Shella (11 page)

When they sat down, a waitress brought him a silver tray, little mound of white powder on it. The woman with him had a tiny spoon on a chain around her neck. She sat on his lap, scooped some powder, held it to his nose. Did it again. She didn’t take any for herself.

A heavy set man came in with a blonde on his arm. The blonde was in an orange dress cut all the way down to her waist, held together with straps across the front. Misty leaned over to me. “You think I look like that?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I shook my head.

“She looks like a cheap piece of goods,” Misty said. “No class.”

I nodded, watching the woman on the man’s lap.

Carlos and the woman got up to dance again. The music was faster now, but Carlos still didn’t move. The woman was climbing all over him, twisting like a snake, working hard.

“What’s that dance, that they’re doing?” I asked Misty.

“It’s the Lambada … or, anyway, it’s
supposed
to be. That skinny bitch can’t shake it worth a damn. You see the way those pants are cut … to make her look like she’s got a decent butt? She wouldn’t last ten minutes on a runway.”

The woman’s legs were all hard muscle under the pants. I still couldn’t see her hands.

Misty got up to go to the ladies’ room. When she came back, she told me all about it. Gold trim around the mirrors, a maid with towels, trays of perfume, coke.

The later it got, the more crowded it was. The smoke was so heavy it stung my eyes. Misty was used to it, she said it wasn’t so bad.

I got up to dance with Misty again. We moved closer to Carlos. I watched him over Misty’s shoulder. His eyes were closed.

In between dances with the woman, he hit the spoon again and again. The woman never got up by herself, never went to the ladies’ room, never left his side.

I figured it out, finally.

I pulled Misty’s chair right against mine, put my arm around her, moved her close so I could whisper to her.

“I’m going to do my work soon,” I told her. “Walk out, like we had a fight or something. Get them to call you a cab. Go back to the motel, check out. Take a cab back home.”

“What’re you …?”

“Ssssh, Misty. Just do it, okay?”

“Baby, couldn’t I … help you or something?”

Her bare shoulder was warm under my hand. I rubbed her flesh with my thumb, making a little circle.

“Is there a window in the ladies’ room?”

“I don’t know, honey. I mean, I didn’t see one. But I could go and look.…”

“Yeah. Do that, okay. I’m going to take a look around myself.”

She went off. I gave her a couple of minutes. Then I walked across the dance floor, found the corridor to the men’s room, went inside.

It was fancy, like Misty described. But you could see it had been a corner of the basement, once. Maybe there’d been a restaurant upstairs. I went into one of the stalls, last one on the end, near the wall. Pipes running all around the base of the wall. I saw a paper tag wired to one of the pipes. Brooklyn Union Gas, it said.

I came out of the stall, washed my hands, looked in the mirror so I could see the place. In one corner, two pipes running floor-to-ceiling. On the side of the pipes, a round valve. For the kitchen that used to be upstairs?

I got back to the table before Misty did. She sat down, waited till the waitress brought us some more drinks. “There’s a window, baby. But it’s a real little one, with bars on the outside.”

“It’s okay. People watch you real close in there? Could you maybe do something before you leave?”

“Honey, I could do
anything….
It’s like an orgy room back there. They’re all snorting up, making a mess. I saw two girls going at it in one of the stalls, right in front of everybody. This one girl was standing on the toilet with her dress up and the other one was lapping it up. They didn’t even close the door.”

“Yeah, they’re doing it at the tables too.”

“Not coke, baby, sex. This one girl was standing on the toilet with her dress all the way up and this other one was eating her. It was disgusting.…”

“Okay.” I handed her three books of paper matches. “Put a lighted cigarette in the matches, like this.” I showed her.
When the cigarette burned down, it would hit the match heads, make a little flash flame. Shella taught me that trick. “Is there a trash can, for tissues and stuff like that?”

“Yeah. There’s a couple of them.”

“You think you could throw a lighted cigarette in there, wrap the matchbooks around it first?”

“Sure.”

We got up to dance again. The floor was so crowded now, people kept bumping into us—especially Misty. I put my lips real close to her ear, holding her tight.

“When we go back to the table, you just sit there and wait. When I come back, you go to the ladies’ room, do what we said. Soon as you dump the cigarette, walk right upstairs and step out on the sidewalk. Like you need some air. Grab a cab.”

“What’re you …?”

“I’ll see you later, okay?”

She pulled my face down, gave me a deep kiss.

It took me a while to work my way through the crowd to the men’s room. I waited till it was pretty empty. Waited some more until I was alone. Then I stepped out of the stall. The attendant was cleaning up near the door. I stepped over to the pipes, grabbed the valve, and twisted hard. It wouldn’t move. I pulled in a deep breath through my nose, got a better grip, then let it out as I twisted it again. I felt little pinpricks in the back of my neck, pain around my eyes … felt the valve give. I twisted it open all the way, heard a little hiss.

I went back outside. Misty got up, rubbing her head like it hurt. She went off.

I smoked two cigarettes, slow and easy. It was about fifteen minutes before I smelled it, just a faint undertrace, but I knew what it was. Couldn’t move yet. Carlos was still sitting down.

Finally, he got up to dance. I got up too, started across the floor. The woman was wiggling against him, hands behind his back. I heard someone say “Gas?” I guess it’s the same in Spanish. People were moving around, the music was loud…. Some of them could smell it.

I stepped behind the woman, hooked her as hard as I could in the kidneys. The blow knocked her into him. He spread his arms and she went down, crumpled. I could see the gun in her hand, but she was gone. His mouth was open. Somebody screamed. I shot a left into his ribs, my right hand knife-edged against his neck as his head came down. The gas smell was strong now. “Fire!” I heard someone yell. Everybody started running for the exit, a crazed crowd, stomping over each other.

I got out in the middle of the mess, running. Found the car where I left it.

When I got back to the hotel, Misty was already there. Still in the red dress. She hugged me real tight, told me she got out of the club without any problem. The TV was on. She’d been watching the news. There was nothing.

I took off my clothes, took a shower. When I came out, she was still in the red dress.

“I wanted to keep it on, baby. It looks so pretty, doesn’t it?”

“It looks perfect,” I told her.

Early in the morning, just before she fell asleep, Misty
moved against me. “Will I ever get to wear my dress again, honey?”

“Sure,” I said, holding her till she nodded off.

In the papers the next morning, they just called it a gas leak in the social club. One unidentified dead man, broken neck. And a woman, broken ribs and internal injuries. They’d interviewed the woman when she came out of surgery. She said she hadn’t seen anything—everybody panicked, it was a mob scene.

I thought about the gun in her hand. That woman, his bodyguard, she wouldn’t say anything, ever. She wasn’t his woman—it was business.