Tenderloin

by LD Marr

  Steve leaned across the table, and I leaned forward to hear him. I hoped it would be something I could actually agree to.

  “Here’s the thing, Myrna,” said Steve. “Don’t keep telling people that you’re not my girlfriend, OK? It didn’t matter that you told that loser Laz, but don’t tell anyone else. Can you do that?”

  I suppressed a laugh and leaned back.

  “Sure Steve. No problem,” I said.

  “Wow!” said Steve. “You know, you’ve changed a lot. You’re so much more mature now. You were always telling people we weren’t together back then. You always argued with me about it too. And now you just agreed so easy. Wow.”

  “I’m a different person now,” I said.

  I suddenly realized how true that was.

  “Hey Stevo!”

  “Steven! Hey!” Steve answered back with his usual emphasis on the ‘n’ at the end of the name.

  I looked up to see the man standing next to our table. It was Steve’s best friend, who was also named Steve. Steven had the same dark curly hair as Steve, but he was more classically handsome, and he kept in shape.

  “Is that Myrna? Stevo told me you were back, but I had to see for myself. And here you are!” said Steven.

  “Hi Steven,” I said.

  “Can I join you too?” Steven asked.

  “Of course, of course,” Steve answered.

  “Sure,” I said.

  Steven removed his fedora and tailored coat and piled them on top of Steve’s hat and coat on a chair next to the booth. Steve slid over on his side of the booth, and Steven sat down next to him.

  I wasn’t surprised that Steven had shown up. I kept eating my food. I didn’t know when I’d have a meal this good again.

  “Well, this is a different look for you, Myrna. I wouldn’t have recognized you if you weren’t with Stevo,” said Steven.

  “Yes, it is,” I said in between mouthfuls.

  “Myrna looks beautiful no matter how she’s dressed,” said Steve.

  “I agree, definitely,” said Steven. “It’s a very natural, clean look. Sophisticated. I like it. It’s just different, that’s all.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Myra’s a drug clinic counselor now. She’s a professional, so she has to look like one,” said Steve.

  “Right. You told me that,” said Steven. “But I thought maybe she was going back to using. You told me she was at the Tenderloin Club last night, and you’re taking her to get stuff tonight?”

  In the past, I’d often been offended by the two Steves talking about me as if I wasn’t there. But tonight I didn’t care.

  What they didn’t know, and what I was starting to realize, was that ever since the first night in the subway when I saw blood coming through the door, something had changed in my mind.

  Am I going crazy, or do I have some mental problem? I wondered. Here I am with the two Steves. It’s like I’m sinking back into my old life. Do I need to talk to Gorg about it? Maybe, I decided. But I don’t have time now, and Gorg would try to stop me anyway. I can talk to him when all this is over.

  I kept eating.

  “No. I’m not taking Myrna to get drugs,” Steve was explaining to Steven. “What she’s doing is really cool.”

  Steve leaned in to whisper in Steven’s ear.

  “I’m taking her to see .....” I couldn’t hear the rest.

  More whispering back and forth.

  “Whoa! Seriously?” said Steven. “That’s some heavy shit!”

  He stared with huge wide eyes, also big but not as bulgy as Steve’s, back and forth from me to Steve. I stared back.

  “That’s right,” said Steve. “I always told you there was more to Myrna than you thought.”

  Steven kept staring at me, but he didn’t say anything. I wondered what was in that look. Was he impressed, or did he think I was crazy? I ate another spoonful of borsch.

  “We’re going over there after we finish dinner,” Steve said to Steven. “Do you want to go with?”

  “No way,” Steven answered. “You might have a death wish, but I don’t.”

  “Oh, please! Don’t be so dramatic,” said Steve. “Well, don’t go then. It’s not for the feint of heart. Luckily for Myrna, old Stevo’s up for some action, right Myrna?”

  Steve smiled big.

  “Yes, thank you Steve,” I said. “I deeply appreciate you doing this for me. And buying me this delicious meal too.”

  “Wow!” said Steven. “She was never so polite and grateful before.”

  “She’s changed, Steven,” said Steve. “She’s more mature now.”

  “Hey! I’m sitting here, you know,” I said. “You don’t need to talk about me in the third person.”

  Steve held up his hands in his often-used gesture of innocence.

  “OK. OK. You’re right. I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You really have changed,” said Steven.

  Then the waiter approached to take his order.

  Chapter 16

  An hour later, I walked down long streets with Steve through the East Village on the way to get my weapons. Sodium lights glowed harsh orange at the ends of the darkened streets, leaving dim splotches in between.

  At eleven o’clock, pedestrians were still out, as well as light traffic. But as we walked farther east, the areas of darkness grew, and the traffic diminished.

  Finally, on Avenue F, Steve stopped next to a storefront lowered half-way below street level. A light above the shop’s door illuminated the hand-painted sign on the window that read, “Wild Style.” Bras, panties, and other undergarments were displayed in the window.

  A flash of anger churned through me. What the heck was Steve up to?

  “Steve! What kind of crap is this? You’re taking me to get lingerie!” I said.

  “Chill, Myrna. Chill,” said Steve, again with a lift of his hands. “That stuff is just the cover for what this guy really sells. Do you think he could afford to live in this neighborhood just by selling used underwear? Come on. Let’s go in.”

  I looked at Steve, still not completely believing him. But I followed him down the short flight of stairs to the store’s entrance.

  It’s not like I have a choice, I thought.

  Behind the glass window, the inside of the store was dark. Steve pressed the button of an old-fashioned buzzer, and I heard a loud ringing inside the store. We waited.

  “Is anyone even here this late?” I asked him.

  “Don’t worry. He knows we’re coming. I called ahead,” said Steve.

  A tall shadow moved behind the small square of thick glass set into the door. Then the door opened the few inches that its security chain allowed.

  “Who’s there?” a deep voice asked.

  “Hey, Pierre. It’s me, Steve,” he said. “With Myrna.”

  The door closed again and then opened wide without the chain on it. A tall, dark, and bald man stared out at us from the dimness within.

  “Come right in,” he said in an impossibly deep voice as he stepped back to allow our entry.

  “After you,” Steve said with a gesture toward the doorway.

  I stepped inside, and Steve followed me. The room was dimly lit, and the odd extra sensitivity I’d been experiencing lately gave me a feeling of growing darkness too. A feeling that had nothing to do with the room’s lighting.

  My eyes began to adjust as I followed Pierre through the small showroom. A few red bulbs lit an inventory of scanty clothes and lingerie arranged on racks and shelves. Other than that, only a plain wood desk holding an ancient cash register filled the rest of the room’s small space.

  “Myrna, this is Pierre,” Steve introduced him with a wave of his hand.

  I looked up at Pierre, who was even taller than Steve. Plain work clothes hung loose on his thin, wiry body.

  “Pierre, Myrna,” Steve finished the introduction.

  “How do you do?” Pierre asked in his deep bass voice.

&
nbsp; “Well, thank you,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Pierre stared down at me—peering into my eyes for a few moments as if assessing me. I stared back, unblinking.

  “Very well. Right this way,” he said finally.

  He turned and walked toward a brighter light that shined out from the open doorway on the far side of the showroom. Pierre went through, and we followed him down a narrow hallway with a few doors on either side. Although this hallway was bright, the dark feeling inside me grew stronger as we walked along it.

  Pierre stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall. He pulled a large jangling keyring from his pants pocket and unlocked the door.

  Steve and I followed him into a much larger, high-ceilinged room. Guns, knives, grenades, and other weapons I didn’t recognize were arranged on tables, behind glass, and on hooks on the walls.

  Almost every available space held some kind of weapon. Now the darkness I felt on some level turned dead black in puddles around the weapons. In the edges of my vision, my real sight was overlaid with another sight. Faces in pain, faces screaming in agony.

  The faces of those who were hurt or killed by these weapons, I thought.

  It was frightening, but whatever it was that pushed me on this journey muffled my fear and propelled me forward into the room.

  Pierre led us over to a massive cabinet at the far side of the room. He stopped there and turned to me.

  “What size bra do you wear?” he asked.

  That question jolted me, even through the unnaturally calm mood I’d been walking around in.

  “What?” I asked.

  “It’s where you’ll keep your weapon,” Pierre answered in a calm, polite voice. “Steve told me you need something to get through metal detectors, and you don’t want a gun or a knife. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Pierre reached down and pulled open one of the cabinet’s wide drawers at waist height. It was filled with rows of bras of many colors and sizes, arranged in perfect order.

  “What size?” Pierre asked again.

  “She wears 36C,” Steve answered for me. “Or she used to. I think she’s lost some weight.”

  I realized that in the past, I’d have been mad at Steve and embarrassed, but now I didn’t care that he’d just implied this intimacy with me. Pierre looked at me again as if assessing my bra size under my heavy coat.

  “That will be close enough,” he said.

  He lifted one of the bras out of the drawer. A flimsy, delicate, light blue bra with under wires.

  “I think this one will do,” said Pierre.

  He handed me the bra and then looked down at me.

  “Now then,” said Pierre. “Before I give you my weapons, I also need to know what you’re planning to do with them—exactly what.”

  In this room’s brighter light, Pierre stared intensely into my eyes again. I stared back and explained. I took my time and told him about the man coming out of the subway and going to the Tenderloin Club but not about the blood or my recent odd feelings.

  When I finished talking, Pierre looked at me for a few moments without speaking.

  Steve stood silent too. All three of us were still as statues.

  Does this man think I’m crazy? I wondered.

  Finally, Pierre spoke again. “I have one more question for you. Have you told the police what you know? Or what you think you know?” Pierre asked me.

  “Yes, I have,” I answered.

  Pierre’s brown eyes narrowed.

  “Oh?” he asked. “Did you file a report at a station?”

  “No,” I said. “I called them from a payphone on the Eastern Parkway. About a half mile from my apartment. They didn’t want my information, but they asked who I was. So I hung up and took a roundabout way home.”

  “Hmm. Yes. That should be OK,” said Pierre. “But after I give you my products, you can’t go to the police again. Do you understand that? Will you agree to that?”

  He looked me dead in the eyes again, waiting for my answer.

  “But how will I report it if I find something?” I asked. “I told you I’m trying to find out what happened to people who disappeared. If I find out, I’ll need to tell someone, right?”

  “You’ll have to tell someone else other than the police,” said Pierre. “They’re not going to do anything anyway unless you have money to pay for it. You know that, right? And even Steve doesn’t have that much money.”

  “I have money!” Steve insisted.

  Pierre chuckled. “Not enough, not enough,” he said. “Anyway. There are some other people you can tell. You can tell all the news stations—the public ones in particular—but you can tell the government-run station too. You’ll have to give them solid evidence like photos or recordings, or they won’t be interested. Only news stations and not the police. Do you agree?”

  “Yes. Thank you,” I said.

  I released the breath I’d been holding.

  “Good. That’s settled,” said Pierre. “There’s just one last thing I need to know. Is your intention to kill or just temporarily incapacitate your target?”

  “I don’t want to kill anyone,” I answered. “I just want to be able to get away if I need to.”

  I stood there with the neatly folded bra clutched tight in my hand. I wondered how I’d be able to either kill or incapacitate anyone with it.

  “Ah...That’s always better, I think,” said Pierre. “About how much does the person you want to knock out weigh?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He’s tall, and he’s big.

  “He looks like about 220,” said Steve. “I’ve seen him on the news video.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen that too,” Pierre answered.

  He pulled out his keyring again, turned back to the big wooden cabinet, and unlocked a smaller drawer higher up. I couldn’t see what was in the drawer when he pulled it out, but it was just below his eye level.

  Pierre reached in and took out two plastic envelopes with plastic things inside them. Then he walked over to a small round table in the back corner of the room and sat down in one of four plastic chairs placed around the table.

  Steve and I followed him and sat down too.

  “Spread your bra out on the table please,” he said, and I did.

  Pierre unzipped one of the bags and took out eight small hypodermic needles. They were slightly curved.

  “These contain heroin,” said Pierre. “Not enough to kill a big man, but one needle will put him to sleep. I suggest you inject two just to make sure. And I’m giving you extras in case you need them.”

  Heroin! I thought. That’s stronger than anything I used to be addicted to.

  I had a momentary fear that I’d be tempted to try it, but that passed.

  I’m not that weak now, I told myself.

  Pierre picked up the bra and held it toward me. Then he picked up one of the needles and pushed it into an opening in the fabric next to the underwire on one side.

  “These needles are slightly curved to match the bend of the underwire,” he said. “I’ll put four in the bra. Two on each side and two in the middle. And I’ll give you four more extra needles.”

  Pierre finished loading the bra and handed it back to me. Then he put the remaining four needles back in the bag and handed me that too.

  “Try pulling out one of the needles from the bra,” he said. “There’s Velcro on the seams. You can just pull them open.”

  I held the bra and tried it. The Velcro was firm, but it opened with a good tug. The needle fell out on the table with a small clatter.

  “OK. You’ll need to practice that,” said Pierre.

  Then, out of the blue, he asked another personal question. “Have you ever used needles?”

  That question jolted me because of my drug-use history, but I answered him honestly.

  “No. I used other drugs when I was an addict,” I said. “No needles.”

  He peered at me again with eyes that seemed to lo
ok inside me. He turned to look at Steve too.

  “She’s telling the truth,” said Steve.

  “I believe her,” Pierre answered Steve.

  Then he turned to me. “But that’s not my business except for what you need to be able to do. If you haven’t used needles, you need to practice inserting the needle and the drug. We’ll do that now. You can practice on Steve.”

  “What?” said Steve. “You want her to inject me with heroin! I want to help, but that’s going a bit too far.”

  “No. No. I’m not going to waste good heroin on you, Steve,” Pierre said. “These needles only have salt water in them.”

  He picked up the second plastic bag, pulled out eight more needles, and pushed them across the table to me.

  “Myrna will inject you with salt water for practice,” Pierre said in his calm, reassuring bass voice.

  “Oh. Well. I don’t know,” said Steve.

  He looked tense and uncomfortable. I looked at him, but I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t going to beg him. It had to be his decision to help me or not.

  Steve looked back and forth from Pierre to me.

  “Can’t she practice on you?” Steve asked Pierre.

  Pierre chuckled. A strange deep sound coming from such a thin man.

  “No. Steve. It has to be you,” said Pierre. “I don’t offer that service to my clients. And my time is valuable, so don’t waste it. Are you going to help this woman or not?”

  Whoa! Pressure! I thought, but I didn’t say anything.

  Steve sat silent. He stared at us while his olive skin reddened a bit. Then he answered.

  “Fine. I’ll do it. Sure. It’s just a few tiny needles. Like a flu shot. It’s the least I can do for Myrna,” he said with a big smile at me.

  I reached over and patted his shoulder.

  “Thank you, Steve,” I said. “That’s very kind of you to help me.”

  “Sure. Sure,” said Steve.

  He started to remove his coat.

  “Take off the coat but not the jacket underneath,” said Pierre. “She might need to inject through a jacket.”

  Steve draped his heavy wool coat over the empty chair next to him. He kept on his dress jacket made of a lighter wool-silk blend.

  Pierre got up, walked over, and stood behind Steve. He reached out a large, bony hand and clapped Steve on the shoulder.