Tenderloin

by LD Marr

  “Myrna! What are you doing here? Didn’t you go to work today?” he asked.

  He hung his coat up on its hook, and I walked over to join him in the foyer.

  “Hi, Frank,” I said. “Yes, I went to work. But I got fired today. I’m sorry, Frank.”

  “What? You’re sorry! What? Why?” Frank’s voice rose.

  “It’s OK Frank,” I said.

  I tried to reassure him, but he just stared at me with his mouth open while I spoke.

  “Someone saw me at the Tenderloin Club and told the clinic I was there. I didn’t mean to, but I kissed someone in the club—a client,” I confessed. “So that’s why I lost my job. But it’s OK because you know I have to find the man who kidnapped Chloe. And I was able to rest all day, so I’m ready to do that tonight. I’ll be sharp and at my best. So it’s good.”

  Frank took off his work shoes and placed them neatly against the wall. Then he straightened up and placed a hand on my arm.

  “Let’s talk about this, OK?” he said.

  “Sure,” I said. “I have a few hours before I need to get dressed. I have to dry my hair, and then I was going to cook some dinner. Do you want to cook together? I was thinking about going back sleep after that too—just for a bit.”

  “Sure. I need to change out of my work clothes too, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen in a few minutes,” Frank agreed.

  ⌛

  Fifteen minutes later, we stood in the kitchen making Frank’s recipe for lasagna. Made with soy cheeses because there were no dairy animals left on Earth, aboveground anyway. I stirred the pot of steaming tomatoes while Frank arranged layers of noodles, mushrooms, and ricotta soy cheese in a big glass pan.

  Frank had accepted my job loss, but he was still trying to talk me out of going back to the Tenderloin Club.

  “Can you at least wait one night and talk to Gorg first?” he asked. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing, but I’m worried about you. Very worried.”

  “No. I don’t have time to talk to Gorg today, but I can talk to him after this is over,” I offered. “It’s nice of you to be worried about me. And that you’re not threatening to call Gorg right now and kick me out of here.”

  Frank turned and looked at me with intense small eyes behind his round glasses.

  “Of course I’d never tell you to leave,” he said. “But you can bet that the clinic has already told Gorg. And Rita will probably tell him too. I’m surprised he hasn’t called you by now. Has he?”

  “Oh,” I said. “I haven’t checked my phone for a while. And I keep the ringer off. So I don’t know. I’ll check my messages tomorrow.”

  Frank sighed.

  “OK. I guess it’s up to me then,” he said.

  I knew that he meant it was up to him to bring me back to sanity, but I didn’t say anything.

  “I know I can’t talk you out of this, but I want to say it one last time, even though I know you won’t listen to me. Going to that club again is a very bad idea. It’s already got you fired from your job,” said Frank.

  “I’m listening,” I said, as I kept stirring the tomatoes.

  “Now please don’t get mad at me for what I’m about to say,” said Frank. “I know you think you found the man who took Chloe, and you know that he goes to the Tenderloin Club. But you don’t really know that for sure. I think it’s possible that you’re emotionally vulnerable, and you wanted to find Chloe so much that you imagined you found the man who took her.”

  He looked at me as if he expected an intense reaction to that, but I was calm. What he’d just said didn’t upset me at all.

  “I understand why you think that, but I still think it’s him. And the tomatoes are ready now,” I said.

  I turned off the gas on the burner and moved the pan to another burner that wasn’t lit.

  “Right,” said Frank.

  He picked up the pan and started spreading the partly cooked tomatoes in between layers of noodles and soy cheese.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re not mad at me for saying that,” he said.

  “No. I’m not mad at all,” I said.

  “Good. Anyway, I don’t think that was him,” said Frank. “You said the man’s skin and hair color changed when you looked at him. But sometimes our minds show us what we want to see, especially in traumatic situations. You know that’s more likely than someone’s coloring actually changing back and forth, right?”

  “Yes, you’re right,” I said.

  I still believed that what I’d seen was real—or at least had a real meaning. But I didn’t tell Frank that.

  “So maybe you did follow some guy, and he went to the Tenderloin Club and then left with another guy,” Frank continued. “And maybe he’ll be there again tonight, or someone who looks like him. And the worst that could happen is you’ll try to meet some weird guy and get him to take you home with him. That might be bad, but hopefully, you won’t end up kidnapped or dead. So I’m going to try not to worry about it. But I want you to know that I think you’re making a big mistake. And that’s the last I’ll say about it. You said you’ll call Gorg tomorrow, right?”

  I didn’t want to commit to tomorrow.

  “Right. I’ll call him as soon as I can,” I said.

  Frank sighed again. He opened the oven and put the pan inside. Then he typed in the heat and time settings on its keypad.

  “OK. We’ll eat in an hour,” he said. “You’re going out, so you should take a double helping tonight or even three.”

  The three us pooled our resources to buy food. Normally, this much food would be divided into meals for each of us for five days.

  “That’s so sweet of you, Frank,” I said. “But I don’t want to take anyone’s servings in case I make it back and need to eat dinners for the rest of the week.”

  “That’s not what I meant!” Frank insisted.

  But goosebumps rose up on my arms, and I felt his offer like a premonition.

  Chapter 19

  Several hours later, I stood under the arch of the Tenderloin Club’s weapon scanner. On the outside, I was dressed to impress. Hair teased high and highlighted with bright pink. My tightest black dress. Under that, I wore my new needle-packed bra. Pierre had promised it was foolproof, but I was nervous. If I was caught with weapons, I’d be banned from the club.

  I’ll just make another plan if that happens, I told myself.

  But it didn’t. The usual short wait seemed to last forever. Then the bouncer buzzed the inner door open for me. I checked my coat with Angla. Then I started a slow stroll around the perimeter of the club.

  I tried to get a feel for whether the man I looked for was there. I used that weird sense I had now, or thought I had, but I didn’t feel anything.

  He’s not here yet, I thought. But he will be. He’s on the way.

  I didn’t question how I knew that. It would lead to questioning my sanity, and I couldn’t afford that right now. I wandered past dancers, other people walking by, and others lounging against the wall. This time, I wasn’t trying to hide. I was trying to be seen. And I was.

  Suddenly, Laz was standing in front of me, smiling. I felt a rush of pleasure, and I immediately pushed it down.

  I can’t get involved with him! I told myself. It’s already cost me my job, although maybe that was going to happen anyway. But still, I’m here to find someone else, and he’ll just get in the way.

  Laz stood close enough that I could hear him over the club’s pounding dance music.

  “Myrna! Hey!” he greeted me.

  He didn’t touch me, and I could feel nervous tension coming from him. I felt guilty that I would have to ditch him, but that was just the way it was, and for his own good too.

  “Hi Laz,” I said. “It’s good to see you.”

  I’m glad to see you’re still alive, I thought for some reason, but I didn’t say it.

  “Hey, I heard you got fired from the clinic,” he said. “Someone told me you got fired because I kissed you. I’m really sorry.
”

  Now I felt bad that he was taking the guilt for that.

  “Wow! Word traveled fast,” I said. “Anyway, it wasn’t your fault, Laz. Please don’t think that. I don’t know why I thought I could come here without anyone from the clinic recognizing me. That had to happen. So it’s fine. OK?”

  “If you say so,” he said. “I’m glad you’re not mad at me anyway. That’s cool that you’ll be here at the club again.”

  He moved in closer to me, and I felt the attraction again that I didn’t want to feel. A slow dance song began to play. Laz leaned in and spoke in my ear.

  “Do you want to dance?” he asked.

  I was surprised that I felt like I did want to dance. I noticed that instinctively, I’d moved closer to him. Our bodies were just touching. But then, without consciously looking for it, the awareness of the man I was hunting came to me.

  He’s here in the club! I realized.

  I moved a few inches back from Laz. Then I leaned in close again to speak in his ear. I decided to be honest.

  “Laz,” I said. “I want to dance with you, but I can’t hang out with you right now. Remember I told you I’m looking for the man who took Chloe? He’s here now, and I have to go meet him and get him to take me home with him.”

  Laz pulled back from me, gripped my shoulders, and stared at me with a disturbed look on his face.

  “I’m worried about you!” he said as if surprised by that. “I know you told me that, but I thought maybe you were going through a temporary mental thing—like a flashback or something. And now you’ve lost your job, which I admit was my fault, but you don’t seem to care. And you’re saying you want to go home with someone you think is a kidnapper?”

  “Right. That’s exactly right,” I said. “I know it sounds crazy. Almost everyone I tell thinks that.”

  For a moment, I thought about Steve and Pierre, who maybe didn’t think it was crazy.

  “But that’s why I’m here,” I continued. “I’m here so I can find Chloe and the others. And I know it’s dangerous, but I still have to do it. It’s the most important thing in my life. A lot of people have disappeared, not just Chloe. They might all be dead by now, but more keep disappearing. I have to try to stop that. I’m the only one who can, and I’m ready tonight.”

  I stared back into his eyes, willing Laz to understand. He looked back at me, and I thought maybe he did, but I couldn’t be sure. I realized that I didn’t want him to think it was something personal. That I was just making all this up to get rid of him. Something pushed me to lean forward and brush my lips against his. Then I pulled away.

  I shouldn’t have done that! I told myself.

  “OK. I’ll accept that,” Laz said. “You’re here to find a man you think is a killer and go home with him, and that’s your mission, and there’s nothing I can do to stop you. Got it. I think you’re making a big mistake, but I’ll get out of your way.”

  I felt an unexpected stab of something—disappointment? Then Laz leaned forward and kissed me back. I didn’t resist or pull away. Just a brief kiss. Then he walked away through the crowd.

  I stood indecisive for a moment. I still felt the awareness of the man I hunted in the club. He was over by the bar, I realized. But now I also felt an awareness of someone else too. It was Laz. I felt him in my mind or somewhere in my feelings moving a certain distance away from me and then stopping.

  He’s back against the wall. But how do I know that? Will that make it harder for me to track the kidnapper? I wondered.

  I pushed that worry out of my mind and headed to the bar that stretched along the club’s back wall. I weaved through the packed crowd, sometimes accidentally bumping into dancers and apologizing, although I doubted they heard me. Mostly young and beautiful, they danced wildly as if in a haze of drugs or forgetfulness.

  Some were older, all were stylish. A few touched me or tried to speak to me as I passed by, but I didn’t stop.

  “Myrna!” someone called out.

  I kept going.

  I stopped just inside the moving crowd in the area of the dance floor nearest to the bar. To look natural, I danced among the others. The familiar moves came back to me, but this time I didn’t let myself fall into the mental trance of the dance.

  Instead, I moved along and turned in circles to check out the people who stood next to the bar or sat on high barstools. The long bar and the area in front of it was less crowded. A lot of club goers—the underage ones—couldn’t afford to buy drinks when they came here.

  It was easy to spot the man I was looking for. Not just because of the strong awareness of his presence that pointed me in his direction. Iced drink in hand, he sat in a casual pose facing out toward the dancers.

  Without his concealing black hood, I easily recognized the broad features of his brown face. Large dark eyes moved to watch the dancers who gyrated in front of him. Expensive haircut. Black hair slicked back. Bulging muscles under a tight white t-shirt that glowed purple in the club’s black lights.

  And although it was impossible in the club’s lighting, splotches of red smeared the air around him. No one else showed any sign of seeing the red color. But it spoke to me of pain and death, and the deep chill I’d felt in the subway crawled down my spine again. Strangely, I wasn’t afraid. I took care not to look directly at the man.

  Now what? I asked myself.

  I realized that in all the time I’d spent in this club, I’d never approached a man myself. They’d always come to me. That was how I’d met Steve.

  Will I have to go up to him and ask him to buy me a drink or something? I wondered.

  Just the thought of that made me cringe inside. In spite of the flashy clothes and hair I wore on the outside, I was a hider on the inside. I’d always been like that.

  “Insecure,” my therapist Gorg had said. “Low self-esteem because of your dysfunctional childhood.”

  “Obviously!” I’d said.

  I hadn’t really cared then if I didn’t have the skills or confidence to seduce—was that the right word?—a man, but now I felt the lack.

  Or is that the right thing to do in this case? I asked myself. What if he doesn’t like that. What if he’s the kind of man who wants to be the pursuer?

  My thoughts were interrupted by an intense feeling of being watched. When I turned toward the bar again, arms lifted and bent up behind my head, I looked at the man through slanted eyes. He was staring directly at me! Smiling. A bold stare that could only be interpreted as interest.

  I opened my eyes a bit wider as if I’d just noticed him. I kept dancing and turning, but I moved directly in front of him and smiled just a bit. The next time I turned his way, the man held up his drink toward me and shook it a bit. He pointed at me, the drink, and then himself.

  Well, that meaning’s clear, I thought. This was much easier than I expected it would be! I realized with a thrill that my plan was moving forward.

  I stopped dancing and walked over to join the man at the bar.

  “Have a seat,” he mouthed at me as I approached.

  I sat down on the empty barstool next to him. He leaned closer and spoke louder, so I could hear him.

  “I’m Claude,” he said.

  Claude held out a big hand for me to shake.

  I looked him up and down. This close, I saw the broad but perfectly sculpted features of his face. His virile masculinity. A well-fed, powerful man with huge bulk but no visible fat.

  Most people in those days were thin—too thin. Except the wealthy, who were often overweight but never bulked up with muscle like this man. He was probably the most attractive and healthy male I’d ever seen, but I felt repulsed by him.

  I didn’t want to take his hand, and I paused.

  I can’t do this! I thought.

  But something pushed me to take it. My hand reached out as if on its own and settled lightly in his.

  Claude gave my hand a squeeze, and the intense sick feeling I’d sensed coming from him jolted through me—disgusting
and unclean. I felt it inside, but again something held me still, and I didn’t react.

  “Hi Claude, I’m Myrna,” I said in a slow, warm voice that didn’t seem to be mine.

  I felt the familiar sense of time distorting. I felt like someone else was taking over my speech and actions for me, and I was just a watcher. I retreated gratefully.

  I might be going crazy right now, but I don’t care, I thought.

  The bartender came over, a youngish skinny man.

  A black tattoo swirled over his bald head. Probably too young to be bald from chemo, but early cancer was always a possibility. I recognized him, and he looked at me as if I were familiar. But I didn’t care if anyone recognized me now. It was too late to matter.

  “You need another drink?” he addressed the back of Claude’s head.

  Claude turned around and ordered a drink for me. “Black Russian,” he said, and the bartender left.

  “What a big, strong man you are!” I heard myself say to Claude.

  That sounded so lame! I thought.

  But Claude didn’t seem to notice the lameness of the remark. He laughed and flexed a huge bicep for me.

  “Would you like to feel it, Myrna?” he asked.

  “Love to,” I said.

  I reached up to caress the arm.

  “I’ve never felt anything like that,” I gushed. “How’d you get in such great shape?”

  This is so embarrassing! I thought as I continued to watch myself. What will I do next?

  “Oh, I work out regular,” Claude answered. “And I eat lots of protein.”

  I heard a light clink on the bar behind me, and I turned. The bartender had set my drink there.

  “On my tab,” said Claude.

  The bartender nodded. Then he looked at me with a stare that felt confusingly uncomfortable and walked away.

  Claude reached over and gripped my upper arm in one of his big hands. I pretended to take a sip of my drink and smiled at him.