Tenderloin

by LD Marr

  The door opened, and Sandra stood there. She looked down at me with lines of concern in her dark forehead. Her moist, even darker eyes were wide with questions. Still feeling mentally foggy, I focused my gaze and looked back up at her.

  Sandra’s long colorful skirt swirled around her ankles as she walked in and sat down in the client chair in front of me. She stared at me as if confused.

  I felt confused too. Confused about everything. But I didn’t want to tell Sandra about how I felt or what had been happening to me lately.

  Will anyone believe what I saw in the subway? I wondered. Not the police. And Sandra will think I’m crazy if I tell her about that.

  After staring at me in silence for moment, Sandra spoke.

  “I don’t think your client Laz is going to show up today, Myrna,” she said.

  “I don’t think so either,” I said.

  Sandra tilted her head to one side and looked at me again. She threaded fingers through her short hair.

  “Aren’t you worried about him?” she asked. “You were so worried about Chloe, I thought you’d be upset about Laz too, but you seem calm this time.”

  “No. I’m not worried,” I answered. “I think he’s OK right now.”

  “How would you know that?” asked Sandra.

  “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling,” I said. “I can’t explain it.”

  Sandra sat back and crossed her arms. She tapped a booted foot for a few moments. I watched the tapping boot. My thoughts seemed far away, thinking of nothing except the man in the subway.

  “Myrna, I’m concerned about you,” said Sandra. “You’re not acting like yourself today, and you don’t look well either. Is it possible that the stress of what happened to Chloe is getting to you?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Sometimes traumatic experiences can shake loose our sense of reality,” said Sandra. “So I wonder if you think you know that Laz is OK because it’s too much for you to handle that another one of your clients might be in trouble. Is that possible?”

  I looked back at Sandra, but I didn’t answer right away.

  Is that true? I wondered. Did I imagine everything I saw in the subway that night too? But I couldn’t have imagined things to make myself feel better then because Chloe hadn’t disappeared yet. So that explanation doesn’t make sense.

  “I don’t know,” I finally said.

  “Do you want me to report Laz to the police too?” Sandra asked me. “I made a mistake in not doing that with so many others, but I’ll do it now if you want. He’s your client, and you can make the call.”

  “So many others?” my fuzzy awareness picked up on that phrase. “How many others?”

  “Well, I’ve been working here for years, you know that,” said Sandra. “And lots of clients come in here and then stop coming. So maybe hundreds, I’d say.”

  I jolted up straight in my chair.

  “Hundreds!” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, probably hundreds,” said Sandra. “You know that millions of young people run away from home every year. But even if I reported them all, the police won’t look for them unless the parents have money to pay for it, and not many do. Most parents are probably glad they have one less mouth to feed. That’s just how it is in this world.”

  Sandra lowered her gaze and hugged her crossed arms tighter across her thin chest. She seemed lost in her own thoughts for the moment.

  “But what can we do if the police won’t help?” I asked her.

  Sandra looked up at me.

  At least she’s not looking at me like I’m crazy anymore, I thought.

  “I don’t know,” said Sandra. “There’s nothing we can do except try to help them get off the drugs. But we can’t do anything about what happens out there on the streets and in the clubs. We don’t have any control over that. And like I said, the police aren’t going to do anything unless the parents pay. I’ve started reporting them anyway. One or two a week don’t show up,” said Sandra.

  “That many?” I asked.

  “Yes, it’s always been like that. But we have so many clients here, and you know a lot of them just can’t get clean. Anyway, now I wait for two missed appointments and then report them. That’s my new procedure,” said Sandra.

  “Even if you report them, it might still be too late. Like with Chloe,” I said.

  “That’s true,” said Sandra. “But it’s all we can do.”

  “There must be something more we can do,” I said, but I had no idea what.

  Chapter 9

  That night in the apartment, I sat next to Frank on our living room couch. We were watching the evening news. Wrapped in blankets and wearing long flannel pajamas, we both held steaming cups of cocoa that Frank had made with real soymilk. An expensive treat.

  “I thought you hate TV and you hate the news, but lately you’ve been watching every night. What’s up with that?” asked Frank. “Not that I mind the company.”

  “Now I have to watch,” I said. “I need to know if there’s any news about Chloe. Or if more people go missing. I need to know.”

  Frank turned and stared at me. With no smile, his thin-featured face looked drawn and tense.

  “Why do you need to know?” he asked.

  “Because I care,” I said.

  “It’s good to care, but sometimes it’s not good to care too much,” said Frank.

  I put my empty cup down on the table in front of me and wrapped my blanket tight around myself. I stared back at the television screen. The gas-heated apartment was cool in late fall, but a deep chill gripped my entire body.

  I’d been watching the news every night since the story about Chloe had first aired. Each night, there was a replay of the same video. But so far, there was no progress or leads in finding Chloe. Maybe there never would be, but I had to keep watching.

  The TV showed the Bowery subway station sign at street-level view. My cold feeling increased as the camera panned down the stairs and into the station.

  “There’s still no clue on the missing teen who was last seen in this subway,” said the announcer.

  I sighed out loud. Ever since that night in the subway when I’d seen the man and the blood, I’d felt different somehow. Even more different than I usually felt.

  Part of my mind was fuzzy. The part that paid attention to other people and my surroundings. Another part of my mind felt much sharper. And it was focused like a laser on the question of Chloe’s disappearance.

  Frank reached a hand over and placed it on my shoulder, but he didn’t say anything. The same video played again.

  “This film captures a young teen named Chloe going into the Bowery station with an unknown man,” the announcer’s voice continued.

  The grainy video continued. Under the station’s dim but garish tubular lighting, thin, teased-haired Chloe, dressed all in black, walked next to the large blonde man down the narrow island between the two tracks.

  “This man was last seen with the missing teen,” the newscaster said.

  I leaned forward and looked closer. Again, I noticed how much he looked like the man I’d seen come out of the door below the stairs. And he was leading Chloe in that same direction. But I wasn’t sure if I should tell Frank about that or not.

  He’ll probably think I’m crazy, I thought.

  “You don’t have to keep watching,” said Frank. “I know it’s upsetting you. I’ll tell you if there’s anything new.”

  “Wait!” I said. “Look how bulky that man is. That’s not fat, that’s muscle. He must be wealthy. Only rich people can afford to eat that much protein. Do you think he eats meat?”

  As that thought entered my mind, red spots bloomed in the edges of my vision. I leaned back against the couch, closed my eyes for a moment, and took some deep breaths.

  I won’t throw up, I told myself.

  “Meat?” said Frank. “He’d have to be super rich to afford that. I didn’t know anyone still had meat until we saw that show the other night.
Do you think this guy is rich enough to have an underground farm too, or he’s friends with D’Augustine?”

  Frank turned and looked at me. I stared intently at the screen, not really seeing it now and only half paying attention what he was saying.

  “Are you OK?” Frank asked me.

  “I’m OK,” I answered. “But I’ve got to do something about this. Every week, one or two clients don’t show up at the clinic. And it’s been happening for years. Sandra told me. Even if she reports it, the police won’t look unless the parents pay. And most can’t afford to if they even want to.”

  I stared back intently at Frank. A thin man with a pointy nose and features so different from the massive, broad-faced blonde man. I decided to try to explain what I’d seen. Hopefully, he wouldn’t freak out too much.

  “Frank, the man in this video looks just like a man I saw in the subway the night I got sick,” I said. “But sometimes he looks blonde, and other times he looks like a dark-skinned man.”

  I felt the truth of that somewhere inside me.

  “What are you talking about?” Frank answered. “How do you know that?”

  “I know because I just know,” I said.

  A phone number flashed across the television screen.

  “Please call this police tip number if you have any information about Chloe or this man,” said the announcer.

  “I need to call the police and tell them they need to look for that brown-skinned man too!” I said. “Before anyone else goes missing.”

  I reached for my cell phone on the table in front of me. But before I got it, Frank reached out and covered the phone with his own hand.

  “No, Myrna. Wait,” he said. “Stop and think for a minute. If you call the police and tell them they need to start looking for a brown-skinned man, they’ll think you’re crazy. ‘I know because I just know’ won’t be a good enough reason. They’ll have your phone number, and they’ll log you into their system as suspicious. You know that, right?”

  “I know you’re right, but I don’t want to let my fear for myself stop me from helping Chloe and lots of other people,” I said. “I have to do it.”

  “No. You don’t,” said Frank. “It’s not going to help anyone. It’s only going to hurt you. Think about it. If you know things, you must know that’s true too.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  I rested my hands on my blanket-covered knees and thought for moment. It was confusing because my mind seemed to work differently than it had in the past. Now I noticed that it leaped to conclusions on its own without analyzing all the available information.

  Yes! Frank is right! I realized.

  I turned to look at him with wide eyes.

  “Frank, you know things too!” I said in a surprised voice.

  Frank laughed. “You finally figured that out?” he said.

  Then his voice got more serious.

  “Actually, I’m starting to get worried about you, Myrna. You’ve been acting strange. Ever since that night when you came home late and threw up. If there’s anything you need to talk about, I’m here to listen. I won’t judge. You know that,” said Frank. “Has something changed?”

  “You’re right. I do feel different since that night, but the only thing I need to talk about is Chloe and who that man is,” I said. “If I don’t call the police, and they’re not going to find her, then I need to do something on my own. I need to talk about that.”

  “I admire you for feeling that way, but what can you do, Myrna?” Frank asked.

  His eyes widened, and he gripped my shoulder.

  “You’re not thinking about hanging around in the subway at night, are you?” he asked.

  “I could go back to the subway and see if one of those men comes out and then follow him. That’s a great idea!” I said.

  “No, Myrna! That’s a terrible idea. Waiting for a kidnapper in the subway! What if he notices you following him and kidnaps you too? And what do you mean, ‘comes out’? Comes out from where?” Frank asked in an agitated voice.

  “Comes out from the door under the stairs,” I said. “I saw that man—he looked exactly like him except when his coloring changed—come out from under the stairs.”

  “Under the stairs?” Frank repeated. “His coloring changed?”

  He dropped his hand from my shoulder and looked at me as if I were crazy. I made an effort to explain, but I knew how it would sound.

  “Yes, Frank. I didn’t tell you everything before. I saw a man come out of a small door. He looked just like the man Chloe was with. But his skin and hair color changed back and forth. I know you think I’m losing it or hallucinating, but I’m not,” I insisted.

  Frank stared at me for a moment before speaking. Then he said, “Maybe you’re not imaging things, but have you thought about talking to your post-recovery advisor Gorg, just to make sure? Have you talked to him lately? I know Chloe’s disappearance has been hard on you, and it wouldn’t hurt to check in and talk about it with a professional.”

  I pushed down the angry response I felt like giving to that suggestion.

  “Frank, I know you care about my well being. And I’ll go and talk to Gorg but not yet. Right now—tonight—I need to find out what happened to Chloe and the others who keep disappearing. The more time that passes, the lower the chance gets of their being alive. You know that, right?” I said.

  Frank leaned back and sighed. He lifted a hand and covered his small mouth and pointy nose with it. His thinking expression, I knew.

  “OK, Myrna,” he said. “It looks like I can’t talk you out of this. But I’ll go with you.”

  I thought about that for a moment.

  “No, Frank,” I said. “I have to do this alone. It won’t work if you’re there.”

  “Why won’t it work?” Frank asked. “Because he won’t be able to kidnap you if I’m there?”

  “I don’t know why. It’s just a feeling I have,” I said. “Thank you for offering though. I really appreciate that.”

  I looked at Frank’s distraught face.

  He’s thinking about calling Gorg about me, I guessed.

  I got up fast and ran to my room to change into some old, dark clothes.

  “Wait! Myrna! I’ll walk you to the subway,” I heard Frank say behind me.

  Chapter 10

  About an hour later, I stood leaning against a rusted metal girder near the door under the stairs in the Bowery subway station. Slouching back in a baggy old coat, dark work pants, and worn, scuffed boots, I angled my body toward the train tunnel.

  The coat’s black hood partly covered my face. I looked toward the approaching trains as they came out of the tunnel’s dark mouth. But my attention was on the small door in the edge of my peripheral vision.

  Again, I wasn’t aware of how much time passed. Trains, people, and time itself seemed to flow around me unnoticed and unnoticing while I waited. Until, once again, red liquid appeared around the edges of the door, and the fast flow of time slowed and went back to normal.

  The door opened half way, releasing a gush of red, bloody liquid. A big, brawny man stepped out of the part-opened door and quickly shut it. This time, his skin was brown, and his hair was black, but I knew he was the same man I’d seen before. Blood stained his pants up to the knees and gushed down onto the subway tracks.

  I didn’t turn my head to look, but again, there was no sound of the electric sparks and crackles I’d expect when liquid poured onto the subway’s live electric lines.

  I slouched deeper into the gap in the metal girder that I leaned against. I kept my face straight toward the tunnel.

  I’m just a nobody waiting for a train, I willed the man to believe.

  In spite of the late hour, a few people passed by. They didn’t notice the man or the blood, and their shoes didn’t leave tracks through it. But the man’s shoes left tracks as he walked a few feet toward me.

  Then he turned and walked around the staircase to its entrance. Up the stairs. I waited till he was near
the top and then followed.

  Before I reached the top of the stairs, I paused with just my head up at street level. I twisted my neck and looked around.

  There! I saw the main walking away down the street to the north. His back was to the subway. I climbed all the way out and followed.

  The strange mental numbness about everything around me, except this one man, overtook me and somehow told me what to do. I walked with soft steps and maintained a certain distance back from him.

  When he stopped at a street corner to wait for the light to change, the big man turned and looked around. He looked back in my direction, but I didn’t flinch or pause in my steady tread forward.

  The pedestrian light flashed green, and the man crossed the street to the east. I neared the corner as he crossed again to the north and continued on his way up a street of darkened doorways. The glass windows of a few closed shops glimmered under the harsh but weak orange streetlights.

  I reached the corner and stopped there. I watched the man walk part way up the block. Other pedestrians walked past me in both directions, but I didn’t look at them. The walk light turned green, and I crossed north, staying across the wide one-way street from the man. A bus went by and a few cars.

  He stopped in front of a darkened doorway. Then he climbed a few steps and stood facing a square of darkened glass set in the door just below his head height. The glass held only the slightest shimmer from the tall sodium lights on the far corners of the street.

  I walked steadily on but kept watching. The color of the square of glass in front of the man changed as if there was movement behind it. A few seconds later, the door opened just enough to admit him, and he went in.

  I kept walking, and some of the fog in my mind cleared as I realized where he’d gone.

  That’s the Tenderloin Club! I thought.

  Now I noticed that among the few pedestrians walking by were some young people dressed for clubbing. I climbed a stoop in front of a doorway and sat down, facing in the direction of the club. Two spike-haired teens in black imitation leather stopped in front of the glass and went through the same routine as the man had.