“I don’t know, Burt.”
For the first time since he stepped into his boss’s office, Burton met Jack’s gaze.
“It’s not optional, Jack. I’m sorry, but this is the way it’s gonna have to be.”
The two men sat in silence for several moments. Finally, Jack rose and walked to the door but couldn’t bring himself to turn the handle. He knew Burton would think the hesitation had something to do with Jack’s reservations about the ultimatum he’d just been given. But at that moment, he was actually thinking about the empty hallways lying just outside the door.
“I know it stinks, kid,” said the producer. “But what can you do?”
It was the exact same question Jack had been asking himself for years.
Jack practically ran to the studio and didn’t dare look behind him.
When he got there, the place was deserted. Jack realized everyone would have gone to the wrap party; the crew had bugged out, too. Not even Rosa had cared to wait for Jack. He didn’t blame her, though, after the class-A freak out he’d treated her to the night before.
Jack ran for the elevators and pushed the down button. But then he had second thoughts. It was better to keep moving. Staying in one place was his enemy.
He thought he saw something dark flicker at the fringe of his vision, the fluttering edge of that disquieting, undulating cloak.
Jack bolted for the stairwell door.
He threw himself down the stairs, skipping as many as he dared. If he fell, he knew the thing would be on him in a second.
The sound of Jack’s feet on the metal steps reverberated through the shaft, and his heart pounded faster and faster until he thought it would explode in his chest. He thanked God he was going down and not up.
As Jack neared the ground floor, he was sucking in breaths in big gulps, half inhaling, half swallowing.
On the last flight, the tip of his shoe caught a bit of tread at just the wrong angle. He pitched forward. At the last second, he latched onto the railing to keep from smashing his skull on the steps below. His considerable mass twisted around, and he suddenly could see behind him.
The billowing blackness cascaded down the stairs toward Jack.
He let out a stifled gasp and struggled to right himself. He then made the split-second decision to forgo the remaining steps and jumped, slamming into the concrete floor at the bottom. Painful shockwaves shot from his feet into his spine. But he ignored the unpleasant sensation, knowing it was nothing compared to what he’d be subjected to if he didn’t find some people and fast.
As he reached for the door, he felt five sharp pricks against his back. He cried out and pulled on the handle with all his might. He emerged into the lobby and started to run even though he knew it was too late.
“You okay, Mr. Duffy?”
Jack looked toward the sound of the voice.
Of course! The security guard. At least one was always on duty down here.
Jack spun around and watched the stairwell door close with a click. Nothing behind him. Not anymore, not with someone else there.
“Mr. Duffy?” said the security guard.
“Uh … yeah,” said Jack. He was wheezing like a rusty, old Pontiac. “Just, uh … it’s a new workout thing I’m trying out. Stair running.”
“Sure,” said the guard. “Can I get you some water or something?”
Jack swallowed. “No, no. You just stay right there. That’s fine.”
“Call you a cab, then?”
“Yeah, sure, that would be great.”
While he waited for the taxi, Jack wandered over to the entrance. A pair of nicely dressed ladies were hanging around just outside. They looked like they might be college coeds from the U. The girls caught sight of Jack and started pointing and screaming the way that fans do.
Jack opened the door.
“You girls catch the show tonight?” he said.
“Sure did,” said the blonde.
“It was so good,” said the redhead with melodramatic enthusiasm.
Jack smiled and stepped out onto the sidewalk, just as his cab pulled up to the curb.
“Hey, you wanna go to a party?”
The two girls squealed.
Jack opened the car door and ushered the ladies inside before trundling in after them. And then he breathed a much needed sigh of relief.
Safe.
Safe for now.
III
They’d booked a club called Trance for the wrap party. It was a nice place, but it could’ve been a burned-out meat-packing plant for all Jack cared, as long as there were people, the more the better.
The soiree was in full-swing by the time Jack arrived, a girl on each arm. The bouncer unclipped the velvet rope and allowed Jack and his two-person entourage through without a word. He hollered as he crossed the threshold and was greeted by dozens of enthusiastic shouts from all who heard him over the thumping beat.
He made the rounds and greeted the fans who’d rated the guest list, gave bear hugs to the studio execs who’d bothered to show up, and high-fived his fellow cast members and the crew he recognized.
This was Jack’s element. Gone were the thoughts of his dismal meeting with Burton, plenty of time to worry about all that in the morning. When Jack was engaged with another human being—making people laugh, being on—he could almost forget all those things in his life causing him strife, let it all fade into the background like some dream, which, upon waking, first becomes hazy then evaporates from the mind altogether.
He could even forget about that thing that should not be.
But in the moments in between, those little voids that interspersed the bursts of raucous—though ultimately empty—interactions, the terror would rip his gut apart. And then he would latch onto the next group, the next audience—the more liberally lubricated, the better.
“Well, another season in the books,” said Rosa.
Jack greeted her with an overly enthusiastic embrace, making her spill the martini in her hand.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” He shouted to make sure Rosa could hear him over the blaring music.
“How you feeling?” she said.
“Better, yeah.” He lied, making sure he grinned and nodded like an idiot as he did it, too.
“I’m glad.”
The two girls Jack arrived with had vanished by then, probably slipping into the crowd to look for someone more famous. It wasn’t the first time that kind of thing had happened, but Jack didn’t really mind.
“Hey, let’s dance,” he said.
“Oh, Jack, I don’t know …”
Rosa’s objection seemed to lack a certain degree of conviction. Jack knew it wouldn’t take much to get her to relent.
“Drink up.” He placed his fingers on the bottom of her glass and pushed it up to her lips. She smiled and slung the drink back, and together they crossed to the floor.
Jack wasn’t what anybody would consider a classically trained dancer. But physical comedy was his thing, and dancing was just one more opportunity to perform, to do his schtick.
Rosa laughed as Jack flailed about on the dance floor. It was sheer luck he didn’t take anyone out with his wild gesticulating. He used his girth as a prop, something he’d learned to do a long time ago, all the while telling himself everyone was laughing with him, not at him.
People formed a circle around Jack and Rosa, clapping along with the rhythm of the music. It energized him, drove him into a frenzy of slapstick movements.
Jack’s heart thrummed in his chest, and a shooting pain cascaded from his sternum, into his shoulder. But everyone was smiling, having a good time. All eyes were on Jack. Everyone was watching, and he didn’t want them to stop.
Not ever.
So, Jack didn’t stop.
He cartwheeled around the perimeter of the circle and came up dizzy. But he didn’t wait to stabilize. He threw himself into a forward somersault and transitioned into an ill-fated headstand, something he’d never been able to perfect.
He collapsed onto his stomach with a groan and realized he was spent.
Jack rolled onto his back; the entire room and dozens of laughing faces became a whirlpool of color and sound. He sucked in air and realized it seemed harder than expected. He felt like he wanted to puke.
Then all those people, almost as one, turned their backs, and once again, Jack ceased to be the center of attention.
An icy fear shot down his spine, and he felt the bile rise up in his esophagus, only partly owing to his wild shenanigans on the dance floor.
Rosa’s face appeared over him. “You okay, Jack?”
“Fine.” Jack’s heart was still thumping like a punk rock bass drum. “I’ll be fine. Just tell the room to stop doing its Tilt-A-Whirl impression.”
“Nice show, funny guy,” said Bobby Jay.
Jack’s friend and mentor knelt down and grabbed hold of Jack’s arm to help him up with Rosa’s assistance.
“You don’t look so good.” said Bobby. “Let’s get you some water.”
“Hey, Bobby,” said Jack, slurring his words. “Where’d you come from?”
Bobby ignored the question and led Jack over to the VIP lounge. An ice-filled crate, containing sodas and bottles of water, was sitting on a table. Rosa handed Jack a water and lowered him onto a velveteen couch. Jack took a few sips and leaned back.
“Thanks,” he said.
Bobby sat next to Jack on one side. Rosa sat on the other. No one said anything for a few minutes. Eventually, the silence (the inescapable, blaring music notwithstanding) made Jack feel uncomfortable.
“Great party, huh?” he said. “Quite a sendoff, eh, Bobby?”
Bobby scanned the room as if he was only just noticing everything around him for the first time. He didn’t appear to be impressed.
“It’s not bad,” he said. “Not really my thing these days.”
Jack nodded. His head felt heavy, and it occurred to him, in a vague way, that he was exhausted.
“I’m really sleepy, man,” he said.
“You look it,” said Bobby.
“Jack, you gotta sleep sometimes,” said Rosa. She was smiling, but Jack detected a note of scolding in it.
More silence from the two of them. Jack hated that silence, almost as much as he hated solitude.
“Burton’s making me go to rehab … or something,” he said, finally.
Rosa actually looked a little bit shocked. Bobby didn’t.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” he said and put a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
Jack sighed. “Yeah, maybe.”
“I’m glad, Jack,” said Rosa.
Jack’s chin floated down to his chest. He hadn’t meant to put it there, but over the last several seconds, someone had replaced his flesh and bone chin with one made of lead. Apparently, they’d also swapped out his eyelids because those were weighed down, too.
He closed his eyes and said to absolutely no one, “Why’d you do that?” It was barely a mumble.
“Get some rest, buddy,” said Bobby.
Jack felt Rosa squeeze his shoulder. And then he drifted off.
Jack woke in a panic.
He shot up and instantly realized he’d been splayed out on the velveteen couch like a beached porpoise. The music had stopped, and the club was nearly devoid of people. A few trashed ladies were chatting up the bouncer over by the entrance and being loud about it. A couple of waiters were clearing trash and drink glasses, and a lone bartender was cleaning up behind the bar.
How long had he been out? He fished his phone out of his pocket and noted the time, nearly 3:00 a.m.
“Do you need anything, Mr. Duffy?” said a waiter. The kid looked like he was sixteen, but Jack randomly thought he logically had to be at least twenty-one.
“No,” said Jack. “No, thanks. Where is everybody?”
“Club’s closed,” said the waiter. “Your friends just wanted to let you sleep for a while. You want me to call you a cab?”
“Um … no, that’s okay. I’ll get it.”
The kid smiled, then wandered off.
The bartender gave Jack a sidelong glance as he polished a glass with a rag.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “You know what they say. You don’t have to go home …”
Jack mournfully completed the reference. “But you can’t stay here.”
He rose to his feet and shuffled over to the bar. His head was killing him, and he felt a dull ache in the center of his torso. He also was acutely aware he needed to take a leak.
“Bathroom?”
The bartender, a twenty-something, whose name tag identified him as “Sergio,” nodded to his right. A dark hallway led off behind the VIP lounge. A neon sign, switched off, said RESTROOMS in a cursive script above it. Jack didn’t see a soul back there.
He shuddered.
“Nope,” he said, under his breath. Then, to the bartender, “Hey, you know any more parties going on?”
Sergio put down the glass he was cleaning and picked up another. “Sorry.”
Jack’s face fell.
You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.
Well, he certainly wasn’t going to go home. The city stayed up late, but eventually, it shut down. In an hour, he’d find no one around except vagrants, criminals, and rats.
Jack sat down on a barstool and gazed at his phone. He scrolled through his contacts and tried to find someone, anyone, who might be amenable to hanging out with him. He was coming up blank.
Then a thought occurred to him.
“Hey,” he said.
Sergio put down the glass and placed both hands on the countertop, annoyed.
“Sorry,” said Jack. “I was just wondering. You know any … you know … people, ladies, who provide company … on a professional basis?”
The barkeep smirked. Without a word, he walked over to the cash register and picked up something that looked like a business card organizer. He flipped through its pages, then pulled out a black card from the back of it. He tossed it on the bar in front of Jack.
The card didn’t have a name on it, just a picture of an embossed rose and a telephone number. Jack stared at it, flipped it over. Nothing on the back. He held the card in one hand, his phone in the other, and rubbed his thumb along the gold-leaf number. This kind of thing wasn’t really his style, but he didn’t know what else to do. He needed the company. Badly.
“They don’t come cheap, just sos you know,” said Sergio. “At least, that’s what I’m told. Oh, and I’m gonna need that card back.”
“Sure,” said Jack.
He took the plunge and dialed. The call went straight to a voice mail. The message instructed him to leave his call back number, and he hesitated only slightly before doing so.
A few minutes later his phone rang. A sultry-voiced woman spoke to him at the other end. He made the arrangements and then slid the card back toward Sergio, who winked, never losing his smirk.
Jack went outside where the soused ladies were arguing about something and waited for his companion to arrive. Jack didn’t notice anyone else around, so he secretly prayed the noisy trio would continue to fail getting it together for the time being.
Within fifteen minutes, a black sedan pulled up to the curb. A driver got out and hurried to open the back door. A leggy brunette in a shimmering black dress got out. She was gorgeous. Even with Jack’s status as a television personality, a girl who looked that good would never be caught dead with him—under normal circumstances.
The escort’s high heels clicked against the pavement as she approached the comedian.
“You Jack?” she said.
He nodded and realized after a moment his jaw was hanging.
“I’m Candy,” she said.
Jack finally found his voice. “Of course you are.”
Back at Jack’s apartment, Candy was aloof, disinterested in anything he had to say. He tried all his best material on her, but she barely cracked a smile. After several minutes of this, she told him she n
eeded to freshen up and asked to be shown the bathroom.
Jack became nervous.
“You wanna go to the bathroom?”
“Um … yeah.”
“Alone?”
Candy regarded him with an annoyed expression. “Yeah, is that okay with you?”
Jack knew he was being weird, but he also thought, for fifteen hundred bucks, Candy seemed a tad off-putting. Jack was more than willing to put up with it, though, as long as she stuck around.
“Right down the hall,” he said.
“Cool, thanks.” Candy gave him a little half-smile and glided toward the lavatory. “Got anything to drink? Make me something with vodka.” And then she was gone.
Jack didn’t know what to do. Already, little anticipatory spikes of pain were making their way up his vertebrae, and he remembered what it felt like to have his spine removed, over and over again.
He thought about bursting in on Candy, but that course of action ran the risk of making her bolt. Instead, Jack headed across the hallway and started pounding on his neighbor’s door. The woman who lived there was a grouch, but at the moment, Jack didn’t care.
“Mrs. Hickey, you home?”
When his neighbor didn’t answer in three seconds, Jack sprinted down the hall to the next door. He couldn’t remember what the occupant’s name was, but Jack started knocking anyway.
Mrs. Hickey appeared in her doorway down the hall, and Jack felt a wave of relief pass over him.
“Duffy, it’s nearly four in the morning,” said Mrs. Hickey. “What do you think you’re doing, trying to raise the dead?”
“Oh, hey, Mrs. H. I … I thought I could smell some gas or something, like maybe there’s a leak. You smell gas?”
The old woman sniffed at the air. The action scrunched up her face, making it look even more sour than usual.
“I don’t smell nothing.” She regarded Jack with a suspicious look. “You on something?”
“No, of course not. I just—”
She backed into her apartment. “Wake me up again during the wee hours, and you’ll be hearing from the management. Got it?”
“Sure, I—”
Mrs. Hickey slammed the door on Jack’s face without waiting for him to finish. And again, he was alone in the hallway.
The Lurkers & Other Strange Tales Page 10
