by J. D. Brink
That’s just one, yet undefined puzzle piece. Tonight’s surveillance of the nightlife should provide a few more pieces, for a more complete picture.
As a blond man on an Asian island, I’ll be noticeable. Most will see me as another tourist, but people like the Samoan may think more of me. I don’t know what it is, but we can usually sniff each other out. Criminal intuition, I suppose. It’s similar to how you can always pick out a cop or military personnel, something about how they carry themselves. The confidence of authority and the armor of righteousness. We shady types wear a cloak of suspicion and wrath. Our confidence is derived from a darker well.
I shit, shave, and shower. The mirror shows me to be a little worse for wear, thanks to Jerry and his friends. I don’t know what David Li did with them—nothing too drastic, I hope—but I’ll be disappointed if they don’t look at least as rough as I do right now. My right eye’s pretty bruised up, skin slightly splint on that cheek bone. Another scab like a claw mark above the left eye. My eyebrow tries to hide an end of it, but not well enough. My fingers easily locate the crusted wounds on the back of my head, too, three of them that perfectly match up with my finger pads. My hair covers those well, though. “They fucked up your pretty looks, Jack,” I tell the mirror. “Right before your big business trip, too.” My only worry about it is that I’ll come off as less than professional to Felix’s associate, Ms. Ming of Honk Kong. She sounds kind of prestigious, as crime princesses go. A beat-up errand boy might not impress so well.
“Fuck it,” I tell my reflection, shrugging. “What are you gonna do?”
Dressed in my blue button-down and slacks, I go the back route down the fire escape. Better to avoid the Samoan, or anyone else. I’ve got work to do, and I prefer not to be followed.
A cab drops me at the edge of the bar district, a rectangular grid of cracked asphalt and crumbling buildings that house the nightlifers here. There are street lamps, but their dim glow is edged out by brighter neons, reds, greens, and yellows that are bracketed outside each establishment: Lucky Night Poker Parlor, Ramey’s Roulette, TLC Karaoke, and The Broken Hearts Club, just to name a few. The girls outside their doors stretch out like cats in heat, bidding me welcome in various languages and accents as I stroll by.
I survey the whole strip once, then work my way back down. A short stay here and there, that’s my plan. And no alcohol, I tell myself. Lately, if I get a few in me, I’m unable to stop. I’m here on business and have to stay focused, alert. That’s what I tell myself.
But it doesn’t last, of course. I hit several hot spots, all with a similar atmosphere of exotic perfumes and secrets you’d rather not know. Cramped little gambling dens with banks of slot machines and feed-and-pull customers. Asian-style karaoke clubs, some with plenty of women showing plenty of skin, inviting you to join them in a private booth for a drink.
That’s surveillance, too, I tell myself. Who says you can’t enjoy your work?
I take it easy and stay professional, sipping my gin real slow and asking the right kinds of questions. The bartenders aren’t tight-lipped, either, having nothing to hide. Most admit to the usual business of pickpockets and prostitution being around here, and even the odd drug deal. But that’s it. There’s nothing major on these islands. Gambling’s legal, no one minds the hookers, and there are no strong-arms trying to force everyone under their rules. “As long as everyone’s having a good time and there’s no trouble,” the bartender at Ramey’s tells me, “no one cares.”
After hitting five or six places and finding the same results, I conclude that there is no local threat to us and that we’ve got no reason to worry about conducting our business.
So now I’m off the clock. The rest of the night is a tropical vacation.
A few more clubs, a few more drinks. My discipline relaxes, my vision and speech begin to blur, and I have some pointless conversations with the women of the night. Such a diverse crowd of them, too. Girls from China, Russia, the Philippines—everywhere the Pacific meets the shore, and always enough of them to go around. The clubs are small but not crowded, and the patrons include locals as well as visitors.
My final stop is the Moonlight Club, a strip joint on the last street of the row. Beyond it there are no lights and the night swallows up whatever is left of the rundown neighborhood. Pulses of music reverberate through the painted cinderblock walls. From the outside, it’s nothing special; aside from the loud music, it looks like the least interesting dump in the neighborhood.
Inside, however, I find it’s the busiest place in town and apparently everyone’s last stop. There are men at the bar and gathered around tables, all entertained by women who pretend to love them. Or, at least, to find them attractive and interesting. The lights are a low hazy blue, except for on stage, where they flash red and violet on girls who dance out of their clothes for whistles and greenbacks. The dancers come in pairs and those who aren’t on stage walk the club, meeting and greeting guys in their seats. I sit down at a small, empty table in the corner, my back to the wall, and order what I tell myself is the last drink of the evening.
The door opens to my right and a cool draft blows into this oven, right between two men in white uniforms, their duds highlighted by the party atmosphere. They’re sailors; shore patrol. That’s when it dawns on me that most of these young guys enjoying themselves here are probably off of some ship, docked in port for the night. I smile at the stereotype.
The girls on stage, however, are not smiling. Am I the only one who sees this? Their expressions contradict their gyrating bodies, faces dull and bored—like erotic Disneyland exhibits in the Hall of Prostitutes. One girl on stage accidentally makes eye contact with me and instantly perks up, caught in the act of reality.
“More illusions,” I say, but lift my glass to her anyway. She gets back into it and her wavy hips seem suddenly aimed in my direction.
“Enjoy it,” I tell myself. “Stop seeing through the trick and just pretend to enjoy the magic. Go with the flow, asshole. You’re on vacation, for fuck’s sake.” A double sip of gin helps persuade me.
A fog machine vomits cool vapor as the next dancer makes her shadowy entrance. The artificial cloud snakes down the stage, beneath tables, and around the big room. A red spotlight catches the dancer wearing nothing but a Dracula cape.
Soon the same animatronic girl I’d caught in reality wanders over and sits next to me, somewhat clothed again. Under the lights of the club she glows with a blue angelic light, reflected off her skimpy white dress. She looks pretty young, but her almond-shaped eyes show the callused indifference of experience.
A few words and her hand’s on my knee, coaxing a twenty dollar drink out of me. We smile at each other and chat the chat of such places.
“My name Suzy,” she says in broken English. Obviously her Americanized, professional name.
“I’m Jack.” My professional name.
“You are have fun?”
“Sure.” I pause, realizing the bland tone of my delivery, and add, “Now that you’re here.”
Her little round shoulders bunch up, faking a blush under blue light, and she loops one arm in mine. She looks around the club for a few seconds, then asks, “What your job, Jack?”
“I’m an art dealer.”
She nods, though I doubt she knows quite enough English to know what I mean. Doesn’t really matter, of course. The language barrier probably spares her a lot of lies.
“You are alone? You have wife? Girlfriend?”
“Nope. Just me.”
She nods again and moves closer to whisper in my ear, though against this noise whisper just means to yell with her hand cupped against my head. “You like me?”
The sensible voice in my head warns me of where this is going, but gin and loneliness remind me that I’m on fucking vacation. “Sure, I like you.”
Fake, practiced giggles. “You bad, Jack?”
The question reminds me of something Edgar once told me: You’re not bad, Jack, not the way t
he rest of us are. You’re just bored.
I shake Eddie’s hairy visage from my head and concentrate on the smooth, elfin face that’s inches from my own. The alcohol is releasing safeguards I’ve held on to for far too long. What’s the harm? I’m on vacation.
“I can be,” I tell her lips, “when I have to be. When I want to be.”
“I no dance for long time, Jack.” Her hand slides up into my lap. “Want you go my place?”
Instead of a flush of warmth, though, I feel cold air blowing on my ear; the door has opened again. I instinctively look past her through the blue haze of the room. A rotund figure is silhouetted as the door closes. The club’s lights and vapor move in on him. He’s a squat black man, built like a potbellied stove and cloaked in a shiny pleather trench coat. Are my eyes really this good, or is it that they already know what to expect? Even at a distance, I see the uneven shape of his half-ass beard, sparse whiskers poking out from his spherical face. A short stogie with a glowing red tip sprouts from his thick lips. That tip flares, as if to announce his presence. An off-duty stripper rushes up to greet him and I hear his gruff voice growl something at her: his name, Petey Jackson, rumbled with pride.
“Shit,” I breathe aloud. I’ve only met Petey a few times, but he left an impression. No doubt in my mind that he’s exactly the troublesome, unprofessional asshole Edgar and the others always talk about. And since I basically replaced him in Felix’s little family, he has a special kind of love for me, which he’s verbally stated, just be make sure that it’s clear. These days, Petey works for whoever is desperate enough or ignorant enough to hire him. And it cannot be a coincidence that he’s on this island right now.
The fat shit saunters past without noticing me and takes a seat by the stage. The petite girl who greeted him brings a drink a minute later and awkwardly sits on his lap.
I turn back to Suzy, who’s looking at me with a bit of worry, like maybe she’s lost her score and will have to start over again with some other chump. I give her a polite smile and am about to get up to leave when the door opens again. I settle back into my seat to wait for a clear exit.
Damn. This is getting ugly.
This time it’s the Samoan from the hotel, along with some skinny Filipino guy in a textured leather jacket, something like alligator skin. That’d make a nice lucky garment. I wonder if he’s… but no; his feet are sheathed in white Reeboks that glow in the dark light. Unlikely he’s the polished dress shoes the Samoan followed up the stairs. Which makes them a party of three now, at least.
Suddenly I’m very interested in Suzy. I bury my face in hers and we start kissing. She’s confused for a second, but gets with the program quickly. I feel the gravity of the Samoan as he saunters past. He and his friend take stools at the bar and watch Dracula stalk another stripper on stage.
No, wait… They’re watching Petey.
I curse myself for drinking too much and start calculating scenarios. Seems to me that Petey is working for another interested party who heard about Ms. Ming’s tiles. But she’s already made a deal with Felix. So either Ming’s left herself open to a higher bid, or Petey just plans to take them by force. Could be he’s even here running solo and just wants the chance to screw up Felix’s deal, purely for spite. That seems most likely to me. In which case, he might have a friend still at the card factory who tipped him off. I’ll have to remember that.
These other guys, the Samoan and the Filipino, are probably locals. But from everything I’ve heard tonight, there’d be no local smuggling ring or crime syndicate—at least not for sophisticated items like we’re dealing with. Maybe these guys are undercover cops of some kind? But if so, why the hotel room? Having a room suggests they’re visiting, like me.
Guess my scouting mission turned up some tangling strings after all.
It’s time to leave, though I’ll need the girl for cover.
She’s staring at me, clearly lost as my interest in her comes and goes.
“Okay, Suzy-Q,” I whisper in her ear, “you win. Let’s go to your place.”
She draws back with a sly grin, darts back in for a quick kiss, then dashes away to the bar. The bartender probably regulates the flesh peddling side of the business, too. She leans over the wooden rail right next to the alligator-skinned Filipino, but he doesn’t notice. He and his large friend are still watching Petey. That potbellied bastard, meanwhile, is juggling his little brass cigar cutter between his fingers, maybe trying to hypnotize his own stripper into finding him attractive. He’s completely oblivious to the world around him.
Suzy comes back and takes my hand. I shuffle her along quickly, keeping her between me and the bar. We break into the street light and Suzy’s angelic blue aura drops away. Her white dress is worn at the edges. Her skin is tan but imperfect, pockmarked and scratched here and there, black hair smooth but uneven, like she cuts it herself. She turns back to me and smiles, leading me by the hand. We pass by a few more bars wordlessly and turn down an alley. Ten more yards in and I stop with a shake of my head. Her face bunches up, not hurt but angry; I’m reneging on our business arrangement. As compensation, I give her a polite thank you for her company and twenty bucks for her time. Date’s over.
Eleven
A cab gets me back to the hotel. The place is all but abandoned—a ghost town compared to earlier. There’s a sleepy-looking teenage girl working the front desk, gossiping on the phone to stay awake. A man in a suit is seated on the other side of the lobby, facing the beach. His posture is perfect, hands folded in his lap, sitting motionless. I can’t see his face, but imagine that his eyes are closed. Mediating to the sound of the surf, maybe? Sounds peaceful.
This empty calm is also an opportunity. I take to the stairs and creep down to room 213. There’s no noise inside and no one else in the hall, so I slide the leather case from my jacket pocket and subdue the deadbolt.
The door eases open. It’s dark inside, but there’s no snoring or sleeper’s breathing, so I slip in and close up behind me.
Flipping the light on reveals nothing. Literally. The room is empty, unlived-in. The sheets haven’t been moved since the bed was made, all the little tucks still in place. There’s no luggage in the closet, no clothes in the drawers. All four plastic cups are still sealed in their cellophane wrappers, all the complimentary junk food is still on the counter, and the micro-liquor bottles are unopened in the mini-fridge.
Did they check out in the few hours I’ve been gone? Check-out is usually in the morning, though, and that’s when the housekeepers make their rounds. Unlikely they’d have cleaned up and made the bed so late in the evening.
So who the hell checks into an island hotel with no luggage, no change of clothes, not even a tooth brush?
Back in my room, I bolt and chain the door, then strip clean of my smoky clothes. I’m no longer as drunk as I was, nor sleepy. There are library books and a deck of cards to distract me, but I’m pretty tired of both by now. Instead, I cut the lights and go out onto the terrace.
My skin ripples with goosebumps, but the night air feels good. Four stories below, the water is quietly washing in and out, reflecting the pale moon and the light of the open lobby. Tiny waves crest, break, and crash, only to be absorbed again. It’s a soothing lullaby. I stare out and let my mind go.
And realize what I’ve found: A mystery. Finally, the magician’s secrets aren’t so easy to see. Though I am nervous about these strange new developments, I must admit, there’s something thrilling about the situation. It’s been so long since I’ve been challenged, I’ve forgotten what it’s like. This would indeed make a good final task for Felix’s learned thug.
And as I stare out at the black waves appearing from the void, a voice whispers at the back of my mind: Or maybe it need not be final after all?
A figure emerges onto the beach below me. Little more than a thin silhouette from here. Could be the meditating man from the lobby.
A voice calls from my right, down the beach, anonymous over the noise of th
e surf. Three more people approach, highlighted against the moving sea. One lanky, two large; one of them a cyclops with a burning red eye. Petey’s cigar?
They come closer and confirm my suspicions: the cyclops does resemble a potbellied stove, the other two a Laurel and Hardy pairing that match the Samoan and his Filipino friend.
Voices struggle up toward me, but I can’t make out any words over the white noise of the ocean. Petey stops in his tracks at one point but is muscled back into motion. The four of them finally come together. Petey gets searched while bellowing in protest. The suit from the lobby (I’m convinced it’s him now) just stands there calm as can be with his hands behind his back. If he’s saying anything, I can’t hear it from up here. The Filipino finishes the pat-down and comes away with a few things—probably a pistol among them.
The cigar flares. Petey tries to get physical but gets forced to his knees.
It’s quiet for a moment. The suit may be speaking again.
They help Petey to his feet and all four start down the beach together, away from the hotel.
My body jerks as if to follow, but my hands hold firm on the terrace rail. Going after them… probably not the best idea I’ve had today. They’re no doubt armed and sure come off as unfriendly. While I usually carry an Edgar with me, who’s both armed and unfriendly when he needs to be, I’d be pretty much defenseless without him. And after getting my ass handed to me last night by three guys just out for a little “you made my friend cry” revenge, I’m not too eager to get caught trailing four goons with more serious shit on their minds.
Instead, I try giving Eddie a call.
The night clerk at the Dynasty Hotel and Casino sounds pissed at being disturbed, but connects me to Edgar’s room anyway, where I get no answer. Not a surprise. I just hope it’s because he’s out gambling away his money, rather than finding the same kind of trouble over there that I’m finding here. I’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.
