Jackal

by Tarryn Fisher

  I rub a hand across my jaw as we pass through a tunnel. We’re getting close. There’s a bar in the lower Blue where you can buy almost anything, even information. Foley told me about it after his last tour here. We might not all be tight, but the men keep each other in the loop regarding the Regions—where to get things and how. While my black market buying usually consists of recreational drugs, I’ve occasionally needed information too. I glance out of the back window. My security detail trails the car as I tap my knee impatiently. Folsom only asked about Gwen. Has he heard about his son? Word has been circulating that The Red Rebel is being raised by another woman.

  The Dive is lit in blue neon lights. Inside, there is a haze blurring the edges of the tables. I narrow my eyes and look around. There are low hanging bulbs over the tables and a long bar to the right. Everyone in the place stops talking when I walk in, resuming once I pull up to the bar.

  “What do you need to feel?” the bartender asks me. Her voice is bored; she plucks absently at the piercing on the bridge of her nose. Ah, a feelings bar—my favorite.

  “I would like to feel…” I tap my fingers on the bar top, considering my options. “Numb.”

  She juts her chin at me once. “What do you want that in?”

  “Shot of tequila.”

  “Aye aye, captain.”

  She moves away to make my drink, and I turn around to survey the rest of the space. It’s a motley crew of interesting types. None of them seem to care that I’m here. Foley had said nothing about who she was or what she looked like, just that I’d know her when I saw her. When the bartender comes back with my drink, I lean toward her.

  “I’m looking for a woman—”

  “Yeah? Me too.”

  “Maybe we have the same type,” I say, leaning forward.

  She stares at me, her expression blank. “Oh yeah? What’s your type?”

  “I like a woman who knows things. Someone who has access to hard-to-get items…”

  “You End Men all have the same taste,” she says.

  “Yeah?” I ask, livening up.

  Her chin lifts toward the back right of the bar.

  I throw back the rest of my drink and toss a few bills on the bar top before standing up.

  The booth sits on its own in the back of the bar, the leather seats high around it creating a cocoon. She has a guard dog; he stops me as soon as I get close.

  “Nature of business?” he asks. His voice is gruff.

  “Information.”

  “She’s busy,” he says. “You need an appointment.”

  I lick my lips. “All right then. I’d like to make an appointment.”

  I glance over his shoulder and see her staring at me, an amused smile on her lips.

  “She doesn’t have any availability.”

  He gets close to my face and I can smell his dinner on his breath.

  “I’ve been wanting to try the stew here, but judging by your breath, they’re using way too many onions.”

  He shoves me. I shove back. We have a little shoving match before she finally calls out— “Enough!”

  We step away from each other, glaring.

  “Let him through,” she says. I pat Brutus on the back as I walk by.

  She’s younger than I was expecting, long blond hair, maybe forty. Sexy as hell, and she’s giving me a thorough once-over.

  “An End Man,” she says. “My, my, you boys certainly have a way of finding me…”

  “It’s like we all know each other or something,” I say, sliding into the booth.

  “So, Jackal,” she says, voice nearly as low as mine. “What brings you to the dark?”

  “My favorite color is dark blue.”

  She pulls a case out of her bag and offers me a slim cigarette. “Your favorite color is pink. That’s why you fly around in that ridiculous jet.”

  “I was just trying to make you feel special,” I say.

  “For someone as beautiful as you, it’s only fitting that you’re not very bright,” she says.

  I laugh, and to my surprise, so does she. And then just as quickly, she sobers.

  “Quit wasting my time and tell me what you want.”

  “Information.”

  “About?”

  “Gwen Allison.”

  The cherry burns between her lips as she considers my request.

  “No one knows where Gwen is,” she says finally.

  “Someone has to…”

  She rolls her tongue over her teeth, looking at me with hooded eyes.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “That’s information you’d have to pay me for,” I say.

  I watch as she stubs the cigarette out on the tabletop and picks a piece of tobacco from her lips. “All right,” she says slowly. “Come back in a week. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  We settle on a price, and I’m about to stand up, when I spot a familiar gait moving across the room and toward the door. She must have been here all along. How could I have missed her? I want to see where she’s going.

  “Who do I ask for when I come back?” I turn to my informant. She shrugs.

  “See you around, End Man.”

  I glance at her once more before turning to follow Phoenix. She’s past the bar and through the door in a matter of seconds, her black hair braided down her back in a long rope. I mean to call out to her when I see her in the parking lot, but there’s something about the way she’s moving that makes me hold my tongue. I’ve seen her move like that before. I watch as she pulls up her hood, obscuring her face almost entirely. With her hands in her pockets, she jogs toward the street, head down.

  I follow her for a few blocks, before she takes a sharp turn down an alley emerging onto another street, this one rougher than the last. The houses lean, collapsing in on themselves, windows held together with boxes and duct tape.

  I stand in the shadows and watch as she stops at a house that was once painted green, the only remnants of the color clinging defiantly on a few places near the door. The steps are falling apart, and she dodges the uneven spots as she jogs up the stairs to the front porch. I watch as she looks around quickly and then tucks a bag between the screen and the door. When she takes off running down the street, I try to catch up but quickly lose sight of her.

  I walk back toward the house eyeing the windows and street for any onlookers. There would be no mistaking me if I was caught. The stairs creak and I’m almost there when a voice sounds, almost making me jump out of my skin.

  “Sir, can I help you?” Cody, one of my security team, comes up behind me.

  I wave her away, looking around to make sure no one is watching.

  “I’m fine. Wait for me in the car, please.”

  “It’s not safe out here, Mr. Emerson.”

  “Fine. Stand there and be quiet.”

  She nods and folds her hands in front of her while I pick up the bag. It’s worth the trouble. Inside the brown paper bag is a heavy gold bracelet. I weigh it in my hand, confused.

  “Sir…” Cody says.

  I tuck the bracelet back in place and wedge the envelope where Phoenix left it. Who is this woman? And what is she up to?

  Back at the compound, I pull up everything I can find on Phoenix Moyo. A sperm bank baby, they call them The Last Ofs...the solution before the Society took over with The End Men. Her mothers are Sylvia and Bisa, lesbian by birth and not circumstance. She’s been dancing since she was five. Attended Julliard. Her friends call her Bird, and she has a tendency online to talk more about what she doesn’t like than what she does, which I gather as: other women, sushi, greed, traffic, tardiness, dumb questions, cats, the Brown Region, friends who borrow things and don’t return them, and last but certainly not least, the End Men. That one makes me laugh. I read about her until late into the night and watch a few videos of her dancing. She’s something special off the stage, but on it, she becomes vibrant, an energy that I can’t look away from. I watch for a few minutes before buying a ticket to one of h
er performances. Selfish will just have to rearrange my schedule accordingly. I’m already considering how I’ll see her, talk to her again.

  And then it’s there at the bottom of the screen, a banner, information that makes me smile, and I know exactly what I have to do.

  FOUR

  PHOENIX

  The honey bee caste system is matriarchal.

  The queen and worker bees are all female.

  The males only exist for fucking.

  Once they’ve mated with the queen, the males die, no longer needed.

  I’m still feeling the endorphins bouncing through my body as I walk down the corridor to the after-party. Not even a glossy floor could’ve stopped me tonight. I strive to never show anything less than my best, but occasionally, something extraordinary happens and every single nuance is executed perfectly…not just by me, but by everyone. These are the nights I live for.

  “Good job tonight, Phoenix,” Laurel calls as she walks by.

  I smile, though I never know if they’re making fun of me or not. Laurel seems to be one of the nicer girls, but you can really never tell.

  The lobby is sparkling with evening wear, crystal glasses filled with champagne, and trays of hors d’oeuvres passed around by white-gloved waiters. A few years ago, the company began a yearly tradition of auctioning off ten lessons with me, wherein all proceeds go to the arts. The girl who won last year was accepted by my alma mater’s dance program. I’m looking forward to working with this year’s protégé. I look around to see if I can spot who it might be. Sometimes the same eager dancers that have grown up watching me have wealthy mothers who see how far they can outbid one another to win the coveted role. If it weren’t for a good cause, it would be embarrassing.

  I can’t afford to get sick this season, so I take a glass of champagne when it’s offered to me; it helps put off all the hand clutches and cheek kissing.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” Sean says, his hand touching my waist.

  Everything with Sean is done lightly, like he’s afraid too much pressure will crack his position in the world.

  “Will tonight be the night you agree to go out with me?” He smiles as if he’s teasing, but his eyes are earnest.

  He should just tell me that we’re going out. Tell me where to meet him.

  “And ruin one of my favorite friendships?” I respond, voice light. He’s one of the few people I genuinely like; I’ll never go out with him. “No one can put up with me for long, I’ve told you that.”

  “Give me a chance and we’ll see how long you can put up with me,” he says.

  Mistress Sinclair clears her throat in the microphone and I look away, relieved by the interruption. She does her routine speech and then with a glance my way, says, “Phoenix, would you like to open the envelope this evening?”

  I step forward and take it from her hand, quickly tearing it open. There’s just one name on it. Unusual, but there’s likely only one. I lean into the microphone.

  “Ruby,” I announce. “Ruby, you are the winner of this year’s auction.” Everyone looks around to find Ruby. The pause becomes awkward when no one comes forward. “Ruby? Are you here?”

  “Well, this is odd,” Mistress Sinclair finally speaks up. “If you’re here, Ruby, come see me in the next half hour; otherwise, we will announce another winner.”

  I stand near the cake table, contemplating a piece of white cake with raspberry filling. The frosting looks delicious, a thing of beauty. I don’t have to eat it to enjoy it, I remind myself.

  Mistress Sinclair taps me on the shoulder and leans into my ear. “Our winner showed up. Looks like you’re set to begin at ten in the morning.”

  I nod. “Great. Where is she? I’d like to meet her—”

  “Oh, long gone.” She titters. “Long, long gone,” she repeats under her breath.

  I won’t complain about anything that gets me home earlier. I edge toward the exit and pick my moment to escape when a toast is being made.

  Bright and early, bright and early. I don’t know who coined that phrase, but it makes me angry that anyone can be bright this early. I pull sweats over my oldest and most comfortable leotard, so threadbare I should feel embarrassed. Ruby, whoever she may be, will most likely be more focused on the lessons than on what I’m wearing. Or maybe not. Some of the girls who come through are young versions of the dancers in the company, already so catty they can barely focus on the art. I sigh as I grab my bag and head out the door.

  Forty minutes later, I’m warming up at the bar when the door opens. I hear the squeak of rubber soles on the polished floors. I finish my rises before turning around, my smile already in place. It drops off as soon as I see who walks through the door.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He strolls in, tossing a duffel bag onto the floor, his grin enough to ease the panties off any woman—all the women. Not this one. I fold my arms across my chest. He still has his sunglasses on; I watch as he slides them off his face and tucks them into the pocket of his sweatpants.

  “I’m here for my lessons.”

  “Not unless your name is Ruby,” I say. My arms drop to my sides. “No…” I say, shaking my head.

  He grins wider. “My mom said that if I had been a girl, she would have named me Ruby, and I’ve noticed you also seem to have an affinity for them.”

  “It’s not allowed…”

  “Men aren’t allowed to practice ballet? Or an End Man isn’t allowed?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’d rather dance naked on stage than spend hours at a time with this pompous asshole.

  “This is for serious dancers. It’s to give someone the chance to improve their technique so they can—”

  “Bullshit,” he interrupts. “Do you know how much I paid for this? Ten lessons with the company’s principal dancer. It’s for anyone who’s willing to shell out the cash.”

  “It’s to help people,” I argue.

  “Well, I’m sure there are plenty of girls in the lower end who dream of doing something like this. Why don’t you donate your time to teaching them?”

  My face heats, red embarrassment climbing up my neck and into my cheeks. It’s true, of course, the company never donates anything to the lower end except its contempt. Only last year I’d suggested we start a program to take dance to the lower end, and they’d denied me.

  I hate him. I walk toward the door. I will go directly to Gina, tell her I’m not going to spend a minute with this bleating goat of a man—

  “But you do donate things to the lower end, don’t you?” he says.

  I stop. No, I freeze, blood rushing to my head.

  “What are you talking about?” I don’t turn around. I keep my back to him, stiff and square, but my heart beats like the opening drum in La Bayadère’s Indian Dance.

  I can feel him getting closer, my body conditioned after two decades to know when another dancer draws near or away. He’s two feet behind me—if I swing around, he could lift me in a fish dive. His breath is on the back of my neck now. I close my eyes as it runs warm heat along my spine. Gooseflesh erupts across my arms.

  “Robin Hood,” he says softly.

  “W-what?”

  I turn toward him and he has the most insufferable look on his face.

  “Robin Hood. I’d like to learn a dance from the Robin Hood ballet.”

  Air hisses from between my teeth. “That’s not what the company is working on.”

  He grins.

  “What do you really want, Jackal?”

  He blinks, never taking his eyes off of my face, then his gaze drops. Slowly…slowly he takes in the rest of me, his eyes climbing my skin like hands.

  “You can’t have that,” I say.

  I want to back up, back away from that look, but I stand my ground.

  His laugh echoes across the studio. “So presumptuous.”

  I eye him for a good minute before he finally sighs.

  “Should we get started t
hen? Or I can talk to Gina,” he points in the direction of Gina’s desk in the lobby, “about your hobby. Whatever you like.”

  I march toward the bar and gently lay my hand on it, caressing the metal with my fingertips.

  “We start here,” I say. “Get thy stupid smile off thy face and come warm up.” My grandfather got a kick out of the Robin Hood movies; Jackal’s reference fills me with nostalgia.

  “So she does have a sense of humor.”

  If Jackal wants to dance, I’m going to show him exactly how hard we work. No mercy. He’ll be lucky if he can walk tomorrow. He tears off his sweatshirt, revealing a tight-fitting tank underneath. He’s muscular—knotted shoulders, tapered waist, arms that would have no trouble lifting me in a pas de deux. I’ve seen this body on other male dancers; if he wants a bravo from me, he won’t get one.

  “It starts right here,” I say. This is my speech. I deliver it every year to the person standing in Jackal’s place. “Every dancer begins here at the bar: humbly…hardworking.” I don’t look at him when I take my place. “Hand on the bar like this,” I instruct.

  When I look up, he’s already in first position, his face serious as he waits for his next instruction. In the early morning, this part of the studio gets the best light, the sun piercing through the windows of the skyscraper next door and dappling the floors with a hazy, honey glow. The glow sits around him, giving a halo to his whole body. A predator shouldn’t glimmer like that, it’s dangerous. And why do I think him a predator anyway? According to the Regions’ new conscience—Gwen Allison—the End Men have no choice in the matter. Which makes Jackal more of a zoo animal than a wild one. I ignore the messy hair, the rough stubble on his jaw, and the soft lips that unfairly belong to a man. A man. My eyes fall to his sweatpants, wondering…