regulars.

Not mine, of course. Nobody touches my crew, verbally or otherwise.

This was harmless stuff. Who snorted what. Who screwed whom. Who got caught in a bathroom stall, snorting what or screwing whom. The usual.

And then Wolf walked in with a mess on his hands.

Zayzl jumped up like there was a fire and demanded to know the same thing the rest of us were kinda wondering: Why the hell would Wolf bring some kid who couldn’t hold his fun into the office? Fools pass out in bars all the time. There’s a procedure staff should follow that doesn’t involve carrying limp bodies into the back office world where they can wreak havoc and lawsuits. Unless, of course…

“He asked for you before he hit the ground,” Wolf said, looking at Zayzl. “The kid’s clean.”

“My ass he’s not on anything!” Zayzl is shouting at this point. “Aw, Jesus, don’t put him in my favorite chair! Who the fuck is he?”

A beat of silence passed.

I sighed. I’d recognize that pouty mouth anywhere. Even on a dude. “He’s your ex-girlfriend’s little brother.”

Zayzl gaped at me like a fish.

He turned back to the kid and then back to me.

Wolf had his fists shoved in his pockets. He couldn’t seem to look anywhere but down. There was more, and it was stuck in his throat. I felt sorry for him.

And then he said, “She’s dead.”

A chair squeaked.

A clock ticked.

Ash unknowingly kicked on “There is a Light,” and my skin started to crawl. It was one of those moments you can feel sticking to you as it happens.

Zayzl walked out of the room.

Wolf reached for a bottle of liquor.

I lit two cigarettes.

“She OD’d, didn’t she?”

Wolf nodded. He handed me a shot, and I handed him a smoke.

“Does Ash know?”

He shook his head.

“Where’s Lily?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“The front’s locked up?”

He nodded.

We sat there for an hour without saying anything else, staring at the kid sleeping in our worn-out chair. It was the calm before the storm.

The next night, my crew gave me the laundry list of party drugs that chick was on. It’s a wonder she lived as long as she did. The police found what was left of her stash in that damn goat-shaped backpack. Her journal was there, too. Evidently, it would’ve landed her in the ward, if she’d survived. They said she’d been going for days.

All I could think was, thank god it didn’t happen in our bar. I was so happy she moved out. I didn’t feel sorry for her then, and I still don’t.

Her little brother, on the other hand, had no money and nowhere to go but back home to his folks. He said they lived on another planet in some doily-bedazzled Midwestern model home, and that they weren’t very open-minded.

I saw fear in his eyes.

He didn’t tell me what he was running from, but I knew he had to be desperate if he’d go to Zayzl, looking for help.

So I made a decision.

He goes by Chance now. He works security, the booth, the bar. Whatever needs to be done, he doesn’t care. He can do it all. Just turned twenty-three, and he thinks he wants to be me when grows up. He has these dark chocolate eyes. I don’t have the heart to tell him you never grow up if you live at the Luxe.

Oh, stop looking at me like that, Nick. You wouldn’t have sent him packing either, and you know it.

Obviously somebody had to help the kid, and Zayzl could hardly stand the sight of him. In fact, after her funeral, he officially crossed over to the dark side. He had a midlife crisis at thirty and started pulling any stunt that made him seem like a crazy badass, as long as he had an audience. If there was a bicycle in the bar, he rode her home and didn’t come back ’til the next day. When he wasn’t hitting on women, he was talking smack about Ash. She was just as secretive then as she is now, and people wanted to know about her. But not everybody trusted Zayzl as a reliable source, so his audience was limited to this band of outcasts who wanted in the family so badly they were willing to play dirty.

The nights Kendol and Z showed up were different. I didn’t like the way the bar felt when they were in it. Those two came complete with rechargeable batteries, their own soundtrack, and a plastic entourage that just kept growing. On their perpetual hunt for the latest It Girl, they collected this gaggle of users. It was exhausting to watch.

I can’t imagine a dozen people kissing my ass every night. I keep my girls around because they’d prefer to kick it.

But I’ll admit he got me under his lens once. It wasn’t planned, of course. I was tanked and surrounded by hot rock stars. That’s my excuse.

One sec, I think I have a copy in my wallet. It’s easy to see what kind of man Kendol is. Here, check it out, Nick.

Rorke handed me a small, worn photograph and flicked her Zippo so I could see. I leaned in.

It was him. The guy I’d hated on sight. The guy in the Steampunk gear, from the picture I found in the notebook I only dreamed I opened. Right after the fire that didn’t really happen. He was the only one, other than Rorke, that I didn’t recognize from MTV. And I’d be a monkey’s flaming uncle if he was straight. But sometimes you can’t be sure with little Goth boys who collect pretty women. He felt shady to me, with his huge, hollow eyes and his skinny turtle neck. Everything else about him was completely forgettable, which was probably why he changed his name to Kendol and started using his influence for evil. His sex appeal was all attitude and tight pants. I didn’t wonder what Lily saw in him. It was obvious he moved in circles beyond the reach of her little bar.

“We all met up at some show and then had an after-party at the Luxe. I think Chance took that picture.”

I handed it back to her and said, “Must’ve been one hell of a night.”

She nodded, her lips a straight line. She was still looking at the picture.

“Where was Lily?”

“Snuck off to meet Ash.”

“So you were a decoy.”

“Did you really think rock stars would be enough to get me on that carnivore’s dinner plate?” She settled back in her chair and lit a cigarette. “I’m my own fucking rock star.”

All of the sudden she seemed tired. But then our food arrived, and she picked up the thread of her story when she picked up her fork.