“A lobby tax?!” Pinch drops the plastic wrapped tumbler on his desk in the Hotel's office, wearing his vexation like a bullet proof vest. He throws up his free hand in disgust and looks askance at Grim. She ignores him, picking at her nails with a pink stiletto as she leans a pin-up perfect pose next to the exit.
“Luxe, just come get the goddamn bag. I don't give a shit if you hate the lobby, you'll be down here all of thirty fucking seconds-” Pinch allows himself to be cut off, eyes rolled to white out. Grim slips the knife in her clutch, lights a smoke and a smile.
“Yes. Fine. I said yes Luxe, Jesus fucking christ!” He knows better than to slam the antique phone, tossing it into the cradle instead. Grim makes little attempt to hide her delight, blowing smoke rings around her coquettish lips. “I see you and Luxe still get along swimmingly.”
Pinch leers at her as he exits the backroom into the concierge cage. “We have an understanding.”
Grim flicks the cigarette into an empty ashtray and lets it burn. She follows Pinch's lead and leans next to him against the front desk, batting her eyelashes and pointing her heels. “Is the arrangement that you let her rape your wallet because it's more convenient than hiring outside the Hotel?”
Pinch's cheeks flush but he refuses to snap. Cunning little cunt is too good at what she does. He gives her a sardonic kiss on the forehead instead. “Careful precious, so sharp you might cut yourself.”
Arthur pulls out his Moleskine and takes three lines of notes while Grim lollies and watches him write. “You know, I can’t read your handwriting,” Grim says. Pinch is about to tell her this is the point but the newer phone to the rooms of the hotel rings. Newer, but early digital beige, the little calculator screen says 303 on the readout. Oh, how lovely, the Russians need something. Since making peace with Xenia he doesn’t mind them, respects them professionally. Slow to let go of the vulgar display that is the entirety of Xenia Popova’s existence.
He picks up the receiver, presses the line button and gives it his best syrup and oil Concierge Desk, but Xenia interrupts him. “Pinch, apologies. In thirty seconds four men will enter the lobby, lock the doors after them.”
“What?”
“Little grey men, thirty seconds, lock the doors after they’re in the lobby. Vladimir is in the lobby waiting.” She’s chewing as she talks. A twitch builds in Pinch’s right eye. “You’re about to ask how I know. Remember that we’re here to work, Arthur. We earn our keep.” She swallows and hangs up. Little grey men, the concierge’s brain clicks and whirs, not like aliens. She’s high, but probably not that high. He can’t parse fast enough and the doors to the lobby open. Little GREY men. Oh, professional military contractors playing dress up like they aren’t doing work.
Four men walk into the lobby, one obviously at point. The group walks slow in a lazy V, slow motion flying geese. Grey and brown tactical pants, their I hike but not in Afghanistan shoes, mirrored shades, three polos and one t-shirt, primary colors or muted, grey, red, blue, black, and those tan caps. The lobby is emptying with every step they take. No one wants to be involved in shit with operators attached, their swivel heads, grim flat expressions, professionally ready to put holes in just about anyone or anything. The guests, regulars, irregulars, cattle, all have their own shit to attend to, in fact, they’re late. Bishop’s even ducked out from the bar. Pinch mouths what the fuck is all of this then, but he still presses the button under the desk that shunts the lobby doors locked, trapping the little grey guys.
SHUNK, the lock is thick metal, loud and hasn’t been oiled in years, and the men don’t startle. They all pull concealed pistols, drop their shoulders, hunch, and start to walk foot over foot, spreading out with that fast mover intensity and intent. Red polo is point and takes one hand off his pistol to wave a hand signal but the lobby cracks open with his skull. Demolished buildings don’t come as straight down as he falls in a heap. Blood mist hangs in the air. The shot is muted in the sanctum, behind the glass. Pinch can watch.
The other three take cover or concealment. Grey polo goes behind one of the lobby’s columns, left side. Blue polo kneels on one side of a rondel too open, and black t-shirt goes behind one of the columns on the right side of the lobby. Pinch nods to himself. No idea where the shot came from, he takes a note in his Moleskine.
“I know why you are here and you should leave.” Vladimir’s voice echoes around the lobby. Arthur nods again. Notes, how does he make it seem like he’s everywhere when he yells? “You were made before you arrived. I give the three of you one chance to drop your weapons and go back home. You are children.”
Black t-shirt yells “You sound Russian.” The three remaining grey men are all scanning, moving back and forth, looking for ghosts to shoot. The lobby is empty and dead, may as well be a shopping mall. “And familiar.”
“I give you one chance, a professional courtesy,” Vladimir’s voice bounces off of every surface at once. “Yes or no?”
“I know you,” Black t-shirt yells. “You’re callsign Prometheus-” two more cracks shatter the lobby’s ambiance. Pinch always hates gunfire down here. Anywhere but here. Black t-shirt, behind the column on the right, all Pinch notices after the noise is his legs on the ground sticking out from where he stood.
Blood on the rugs.
CRACK, it echoes hollow and Pinch watches blue polo fall out thump from behind the other column, skull a car crash, brains and most of his face splattering the lobby floor. Grey polo hyperfixates, points every bit of worst case scenario attention at his companion landing dead.
Note in Moleskine: Still no idea re shot origin. In that one moment, the lapse grey polo makes turning and to see the other body is terminal velocity bad. Arthur Pinch is a hard man to impress. He’s seen it all. He has the journals and Moleskines to prove it, all in rows on a shelf back in the viscera. Count slowly, one. Vlad takes three steps around the corpse in the grey polo, AK shouldered. Thousand. Vlad presses the carbine’s muzzle break against the place where the seams of the skull stitch together at the back of the man in the blue polo’s head. One. Lightning flashes fire and one last crack splits the air of the lobby. Blue Polo’s face blossoms and explodes in a gritty spray splattering a four foot arc in front of him. The slushed meaty contents of his head slop straight down onto the floor in front of him and he topples. Now that, that’s something Pinch has not seen. Note: Vladimir is the most terrifying man I know that is not Rufus Balthazar.
“Ring Malick please Arthur Pinch. I apologize for the mess.” Vladimir drops the rifle, swinging from a tac sling, and waves. “Callsign Prometheus because I bring man fire,” Pinch was actually going to ask. Last note: Can Vladimir read my thoughts? Calls Malick.
Oh, this absolutely has to have to do with that blue haired, “Go check on the woman at the pool,” Vlad points. “There is no such thing as coincidence Arthur. You are very right about that.”
“Keep the sanctum, no one is coming in for a while Grim, will you.” Pinch says and exits the hidden side entrance to the sanctum that’s not supposed to be there. On his way out the door he hears Grim saying something about being “wet.”
Pinch throws the door to the pool open, eyes drawn on instinct to the body on the floor. He gives it little more regard as he scans each corner of the natatorium with calculated precision. Notes the water has been disturbed, rising and falling in mellow swells. The room is otherwise in order, lines of lounge chairs impeccably placed, towels folded and faced on their shelves. No one uses the pool, the ratio of chlorine to Griffin piss can't be trusted.
After clearing the room, he approaches the body. Put on your own oxygen mask first. Can't check for a pulse if someone stops yours. He spots the blue hair and quickens his step. The waif. That didn't take long. Bitch better be alive, he didn't invest that many zeroes to investigate a corpse. Smears of blood stain the concrete underneath her. No pooling, that's promising. Her body shudders as he approaches, voice raw and lilting.
“The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout.. the itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout…”
Spellbound eyes remain fixated on the pool as Pinch nears her side. His hands rest in his vest pockets as he looks over her injuries, superficial excoriations overlapping anywhere he sees flesh. He spots the skin under her blood stained fingers nails, notes the shreds in her fishnet stockings. He regards her as little more than an organic clock with a loose pin, a few adjustments away from operating as he intends.
“Can you stand?”
Nerisse stops singing and leans her head around to face him. Beneath the scratches on her face her makeup has melted away. Two black eyes are underscored by numerous contusions. Mostly healed but their shadows give remembrance. Whatever she had done to herself tonight, the waif hadn't caused that.
“Can. You. Stand.”
He attempts to sound patient but the idea of having to assist her is threatening nausea. Nerisse slides to her knees, heaves herself off the concrete and finds her feet. Pinch kicks the bomber in her direction, the closest he'll get to a kindness. Her body continues to quake as she shrugs the jacket over her shoulders. Her eyes take custody of his for more time than he's spent in a cell, drops of desperation tracing the blood lines in her face.
“What time is it?” Pinch can't decide if she's lucid or roting, but time is his ally, and he'll answer for it whenever possible.
“Two a.m.,” photographic memories justify their name as he recalls the security footage Luxe had examined months earlier. “It's Tuesday.”
Nerisse clutches the back of her neck, rocking back and forth. “I'm late. I'm late.”
Pinch scowls, a weapon and a warning. “We do not have the luxury of Alice in Wonderland this time. Where are you going?”
Tear spilled eyes make a run for the door. She licks her blood stained lips and stumbles over pauses between syllables. “Please. No. I'm late. Please.”
The difference in cadence is pronounced. Her literary lexicon is spoken without a need for prolonged recollection. Now she's struggling to form a sentence. Pinch considers the grey men in the lobby, whatever’s left of them by now. He hoped Vlad was at least helping Malick clean up the corpses.
“What are you late for? And if you tell me it's for a very important date, I'll have to knock you out for your own well being.” His patience is waning crescent thin.
“Ready. I'm. I'm not ready.” She makes eyes at the exit again, muscles twitching. An iron bar forearm catches her as she launches herself at the door. The momentum and her discordant coordination meet his lack of resistance, and her feet fly out from beneath her. Her hip absorbs most of the impact, but her head smacks the concrete and consciousness escapes her again.
Pinch turns her chin with the toe of a mirror shined Oxford, hands returned to his vest pockets. “Or you can do it yourself.”
The woman clings the sides of her overcoat as she stumbles and trots out of the alley, aviator hat pulled down low. Her memory of the walk from Abdiel's laundromat was a blur of cracked concrete sidewalks and decrepit driveways. She couldn't stand to look up, wearing shame on her suit like a scarlet letter. The rare time a car passed she dropped to adjust her shoe, terrified they'd be out looking for her.
They know where she is.
Abdiel's self satisfied sneer was imprinted on her periphery. He was in every shadow, around every corner, behind every door. He told them where she was hiding. She was bartering for his protection, and he told them. Trapped. She clung her waist tighter, limping as the muscles in her hip groaned louder in protest. She was trapped between a rapist and a fate that would find her begging for death. And somewhere in between, the chance of retribution, waiting in a carefully choreographed vestige of Hell.
She couldn't wait any longer.
City blocks passed at an alarming pace, she was making better time than her previous runs. The distance between her and Abdiel never widened. He was still everywhere. She stripped the suit as soon as she got back to the dumpster, rolling it up inside an empty take out tote. She held the brown paper bag under her arm, unwilling and unable to move her hands from her sides. She was keeping herself whole. She feared if she let go too soon she would fall to the ground in pieces, broken body left vulnerable to the city's cruelty.
Pinch strode back to the lobby, called Vlad to come and help him with something, picking up the limp madwoman to take her into the office behind the sanctum for questioning. Vlad carried her over his shoulder, she could have weighed a pillow’s worth to the Russian, and set her down in a chair, in the office behind the green door, behind the Sanctum. The sign above the door into the office reads in flickering red THIS IS NOT AN EXIT.
Vlad pulls a Pedialyte from a cargo pocket, opens it, and pours it into her mouth while she stammers frantic rhymes, coming to with strawberry protein and electrolyte dribbling down her chin. She slaps it away, coherence hits incoherent, her panic is enough to give someone else a panic attack. “Now, whoever you are,” she cuts pinch off. Late. Not Ready. Fuck me in half. He’ll fuck me in half. Tears come, thin lines. “Listen,” Arthur grabs her by the jaw and she yells I’m not ready through him pinching her cheeks against her teeth. “LISTEN WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?” Pinch shakes her by the jaw, hair shuddering, and all she says is I’m not ready, I’m not, I’m not, I’m late and he’ll fuck me in half. Fuck. In. Half.
She’s on the verge of hyperventilating.
“I’m going to go get a drill and,” Pinch starts but Vladimir’s hand lands hard on his shoulder, big enough to hold a basketball one handed with no effort, the pressure Vlad exerts on the concierge’s shoulder is controlled, firm, it’s saying something.
“This woman is part of my job,” Vlad says and nods, “she’s late.” He sees the war refugee panic air vibrating around her. Beatings. Sexual violence. War rape. This stuttering hysterical show is the truth and they will get nothing from her. He knows it.
“I have a fucking drill right back,” Pinch’s pride is pinched. What good is an extractor who cannot extract, but he looks up at Vlad and their eyes meet. Vlad’s gaze is dead, he doesn’t see Arthur, he sees murder, war, oil smoke smothering the sky. If sharks had eyes that could hold both their blank hungry black hollows and compassion at the same time, they would have the Russian’s stare. “Let her go Arthur Pinch.”
“Please.” When Vlad says please it is not an ask. The please is an operational command.
I’m late, I’m late, I’m not ready. Fuck. Me. In. Half. she’s going on, clutching her hands tight then opening them wide and stiff white over and over again. Pinch plays a scoff and wave, turns away from them and crosses his arms just to see Grim transfixed by the scene unfolding. “Yes, you’re late,” Vlad nods and crouches. Six foot six hundred inches tall, squatted, he meets her on her level. “You are late. But I promise you there will be no fucking in half.” I’m not ready. She stares him in the eyes. Where are you a refugee from, a question they could both ask. Vladimir pulls a small thumb drive from one of his pockets and puts it in her lap. “Now you are ready.” He grips her shoulder. “You will be brave, and you will be well.” She grabs at the stick, clutches the thumb drive, a holy relic, a terabyte of salvation. “But you are late, so I would suggest you to be on your way. Udachi, malen'kaya zhenshchina.”
And Vlad lets her out of the office, and then out of the sanctum. She runs away, silent.
“What the fuck was that absolute stage show Vladimir? Why did you just let her leave?” Pinch turns, the sneer in his voice takes up residence living on his face in the open.
“My Apologies Arthur but, that” Vlad points in the direction Nerisse ran. “That is part of my job, not yours.”
“This HOTEL.” Arthur’s voice rises “IS MY FUCKING JOB.” When you’re supposed to know everything, not knowing something is slow death. It doesn’t help his mood that Grim is for some unfathomable reason turned all the way on near a rose colored swoon. Bitch. Kindness is not one of her kinks.
The woman slumped against her door, rattling the handle until her weight pushed it open. She placed a brown paper bag on the bed and tried to undo her trench, stuttering hands debating resolute buttons. She bent over and wrestled the cumbersome coat towards her head, getting lost in the folds and creases. The disequilibrium seized her balance, and she pitched sideways into the counter, connecting with the naked hip Abdiel's linoleum painted burst capillary blue. She howled in fury, hurling the coat at the bed, bile threatening to rush her windpipe. She could still taste him in the back of her throat.
Nerisse flies out of the steel door next to the loading dock, rushing towards her van. Why did they let her go? Late. LATE. Still enough time if she doesn't panic. But why did they let her go? Once out of the office, she cut through the lobby with eyes fastened on the bar. She needed the back door, but had only seen it from the outside. The one with a crumbling concrete bird bath overflowing a decade of cigarette butts. The waitresses smoked the most, and the chefs. The chefs. Chefs in kitchens. Kitchens with back doors. Bishop had his knives out as she bounced atop a stool and over the bar, but sheathed them after a thoughtful look past her. She was through the entrance to the kitchen and out the back door before Bishop's quicksilver tongue could catch up with her.
Naked, bloodied, and bruised, the woman stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was unrecognizable, eyes swollen shut and nose bent sideways. She pinched the bridge and reset it, seething agony suspired through clenched teeth. Took a wet cloth to her face and dabbed the dried blood. No matter how gentle she was, each disturbed contusion was Abdiel’s fist taking another shot.
Nerisse scrambles inside the van and into the tiny bathroom. Late. LATE. She flings open the medicine cabinet, sending the contents into the sink. They let her leave why did they let her leave. She gathers several tubes and compacts labeled Givenchy and Dior, counting product to quiet her mind as she turns out the door to the kitchenette. Breathe. There's time. She inhales deeply through her nose, catching the unmistakable stench of weed and cheap tobacco. Smoke?
Face cleansed, the woman looked at herself in the mirror once more. The swelling was worse, the bruises were growing. She would need to buy time with something real next week. The wounds needed time to heal. Can't move forward looking like this. She plucked thin layers of silicone from her hairline. But the week after. She loosened the straps under her bourbon curls. The week after next she'd be ready. She winced as she inched back the wig with methodical precision, strips of adhesive peeling back from her skull. Her scalp was raw and inflamed, damage from the excessive tape. Wrapped around her tattooed crown was a half inked snake twisted in a perfect circle, eating it's own tail. Ouroboros. Life and rebirth. She opened the small closet adjacent to her bed and hung the brown curled wig next to another. A tangled mass of midnight blue. The woman sat on her bed and stared at them, waiting for tears she had already shed.
“Good golly, good golly, Miss Molly, Miss Molly.”
Nerisse's head darts up, eyes wailing in dread. The green haired nightmare is relaxing on the back corner of her bed, her crowbar across his lap, joint poised between pointed fingers. She opens her mouth to scream, Abdiel lands before he descends, hand clamping tight around her lacerated face.
“Aren't you just full of surprises.”
Damn…I come back to see this 💀
I'm repeating myself now, but it should be illegal in all fifty states for you two to work together. This was brilliant. I am also a sucker for a reveal that switches from past to present. Chef's kiss.