NINE
Over an entrée of guinea fowl and braised fennel, which none of the men guessed correctly, the conversation became more serious. There was no argument, just a consensus on fiscal strategy and a slight disagreement on the merits of trickle-down economics. I offered little, sitting still, drinking wine, pointlessly closing my eyes. The darkness was choking. I saw Bethany naked; her breasts and buttocks, the slenderness of her thighs; and I felt her hand brush against my leg, the swish as she walked, the scrape of her heels on the floor.
After the men had finished, Miguel led us back through the restaurant, the space lightening as we walked the slightly inclining corridor. They were in high spirits, drunk now and loudly speculating on what was to happen next. We walked into the casino, its smell of cigars, the atmosphere heavy with the clipping of roulette tables and the shuffle of cards. A jazz band was playing in the corner, and we looked down on them from the top of the staircase. Women were serving the tables dressed as Playboy bunnies; there were cigar girls wandering the floors with trays of Cubans. Everything glittered, sparkled, seemed deeper coloured, more lush even than usual. I told the men we had a gaming table reserved and they followed me down the steps, perhaps relieved that the darkness had cleared.
‘I have to confess to being quite impressed, Mr Jones,’ Brooks said as we walked through the casino. ‘The attention to detail is really something.’ He smiled. ‘It’s like the Clermont, but a hundred times the size.’
‘I’m glad you approve. We’re rather proud of it ourselves.’
‘Isn’t that . . . ?’ Boulder said, pointing towards a group of men playing backgammon.
‘Please, sir, don’t point,’ I said and he held his hand down, momentarily shamed. ‘If you think someone resembles someone you might be familiar with,’ I said, ‘the chances are that they are who you think they are. Which is why they come here: to escape the attention.’
‘I’d love to party with him. I’ve always loved his stuff. And his style. You think—’
‘I will see what can be arranged,’ I said. ‘But some things are beyond even my control.’
Boulder tried not to look too disappointed and shot a last furtive glance at the actor. He was one of the better of the lookalikes we employed, and enjoyed his role too much for O’Neil’s liking. But it was undeniable that his presence leant a certain kind of glamour to the otherwise unprepossessing appearances of the residents and their guests. I hurried us along to our table, the men scouring the room for more famous faces.
*
Boulder made his excuses and headed for the adjacent roulette table, settling himself down next to a woman in an emerald ballgown with a flower in her hair. The croupier handed over his designated allotment of chips and Boulder heaped $3,000 on black. The rest of us sat at the card table, feeling the baize under our hands, waiting for poker.
I had become adept at maintaining a solid losing streak at cards. I was not playing to win, but neither was I playing to lose – an even riskier strategy. Instead I’d developed a series of tells and strategies that players of mid-level skill could soon decode. I would win the odd hand, but didn’t go for grand gestures or pull random all-ins.
O’Neil had introduced me to poker not long after we’d moved in together. We played every Thursday with some of his old friends, six of us drinking beer and talking late into the night. It was an odd kind of education, an introduction to male American culture.
Before Joe, before my invention of him, I didn’t really have male friends. There were boys that I hung around with but I was never part of a group, always somewhat on the fringes. At home, Dad’s sadness excluded me. He was a quiet man, thoughtful, yet unsharing. He was easy not to love; a wary kind of thinness marked every interaction. When later, as Joe, I came to imagine my parents dead, it was the simplest part of the deception.
Brooks was, unsurprisingly, a canny and sharp player; neither a table bully nor a silent brooder. Miller kept us entertained with his ribald jokes and I settled into the routine demands of raising, calling and folding. The cards were falling in all the right places, but for the most part I just missed out on the pot. I drank a gin and tonic and watched the others count out their chips, smoothing them across the brushed green surface, the dealer flipping cards with rhythmic, soothing regularity from the shoe.
‘I knew it was going to be seventeen,’ we heard Boulder say from across the table. ‘I could see it, see the little white ball hop into the seventeen and I just put it all on seventeen, and it came up. Fuck me, it came up.’
Brooks looked up from his cards and inclined his head towards me. I shook my head. It was not fixed. Whatever he thought, it wasn’t. We took a break from the game and congratulated Boulder on his good fortune. He asked for champagne and it arrived with a wink and solid, satisfying pop. He tipped the waitress a thousand dollars, placing the chip in the cup of her brassiere. She bit her lip and curtsied. Boulder watched her bunny tail disappear into the bustle of the casino. He drained his champagne and another bunny girl refilled it. It was not fixed. He really had caught a lucky break.
The poker game resolved itself quickly after Boulder’s interjection. Brooks won comfortably after fending off a late charge by one of our companions. He seemed satisfied by the outcome, but was modest in victory. He threw a tip to the dealer and stood.
‘I think we need some proper excitement now, Mr Jones. Something to liven things up a little.’
I nodded and, once the men were gathered, escorted them towards the lifts. Boulder rubbed his hands as we walked.
*
In the basement, we were met by two men in top hats, their faces fleshy and moustachioed. Without speaking they parted heavy purple drapes exposing a thickly scented room, the flooring generously carpeted, the walls dressed in sumptuous velvets, the sound system playing old French music hall. We stepped through and were greeted by Rosalita, her tall cheeks rouged, her hair flowing, her breasts spilling out from her corsetry.
‘Oh, gentlemen, you have arrived!’ she said. ‘Mr Jones, it is good to see you again!’ She bowed to us all. ‘Well now, sirs, why don’t you make yourselves comfortable? There are some girls who are anxious to meet with you all.’ She winked theatrically and as she turned women began to swarm in from the side entrances. Rosalita showed us to the centre table and the girls stroked our hair, smiled, sat on our laps. Boulder tried to touch one of the girls’ breasts and she slapped him with mock annoyance.
Just off to our right was a small dais, a not-quite stage, and in turn, one by one, the women disappeared behind its curtains, until we were just men again. Boulder and Miller looked dismayed, Hooper and Brooks confused. A spotlight flickered and then held. There was a pole at the centre of the dais and Rosalita stood in front of it.
‘Welcome to my house, gentlemen. Welcome. We have a little show for you now, something to get you in the mood. We do so hope you enjoy it.’
I had seen the show many times, and applauded as always, but with a sense of relief with every changeover of girl. I had a strong sense that I would blank out again. The apprehension grew as the floorshow continued. When it was over, I looked at the men in both relief and disappointment.
‘And now, sirs,’ Rosalita said, taking the dais once again. ‘To the main event.’ The music changed to a kind of bolero.
‘In my humble house,’ she continued softly, ‘we have just one simple rule, and that is that everyone’s pleasure should be serviced. Which is why we do things oh-so-slightly differently here. You will not be allowed to select the girl of your choosing tonight. No. Rather they will have free rein to make their own decisions. One by one they will come out, and one by one they will choose which one of you gentlemen they wish to give themselves to. Which one they wish to bestow all of their worldly charms on.’
Boulder whooped; everyone else was silent. Rosa shot me a little smile. ‘But as madam of this house, I get first refusal. So, gentlemen, I wonder which one of you will be lucky enough to spend some time with me?’
She rustled her skirts as she walked over to our table. With a gloved hand she stroked Miller’s face, then kissed Boulder lightly on the lips and pressed her bosom into a slightly surprised Brooks. She put her hand on the crotch of Hooper and widened her eyes, then sat on my lap.
‘Sorry, gentlemen, but I think this evening is your lucky night, Mr Jones.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s—’
‘You reject me every time you come here, Mr Jones. Gentlemen, do you think that’s fair?’
They roared no. No!
I shrugged and she laughed.
‘Well, that’s settled, then. Mr Jones, you’re in for one wild night!’
She helped me up and I waved goodbye to the men.
‘See you on the other side,’ I said. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’
We shut the door behind us and it was cool and silent in the corridor.
The routine was the same, everyone playing their own parts, whether consciously or not. Once Hooper’s girl had made her long and agonizing decision, another girl would walk through the door dressed – who knew? – like a schoolgirl, or a streetwalker, or one of those girls who looked like both. And she would act out the same charade for Miller. The man would laugh and yelp, applaud the decision, and would look back to his comrades and raise his eyebrows – ‘Hell, this might be just too much for me to handle, guys, know what I mean?’ – and laugh again. But the laugh and the look would not be noticed: all the remaining men’s thoughts would, by then, be on the next girl.
*
In the office it was dark and silent, the only illumination a computer terminal and a standard lamp emitting a queasy half-light. It was a large room, with two leather sofas, some bookshelves, a dresser at which Rosa immediately began pawing away her make-up, and a large map of the world above the computer desk. To its right was a coffee machine. I poured us a mug each, placed one beside her, then collapsed into a sofa.
I was too tired to speak, but the coffee was strong and good; Rosa got it imported from a town not far from where she was born in Puerto Rico. I lit a cigarette and placed the pack next to her, then moved to the old boom box by the computer. Rosa and I always listened to the same radio station, a dusty complication of consonants which only played records by old mariachi bands. Willie Dawson was the disc jockey, and he didn’t talk too much. ‘Trumpet sounds better than any voice, my flock,’ he’d say, ‘I believe in the word of the trumpet!’
‘This bunch seems even worse than usual,’ Rosa said, a cigarette dangling at the corner of her mouth. ‘I told Harry to mind the guy in three.’ She lit the cigarette with a box of matches.
‘Why three?’
‘I seen guys like him before.’
‘He’s just another asshole.’
‘You don’t see things the way I do. Remember that guy, what’s his name?’
‘Gardner.’
‘I still have nightmares about him,’ she said. Rosa sat down next to me on the leather cushions. She tapped my leg.
‘You look tired.’
‘You say that every week.’
‘Because you’re tired every week. You run, you drink, you run, you drink. There must be more, no?’
‘There’s always more,’ I said and smiled. ‘You know O’Neil and Edith are fucking, right?’
A beam of smoke emerged from each nostril; she stayed silent.
‘Why didn’t you say?’ I said.
‘Because it wasn’t any of your business, Joey. And they look happy, no? Don’t they?’
I looked at my coffee mug.
‘I know I should be happy for them, but . . .’
‘But you’re an asshole, so you can’t.’
She smiled and I smiled back. She kissed me on the cheek. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘No, not really. It just feels like . . . like everything’s coming to a head.’
‘Things fall apart,’ she said with a shrug. ‘People, too. You’re just going to have to deal with it when the time comes.’
She put her hand on mine and squeezed it. Her eyes were outlined in heavy silver, and her cheeks were still too rouged for the brightness of the room.
‘Coffee’s good,’ I said.
‘It’s always good. The coffee is the one thing round here I do recommend.’ She wrapped both hands around her mug as though she was cold. She blew on it, then took a long sip.
‘How long’ve you got left? Can’t be long now.’
‘I don’t know. O’Neil says he’s going to stay on here with Edith. Set up some company or something.’
‘Will you stay too?’ she said.
‘I can’t imagine for one moment staying here any longer than I have to. It’s like . . .’ I realized that I was going to say ‘home’ and paused. ‘I love O’Neil. But he said—’
‘He’s in love, Joe. Things don’t ever work out the way you plan them. You know that. And you must have known that this would come along some time, no?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
Willie mentioned a hoedown at a local bar then played another record.
‘He’s a good man, O’Neil.’
Her voice was serious. She’d always had a thing for big guys, she once told me, and O’Neil was just the kind of bear she’d love to be held by. The intercom buzzed.
‘Room two ESL.’ Harry’s voice.
I looked at my watch. ‘Quick one.’
‘Never quick enough,’ Rosa said.
‘Who’s in two?’
Rosa checked her notepad. It was Miller. I finished my coffee and looked at the huge wall map. It had coloured markers pressed into different cities. There was a new one, a stub placed in the north-west of England. Rosa saw me look at it.
‘There was a documentary on about the Beatles last night,’ she said. ‘And I thought I might go to Liverpool. It looks like a cool place.’
*
Liverpool is the only other city for which Bethany has ever claimed any affinity, though we go there infrequently. Tonight the Ramones are playing and we have had tickets for months. We’re catching a lift with someone Bethany knows through a friend. He is known only as Captain, though neither of us have an idea why. We are to meet him outside the Town Hall and he is running late. Bethany is excited and a little drunk on the rum we’ve filched from her dad’s drinks cabinet.
We stand, hugging each other by the gated doorway of the Town Hall, as people in summer dresses and chinos make their way to the Queen’s and the Carpenter’s. I look at my watch and try not to seem impatient.
‘He’ll be here soon, don’t worry,’ she says. ‘They’re not on till nine anyway.’
I nod and kiss her.
‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘We’ll be out of here soon. Out of here for good!’
I shout this so the whole town can hear, then a van – a battered blue Transit – lurches to a halt in front of us. Captain opens the door and doesn’t say hello. We get in the cab and say thank you. He doesn’t apologize for keeping us waiting for half an hour.
‘I’m Mark,’ I say, putting on my seat belt. He nods at me.
‘You don’t trust the Captain, eh?’
He is in his early twenties, his hair long and straggly, his face already careworn, though not unattractive. He puts the van into gear and accelerates to a great speed. The back of the van judders and crashes with things not fastened down properly.
‘It’s only Dan’s drums,’ he says. ‘And he can’t play them for shit anyway.’
I nod my head to the beat of the music. ‘Fugazi, right?’
He nods again as we make our escape. He seems impressed.
Five hours later and we drive back through the rain-dirty streets. Captain has assured us that he is okay to drive, but neither one of us is convinced. I’m slowly cooling down from the heat of the gig, the new Ramones T-shirt itchy on my damp skin. Beth holds my hand tightly but seems distant; not so much worried by Captain’s driving but still somehow distracted. The music is loud and Captain chews Juicy Fruit incessantly. He is talking too, telling us both to relax, telling us that it’s the best gig he’s been to, that Joey Ramone is the coolest man alive. I keep my eyes on the road and say nothing, my ears still ringing from the drums and the guitar and Joey Ramone’s voice.
We are about four miles from home when he turns off the headlights. We are on a B-road and he is laughing; chewing and laughing and telling us that this is the best bit about night driving: the fear. He turns the wheel and we are in the middle of the road, the drums crashing in the back, Bethany’s fingers are cold and laced in mine. We both tell him to stop, tell him to put on the lights and get back in the right lane. But Captain’s just laughing at us.
‘Just fucking stop it, Captain,’ Beth says. ‘Just stop it right now.’
I see the car coming towards us. Its headlights are not dipped and Captain is momentarily dazzled; he pulls the van left then right. I brace myself and pull Bethany towards me. We close our eyes and hunch our shoulders. We miss the car by inches and career off the road into a muddy ditch. The music is silenced and all we can hear is the ticking of the engine and the settling of the drums in the back. Beth is shaking; I am holding her and shaking too.
‘You fucking idiot,’ she shouts. ‘What was that? What the fuck was that about?’
Captain starts to laugh again.
‘We’re only ever one step from death, Beth. Only one moment away from the oblivion.’
‘You stupid bastard,’ she says. ‘You stupid fucking bastard.’
He puts the van in reverse and lights a cigarette. He nudges me.
‘Admit it,’ he says. ‘That was the coolest thing ever, right?’
I want to punch him. I imagine how it would feel to knock him out, break one of his teeth, kick him in his throat. My right hand begins to shake. Bethany steadies it and says nothing at all. Ten minutes later, Captain drops us at a roundabout.
‘Be seeing you,’ he says and drives off. Mud and grass are stuck to the side of the van.
In the street we hold each other.
‘I thought we were going to die,’ she says. ‘I honestly thought we were going to die.’
We walk to her house and make love. Afterwards we smoke a cigarette and suddenly she starts to laugh. We both get a severe attack of the giggles and kiss until they pass. I get dressed and remind her that there’s just one more week to go. One more week before we escape. She says nothing. I kiss her goodbye, almost like it’s the last time.
*
Rosa crooked a finger down my cheek.
‘You were fast asleep,’ she said. ‘Out, just like that.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘You’ve got to look after yourself better. Take better care of yourself.’
I looked at my hands.
‘How long have you known me, Rosa?’
She shrugged. ‘Eight months nearly now, Joey.’
‘And you know me? You know men? You feel like you know me?’
She was about to answer me when the intercom went again. Boulder had finished. She looked at the clock and then at the floor.
‘Maybe we should get away? Head into the desert. Stay at a motel and get drunk and play cards. Maybe read a book,’ she said.
It was hardly an improbable dream, but I couldn’t picture it. I said nothing and looked at the map again; Rosa coughed.
‘You sure know how to make a girl feel wanted.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s just I—’
‘It’s okay,’ she said wearily and stood up. ‘I just thought it’d do you good, is all.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Yeah, well, thank you very—’
The intercom went again in a shriek of static. Harry was shouting code blue code blue, and in the corridor we could hear raised voices, scuffling noises, bodies being bumped against the wall. Rosa and I ran for the door. In the corridor, two of the security guards were restraining Brooks. He was smiling, no longer struggling, his trousers unfastened. The men held him against the wall, his face still, his body loose. Rosa rushed past me and into the room.
I followed her in. Lydia was on the floor. Her face was covered in blood and semen. There was blood on the wall. Her nose looked broken and there were teeth on the floor; small, like milk teeth. She had bruises on her thighs, welts on her arms. She tried to wipe her face, but just smeared the mess over her hands and wrists. Lydia was the youngest girl we had; she didn’t look older than sixteen. Rosa scooped her up and carried her down the corridor. As she passed, Brooks spat at her.
‘Learn to suck dick properly, you useless cunt,’ he said, then laughed.
I pushed him back into the room and closed the door. I had him by the lapels. The room smelled of shit and Brooks was still laughing.
‘So what you going to do, Jones? I can do whatever the fuck I want, right? I thought that was the point. You really think that was all I wanted to do to her? I had such plans for that bitch—’
I punched him first in the stomach, then went for his face. He dodged my fist and kicked the back of my legs. Everything was light for a moment and then I was flat on the floor. He stamped on my wrist and then jumped on my arms.
‘I should fuck you like I fucked her,’ he said. I had my hands over my face and he went to work on my torso. Left and right, right and left. The rhythm was soothing. The blows no longer hurt. I stole a look at him, the redness of his face, the sweat dripping down on mine.
*
The news report is read by Gordon Burns. The broadcast cuts to a picture of Bethany taken from the carnival; the production team must have rushed to develop the photos. It does not look like her. It could be anyone in that crown, in that dress, smiling and waving.
They cut to the crime scene, a roving reporter in shirtsleeves reiterating the finer points of what can be disclosed. DI Simon Parks denies reports that the killing could be linked to others in the North-West. Then they show a picture of the man they have arrested. This is unusual, but they are appealing for people who know him to come forward. I do not recognize him. It is a mug shot and he does not have the face of a killer. No one has the face of a killer. On the floor in front of me is my suitcase, my small army rucksack, my passport and my tickets. The funeral will not take place for weeks while Bethany is sliced and weighed and jointed. We still have the tickets; we are still going to New York.
I see the man’s face again and cannot feel anything. No anger, no desire for revenge. I just think of the flight. How much Bethany will enjoy it. The feel of her hand in mine as we land.
*
I had broken his nose somehow, an awkward punch that caught him square on the bridge. I punched him again and blood landed in my mouth. He clutched his face and I kneed him in the stomach. He howled as I stood, howled as I kicked his face, stamped on his head. I was grinding my heels into his chest when they came in and stopped me.
‘You’d better get going,’ Harry said, looking down at Brooks, a pair of his teeth on the carpet. ‘I’ll sort this out.’
Rosa looked away from me and began to talk into her cell phone. Harry pushed me through the door.
‘Go,’ he said. ‘You really need to leave. Now.’
From the telephone in the office, I called O’Neil. He answered after five rings, and for a long time I said nothing, listening to the sound of him move from the loudness of whichever place he was in, to somewhere he could speak.
‘Talk to me,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
I couldn’t speak.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said eventually. ‘I’m so sorry.’ I kept saying it, over and again.
‘I’m coming over,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m . . .’ I said and looked around. ‘I’m leaving. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I can’t stay here any longer.’
‘Just wait, Joe. Just stay where you are. I’m coming, okay?’
I put the phone down. There was silence and stillness and then there was Bethany Wilder. Electric, living, her hand on one hip, her legs crossed, a cigarette tucked in the corner of her smile. I followed her up to my rooms. She watched me from the bed as I packed, wound her hair around her fingers as I checked my passport and credit cards. She said nothing. There was nothing to say. With a small bag over my shoulder, I headed out and followed her back through the corridor, down the elevator, through the atrium and then on to the airport.