by Sean Platt
Ephraim strolled the outer lip of the restaurant, earning looks from the wait staff who were entering orders into the computer and moving in and out of the kitchen. Two of the wait staff, at separate times, tried to show Ephraim where the restrooms were, thinking he was lost. Ephraim thanked each of them then kept searching. More heads turned.
He left the restaurant, eyeing the doorman so he’d be let back in. He looked around one edge of the building, then the other. Then back inside. There were a few people in the bar and main foyer, which was a carbon copy, Ephraim noticed, of the foyer through which he’d entered. Nowhere did anything point to what Mercer might have meant. The man himself was nowhere to be found.
Ephraim rolled the quarter across the back of his knuckles — an old trick he’d once used to pass the time. This was all a joke. There were many questions between Ephraim and whatever action he was supposed to take. For one, why would he want to call Mercer, especially considering that he’d so recently spoken to the man in person? Second, what exactly was Ephraim supposed to want, by Mercer’s definition?
A voice inside him said: Someone sent you here. They let you in and acted like you belonged. There’s a connection, in this place, to the clones.
Keep looking.
A man appeared at Ephraim’s side. The bald man from earlier.
“Can I help you with anything, sir?”
“No thank you.”
“Whenever you are ready, Montreal is prepared to take your order.”
Ephraim wasn’t hungry. This was all too strange.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“The restrooms are in the back if that’s what you’re searching for.”
“No. I just stepped out here to, ah, make a call.”
The bald man’s eyes flicked toward Ephraim’s quarter. Then he nodded to a dark-paneled corner near the edge of the bar. “Right there, sir.”
Ephraim followed the nod to an all-wood nook built into the restaurant’s wall where the bar ended. It looked ancient, like something from when the Chez Luis building was new over a century ago.
The nook held a bench and a large black object. An antique pay phone. Something from the days before mobiles that Ephraim had heard about from older relatives but never seen.
“Why do you even have a …?”
The bald man was already moving away.
Ephraim looked around self-consciously, then slid into the booth.
There was a slot on the base of the phone. Ephraim dropped the quarter into it.
To his left, there was a click. Behind the bench, invisible from the bar area, one of the panels opened a sliver into darkness.
You shouldn’t open that, Ephraim thought. You shouldn’t go in there.
CHAPTER 20
DEEPER
A continuity glitch, and then Ephraim was somewhere new.
He couldn’t go back to check what had happened in the last few minutes, though. The ruby-lit room he stood in now had MyLife jammers in its corners. They were obvious, not even slightly hidden. This was a place that nobody wanted on record — a place that wanted guests to know their MyLife recordings were being obfuscated. Because how else could the secret visitors to this place trust that their exploits would stay private?
He felt vertigo, but even without MyLife Ephraim was clear about the odd path he’d just taken.
He’d come through a hidden door in an ancient phone booth.
He’d come down stairs.
He’d entered a room that looked like a 1920’s jazz club.
And now, somehow, he was dancing with an impossibly beautiful woman.
Their bodies felt strange, moving together. Good, but odd. The girl was exactly Ephraim’s type — or would have been, back before emotional turbulence and the fear of losing his mind had swallowed his libido.
Ephraim stopped. He didn’t usually dance and didn’t precisely understand how the woman had managed to get him on the floor. It had happened on assumption rather than consent. Ephraim had appeared in the warm, softly appointed room and the woman had approached him as if he had every right in the world to be there.
She hadn’t asked him to dance so much as commandeered him. And he’d gone with it, willingly enough. As if he hadn’t fully had his volition, but instead was programmed to follow instructions.
“Is something wrong?” she asked as his movements ceased.
“No.”
“You don’t want to dance?”
Such a simple yet complicated question. No, Ephraim didn’t want to dance. But why the hell would she assume that he would? And what was this place, hidden beneath one of the city’s most exclusive restaurants? Why were these people down here, and why had none of them flinched at Ephraim’s arrival? Why had the first act of his accidental hostess, on meeting him, been to get him waltzing?
“No,” he repeated.
“Would you rather we do something else?” The question was heavy with subtext, like she was implying specific kinds of something else.
Ephraim looked her over. The woman was long and lean, like a dancer. She had dark skin, blushed lips, deep brown eyes, and a body that curved in all the right places. Her long gown clung to her like a full-body stocking.
“Like what?”
“Whatever you want, Mr. Todd.”
“Whatever I want?”
She nodded.
“What about what you want?”
“I want what you want.”
“What is this place?” he asked.
“It’s a place for you. That’s all that matters.”
“I don’t think I belong.”
“You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. Mr. Fox told a few of us you were on your way. He said to take care of you.”
“A few of who?”
“The companions here.”
Ephraim look around again, trying to see the place with fresh eyes. The room was soft and mellow. Low jazz haunted the background. Several couples moved on the polished-wood dance floor around them, but beyond that, the long space was all couches and chairs. Corners had been draped off with red curtains. Behind one of them, Ephraim could see silhouettes, moving in rhythm.
“What do you mean, ‘companions’? Do you mean women?”
“Or men. Depending on your preference.”
Ephraim waited for more, but there was none. The woman stood silently by his side, hands clasped at her waist.
“You work here?” Ephraim asked.
“Depending on how you look at it. I am here. That’s all that matters.”
“Do you like it?”
“I like what you like.” She gestured to a group of couches around a coffee table. “Would you care for a seat?”
Ephraim looked. The couches weren’t empty. On one end, two leggy women were rubbing the chest of an older man in a suit and whispering in his ear. On the other end, a middle-aged woman was sitting with a well-built man, several buttons of his dress shirt undone. Every few seconds, the muscular man would reach forward and brush the hair from the woman’s neck, then stroke it.
“I should go,” Ephraim said, watching the people on the couches. Now that he’d tuned into it, he could hear their heavier breathing even above the jazz. It was hard to watch, despite the fact that a few of the room’s occupants were now staring right at him — and not like they wanted him to leave.
“Go? But you’ve only just arrived.”
“I didn’t mean to come down here. I just wanted to see where the door went.”
“You couldn’t have opened the door without an invitation.”
“I didn’t get any—”
She had to mean the quarter. It probably had a coded microchip embedded in it, meant to open the secret door when plunked into the slot.
“This isn’t my scene.”
“You don’t like it?” the girl said. “Or perhaps you don’t like me?”
“It’s not that. It’s …” This was ridiculous. Was he worried about offending what was probably a prostitute?
�
�I’m not sure I was clear when you arrived. The Lair is invitation only. You are here as a guest. There are no charges to your account if that’s a concern.”
He remembered Mercer saying, Dinner is on the house. Apparently, so was the sex.
“Come with me,” she said. “I promise I can do better.”
“It’s not a matter of—”
But she had his hand, and steered him away from the couches with necking couples, away from the dance floor, past what sounded like a well-mannered orgy, hidden behind additional hangings. Ephraim could see flashes of skin and hear subtle staccato grunts.
She led him to a far corner where no human sounds overwhelmed them. There were more couples making out — some far along in their stages of undress and fondling — but they weren’t within arm’s reach. The underground room was large, like a modest warehouse buried beneath a quarter of the city block. Hangings gave the illusion of separation and rooms, but there didn’t seem to be much concern for privacy. If he waited long enough or toured far enough, Ephraim was sure he’d see much more advanced displays of public affection.
“I should go,” Ephraim repeated.
The girl sat on one of the couches. “Sit with me first.”
“I don’t want to. I’m not exactly interested in—”
“Just sit.”
He did. Across from, not next to the girl. He waited for her move, half-expecting her to reach back and unzip her dress, or hike it up. But she sat demurely, legs crossed, fingers braided atop a smooth knee.
“Some people come here ready to admit what they like. But most hide what they like, even from themselves.”
“Oh,” Ephraim said.
“It’s okay. There is no judgment here. There are many tastes, and we are always happy to comply. The staff is yours to choose from. You may be with anyone, and nobody will express a preference for or against. It may take you time to become comfortable expressing your desires, but it will come. For now, just talk. We can sit here, you and me.”
“I don’t know how I got here.”
“You came down from the restaurant.”
“But I don’t think I should be here, invitation or no.”
“Mr. Fox seems to think you should.”
“I don’t know Mr. Fox.”
“He seems to know you.”
“I’m not into … I mean I wasn’t looking for this … scene.”
“What scene are you looking for?”
“It’s hard to say.”
“Try.”
Ephraim watched the girl. She was probably 21 or 22 but carried herself as though she were much older. Like someone who had already made peace with who she was.
“Do you like women?”
Yes, but that’s not what I want right now. I came here after a web search I made to prove my story about Eden. I didn’t know I was going to a sex club. Hell, I didn’t even know I was going to dinner.
Ephraim’s newest hole felt a thousand feet deep. He should have left when Mercer came to his table, or when he’d realized he would have to paw through garbage to reach the VIP door. Now he was in an underground lair, getting questioned about his preferences.
He should get up. Just go.
But something stopped him. He’d searched for Sophie Norris, intending to track down the stray clones he was certain were out there. That search had brought him here. And he wasn’t just looking for “Sophies.” Any proof would do.
Eden’s celebrity clones were manufactured sex slaves. Despite his discomfort, this bizarre turn of events might be par for the course.
Steer the conversation. She wants to know what you’re looking for? Tell her. Ask for what you want. Ask for what you came here to find.
The girl waited. He met her eyes, realizing that his body and mind were betraying him. Whether or not he wanted to be, Ephraim was attracted to this woman.
Saying what she wanted him to say while meeting her eyes was surely crossing a line. Taking this thing too far.
He looked away, mostly mumbling. “Yes. I like women.”
“Have you ever had more than one at a time?”
“Maybe,” he said, uncomfortable and strangely uncertain. Wasn’t that the kind of thing a man would remember?
“Would you like to try?”
He shook his head. Now he couldn’t meet her eye.
“Anything you’ve dreamed, we can do for you here.”
But what have you dreamed, Ephraim? What do you like? What do you prefer? What turns you on; what turns you off; what kind of girl do you like and what attracts you? Are you even straight?
Maybe you’re gay.
The last thought entered Ephraim’s mind like a challenge, and all of a sudden, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he was gay. The idea of being with a man was neither alluring nor repellant once considered.
Maybe he was bisexual. Why the hell didn’t he know?
The girl stood, then moved to Ephraim’s couch.
She sat beside him and touched his leg. “We can begin if you’d like. See where things take us.”
No. This was wrong. All of it.
Ephraim was suddenly aware that he didn’t have much in the way of preferences. How the hell did a guy get to be forty without building a catalog of likes, dislikes, fantasy, and revulsion? He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had sex (on the island with Elle?).
The feeling of realization, the emptiness, was like falling into a pit.
The woman leaned in to kiss him.
Ephraim pulled away, and she opened her eyes.
“What I want,” he said, forcing himself to focus, “isn’t available here.”
He thought the woman might be offended. He thought she might try to convince him otherwise. Instead, she pulled all the way back and nodded.
“All right,” she said, her voice somehow different.
Without another word, she stood and walked away.
Sixty seconds later, a man wearing a blue blazer approached him. When the man moved, the coat opened just enough for Ephraim to see a holster beneath it, the butt of his gun visible in the room’s soft light.
A guard. The man was security, meant finally to kick Ephraim out as the intruder he’d been from the start.
“This way, sir,” he said.
The man turned and walked a few steps away. Ephraim rose and followed.
But instead of going back toward the stairs out of the Lair to show Ephraim out, the man led him towards its back.
Not shallower.
Deeper.
CHAPTER 21
THE DEN
The man in the blazer led Ephraim out of the posh room, through a utilitarian-looking door, and down a long patchwork corridor. Some parts of the concrete walls looked new, and some looked old — like two underground spaces had been cobbled together by a new passage.
The corridor was half-heartedly lit with buzzing overheads and lined with steel doors. Behind the doors, Ephraim could hear activity that he found hard to interpret. Some sounded like exuberant passion. Some like fighting. Some had lights visible under the doors, though the rooms themselves were cemetery silent. An ominous sense of presence came from those rooms; someone was in there, but they weren’t sleeping, or content. The opposite of pleasure was suffering silently in those rooms.
“Where are you taking me?” Ephraim asked.
The man kept walking, giving no reply.
The corridor finally widened into a room much smaller than the draped place they’d come from, but it had made little attempt at design or decor.
Walls were hewn stone rather than finished plaster or paneling, making the place resemble a dungeon. Its atmosphere was wet; cool air tinged with the musk of something growing, the stone sweating condensation. This room, like the last, was partitioned with drapes — though these were heavier, perhaps even plasticized. But unlike the last chamber, it wasn’t hard for Ephraim to imagine what was happening in the concealed spaces.
Even from where they stood he could see restraint devices,
shackles, supplicant benches, and pegboards lined with whips and clamps. Unseen voices barked indecent commands. Hidden victims whispered obedience, their voices somehow both afraid and enthralled, pain mingled with pleasure.
“You misunderstood,” Ephraim told the guard, his heart beginning to thud in his chest. “She misunderstood. I’m not interested in any of this.”
Again, the man said nothing. They apparently weren’t at their destination. He led Ephraim through the dank room then out its other side, moving into another long corridor.
How big was this place? Had they taken over the basements of every building on the block, then connected them with tunnels like a rabbit warren?
“Where are we?” Ephraim asked.
This time, in the second long and echoing hallway, the guard responded.
“They call this place The Den.”
“What happens in these rooms?” They were passing more steel doors, this time smaller and regularly spaced. It was a little like walking past prison cells with no bars or windows. Or down the hall of an asylum’s darkest ward.
The man looked back, suspicious.
“I mean, what can I get here?” he asked, deflecting.
Without turning again, Ephraim’s escort said, “Whatever you negotiate.”
They walked on. The ceiling became lower. Voices echoed with the ghostly stir of an unseen crowd. Both ahead and behind, the hallway seemed to end in dark corners. The lights above were bare, covered in tiny metal cages. The floor felt slick and mossy.
Ephraim plucked up his courage. Not feeling it, he said, “I want to negotiate something extreme.”
“That’s between you and the boss.”
“You’ve seen extreme things negotiated before,” Ephraim said, meaning it as a question.
They stopped. The door ahead was more ornate than the others, heavy metal and probably a thousand pounds, strapped like a wine cask. The handle was thick enough that the escort’s fingers didn’t meet when he grasped it.
“No sir,” he said. “I don’t see anything.”
He opened the door and stood back. Inside, Ephraim heard a cacophony of human noise but could only see blackness.
“Take me back,” Ephraim said, peering into the dark room, trying to hide his shaking hands. “I don’t want any of what’s here.”
