Arthur Pinch follows Grim's sashay to the bar, taking the oil slick carpet like a catwalk, the dining room her captive if cursory audience. Look, but don't stare. Don't catch her eye. Even guests using the hotel as a way station between one circle of Hell and the next could suss out her insidious innocence. She'll whisper sweet nothings while watching the light leave your eyes.
She slips onto the stool next to Nerisse, crossing her legs as she leans in ever so slightly, arm resting on the bar. The little fugitive pretends not to see her. Or perhaps she is just as oblivious as she seems. Pinch couldn't make up his mind. His first and only encounter with Nerisse before tonight, a few weeks after her arrival, occurred when housekeeping staff out for smoke breaks complained to him after weeks of hearing her rant for hours on end about the prejudice of trees or the geopolitical complexities of weather vanes. So he paid her a visit during one of her tirades. She invited him into the van for a cup of oversteeped tea he held but did not drink, leaning against the kitchenette as she explained that her goldfish kept returning to the pet store, and the cashier insisted on charging her for taking him home every time he pulled this stunt, so she wouldn't be able to donate to his charity. Arthur thanked her for her time and made a mental note to inform the staff that if they wanted quiet, they could bloody well deal with it themselves. He tapped Luxe to track the loading dock footage for a few weeks, but she rarely left the van. When she did it was always on Tuesday morning. She opened the van door precisely at 8:30am, peering out from under a leather aviator hat and hoodie. He assumed she was a lunatic or an addict. Perhaps both, and a dime a dozen either way. After watching her operate in the lobby, he's no longer sure. That is unacceptable. Arthur Pinch doesn't tolerate uncertainty.
Grim gently taps her nails on the bar, careful to avoid dulling their razored tips against the hardwood. Nerisse stares in absentia at the empty glass clenched in her hand. Grim smiles, unbothered, and waits. It never takes long. Nerisse looks over without moving, side eyes wide with bewilderment.
Grim smiles beatificaly. “No need to be shy sugar, I don't bite,” she winks “Not unless you ask nicely”.
Nerisse looks towards her just slightly, responds in a shrill whisper that would have sounded satirical from anyone else.
“Are you real?”
Grim's smile slips into a smirk for half a breath. “As real as anything else in this place sweetheart. I live here. Where is a cute little thing like you visiting from?” Sugar coated, calculated, confident. Come a little closer, little duckling.
Nerisse turns her head an inch or two more, wide grey eyes colored melancholy. “Once you are real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always.”
She's playing at something, Grim is certain of it. Games are one of Grim's many predilections, although she's usually in charge of the rules. No harm in playing along every now and then.
“Were you unreal where you came from?”
Nerisse looks down and nods. “It doesn't happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges.”
“So which one are you sugar?” Grim couldn't help herself. Pinch's chat proposition wasn't going anywhere. May as well have a little fun.
She shrugs. “When you're real you don't mind being hurt.” Nerisse abruptly stands and slams her glass on the counter. Bishop glowers at her from down the bar, but doesn't dare interruptHe knows better than to get between Grim and a mark, and the show was worth it.
She lays a hand on the wood next to Grim’s,oiled fingertips idling on her needled hand. A talon gently pierces the point of her middle finger, insulin needle deep, but Nerisse doesn't seem to notice. She leans in and whispers in Grim's ear.
“But these things don't matter, because once you're real you can't be ugly, except to those who don't understand.”
Nerisse turns and bobs towards the dining room, tripping here and there over nothing at all. Grim glares gallows at her as she wipes the tip of her fingernail with a napkin, leaving a tiny red streak behind. Bishop approaches to collect the glass Nerisse left behind, backs off as Grim bats his hand away.
“Bag it.”
Bishop has more than enough self preservation not to argue. He grabs an ice bucket liner, wraps it around his hand, uses it to pick up the glass. Grim snatches it and tucks the napkin inside the glass, spins the bag closed and stands to offer Bishop a smile the devil would envy.
“Speak of this to anyone, my handsome half pint, and you'll be quoting Shakespeare while I cut out your tongue.”
Bishop clears his throat but maintains eye contact. “All’s well that ends well, duchess.”
Grim spins on her heel and storms the concierge compound. No one is looking this time. Pinch smirks and approaches the glass, crossing his arms as she struts up the stairs. She slams the glass on the counter in front of him.
“Let me in.”
Pinch cocks his head, but makes no move towards the door hidden in the wood paneling leading to his sanctum.
“You didn't say please.”
Grim leans in, pressing her tits against the glass. She's the only woman Pinch had ever met who could smile and sneer and mean them both so sincerely.
“Let me in, or I'm selling this to Bosch instead.”
Pinch remains motionless a moment, but his eyes are raining fire and brimstone. As far as Pinch was concerned, Bosch's rightful place at the 9 is among the vats in the boiler room. But the Proprietor disagreed, and the Proprietor is not to be questioned. He approaches the hidden side door, reluctant to open it with people in the lobby and waits. Grim straightens, ambles up, hips in full sway, steps into the viscera as Pinch opens the door upon her landing. Familiar rituals. Predictability in the midst of the unpredictable. Oxygen at the 9.
Grim dangles the bag in front of Pinch. “You didn't tell me she's a fuckin crackpot, darling.”
Pinch makes no move for the bag. He knows her play too well. “Wouldn't want to ruin the fun.”
“Your idea of fun never fails to bore me, darling.” She scoffs and tosses him the glass. “And you'll still be paying half for my trouble.”
Pinch arches a brow. “Half?”
“We didn't chat. She rambled at me. Send the other half to Luxe, I want to know what that little cunt is up to.”
Okay, holy shit I love these characters interacting. They are all little shitheads in their specific ways and I adored Grim's last line about Nerisse.
The opening line is beautiful, but starting with Arthur's name first in 3rd perspective made me believe that we were following his head for a moment with the rest of the paragraph being his own thoughts on Grim. It wasn't until the second paragraph that I realized we were following Grim's head and I had to go back and reread from the start (or is that the royal 'we' in the hotel?). I tend to start a scene stating the character's name that we are following first to prevent that kind of confusion
I am looking forward to the next entry
Next:
https://open.substack.com/pub/ninestoryhotel/p/nerisse?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=h5x57