Roger’s knock was like his fingerprint: Uniquely his (unless someone were to be silly enough to chop his hand off.)
He didn’t use his knuckles, one of the very few things he didn’t use them for, and instead chose to ball those fat fingers into a fist and bang thrice with the backside. It would always rattle the office door hinges. It would always make the blinds clatter together. It would always make Pearly startle. She was halfway through a deep inhale of a line of coke. It was chopped up into a slug atop the diary she used sporadically, only when she remembered she even had a diary, once or twice a month. Pearly paused, mid-sniff, the rolled note trembling slightly at the halfway line of the coke chem trail. If it hadn’t have blown away the powder, Pearly would’ve sighed. Instead, she ripped the note through the remainder and threw her head back, sniffing so hard her nostrils vacuumed in against her septum like a serpent.
“Yes, Roge?” she called out, tracing a finger across the residue and suckling at her tip like a teat. She sounded like a mother, tired of her child’s incessant calls for attention from another room.
The office door opened a crack, just enough for Roger to throw his voice inside.
“O’Malley’s downstairs for you,” he called.
Pearly pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes watering as the battery acid drip oozed at the back of her throat.
“O’Malley’s dead, Roge!” she called back dismissively, vexed that her quiet line had been interrupted with talk of an outstanding bill that was destined to remain unpaid.
“Pike’s not dead, Miss P. He’s downstairs. And he’s asking for you.”
Soirée wasn’t busy. There were some dregs scattered haphazardly but no thrumming atmosphere nor bustling crowd for Pearly to bury her buzz in. She pulled her shawl tighter around her body, wrapping it like a cocoon around her frame, heels thudding against the fraying carpet. His back was turned but she wondered if he could feel her imminent descent. She slumped into the stool next to him, legs scuffling to steady herself on the foot rest. Pearly fixed her posture. She straightened her spine. Lifted her chin. Clenched her jaw to fight the coke-induced tingle that itched beneath the skin.
“Peter?” she said, her lyrical tone implying that this was a pleasant surprise but the stiff upper lip exposing the opposite. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Pike fished the remains of a cigarette out of his lips and squished it flat onto the ashtray as Pearl sat down. His eyes looked over her for a second, guarded and cautious. He didn't have the patience to indulge in other thoughts. He searched his memory, flipping through the scattered memories like a diary. He didn't venture much out to these parts but Muskie apparently did. The street talk about the woman in front of him passed through him like a fall wind blowing in leaves. The Soiree and Pearl were inseperable, like a tangled flyline in a river. There wasn't a single soul who ventured here who didn't know about the madame of the Soiree.
" I'm here on behalf of this," Pike fished out a piece of paper that felt like a brick in his hand, placing it with two fingers on the bar counter, and pushing it towards Pearl. His nose curdled at how twitchy she looked, the blown-up veins along her eyes. Ice, maybe. Dopeheads were always the worst clients. Their trigger instincts were itchy and you always had to hand the ammo seperately to them before whatever they were on gave them the wrong ideas. He tried to not let his disgust show, punching it down, as he spoke teresely.
"Muskie left many things to me when he died." He nodded towards the paper. It was a crumpled carbon slip of paper, ink stamped with the Soiree's address and a five figure number that made his eyes water. "I understand he's got an account with the Soiree. Now, 7 and a half grand is a little high. I was wondering if you could drop that down to a 5 and in return.....," Pike breathed as if he had run a marathon. Muskie was better at the negotiations." I'd be willing to offer your business a discount on my merchandise. Don't go telling anyone though."
Pike snorted in disbelief as he mused over the thought of Muskie with rows upon rows of empty shot glasses on the bar counter, "Can't believe my brother drank his way to 50 grand."
Pearl’s eyes lazily flicked down to the bartop, barely glancing at the Soirée bill. She didn’t need to read it. She knew what it said. She’d written it. She’d kept a record of the money that awaited her on the streets and Muskie’s bill had been gathering dust on her priority list until she’d heard news of his passing. So Pearly waved a hand at the bill dismissively and returned her icy blue gaze back to Peter O’Malley, marvelling at the similarities and consequential differences between the brothers. It had been mere seconds and Pearly already decided she preferred Muskie. He’d always been good to the girls. Soft. Never a problem. His only problem was that he never fuckin’ paid. And granted, tha was a big fuckin’ problem. But the girls liked him so damned much they’d always give him dances on tick, head on tick, time on tick. It wasn’t how Pearly liked to do things but Muskie always managed to sweeten the deal. His brother spoke like he didn’t know that. Was he not aware of why Muskie O’Malley got special treatment round here?
The Madam arched her eyebrows and levelled Pike with a searching look. She took her time to answer, heart struggling to beat against the tide of coke in her system, the buzz making her feel all racy and wired. She sighed, letting Pike’s words hang in the air, and gestured for Lloyd the barman to come over. He obliged. She fixed him with a brimming grin.
“Lloyd be a doll and pour Mr O’Malley another of whatever it is he’s drinkin’, won’t ya? Got a feelin’ he’s gon’ need another!” the Madam smirked before breaking into her dazzling albeit unsettling smile. “Oh and Lloyd? Grab me my pack of El Producto’s while you’re at it, honey bee. It’s what Muskie would’ve wanted if he were here.”
Lloyd nodded somber. The pack of cigars was placed into Pearl’s open and expectant palm. She tentatively slid one out and placed it between her teeth, leaving the open pack pointed to Peter in case he wanted to indulge. His lighter lay conveniently next to the ash tray in front of him and she reached for it wordlessly. The blue flame sprung forth and caught the reconstituted tobacco wrap, plumes of smoke chuffing from her lips like a steam train. She crossed and recrossed her legs, beaded skirt creeping up her thighs, the slit parting to expose her trusty Smith and Wesson snuggled in her garter.
“Now now, Peter” she purred, poised and draped across the bar stool. “I know I don’t need to tell you that it’s polite to at least start with a bit of light foreplay before you fuck someone-“
Lloyd and Shoshanna were working the bar side by side. The tattooed bartender effortlessly poured a generous thumb of whiskey for Pete. Lloyd began stirring Pearly an Old Fashioned. He knows it’s her tipple of choice when she’s enjoying a Producto. The Madam was still smiling, the scent of her cigar smoke billowing around them.
“A top secret business discount? Mmmm. Sounds sexy, don’t it? I appreciate your… Generosity. Cos I know the O’Malley’s have got the best shit in the biz. See, it’s a sweet deal, sure. On the surface. But let’s dig a little deeper…”
Lloyd tapped the metal bar spoon on the side of the rocks glass, signalling that the Old Fashioned was finished. Pearly reached and took the sweetened bourbon, sipping at the tang of bitters and honeyed smoke.
“Of course, I won’t bite the hand that feeds me, Pete. Never bite the hand that’s feedin’ me. ‘Cept your not feedin’ me are you, darlin’? Matter of fact, it’s quite the opposite. You’re taking the food right out my mouth. Ain’t even had the chance to chew on it before you’re shovin’ your fingers down my throat to grab it back. So hows bout this-“
She sipped from her glass again then pinched Muskie’s eye-watering bill between her fingers, slowly crumpling it with a wiggle of her digits. It balled up into a snowball of debt. Pearl set it down on the bar and flicked it behind the jump with a satisfying crunch. It flew past Lloyd’s left shoulder and pinged to the ground.
“Consider this little matter resolved. I don’t like it. Fuck no, I don’t like it one little bit. But for Muskie? God bless his fuckin’ soul, I’ll let your bartering slide. Your brazen negotiations piss me off no end but unpaid dues piss me off more. Somethin’ is always better than nothin’…” Pearl’s eyes narrowed at Pike, her tongue running the length of her bottom lip. Something flickered in her eyes. A lick of a challenge. A warning flare. “5 grand. And mates rates for as long as we’re both still breathin’. Debts can be paid. Appreciation is forever.”
Her lips curled around the cigar, the cherry twitching as she took tiny tokes. She sniffed. The buzz from her recent line had slipped away, mellowing to a gentle thrum beneath the surface. She felt sharpened, the liquor balancing her out nicely. Pearly leant back in the bar stool, taking up so much space despite her slight form.
“It’s not the liquor debt that’s tricky to let go. That’s the bill I’m willing to write off. It’s the girl’s time that cost our Muskie a pretty penny. Your brother’s real vice weren’t the pricey vintages or chasing the worm at the bottom of the bottle… His Achilles was was my Dixie’s pretty lil pussy. She was his favourite. Oh, they were like lovesick teenagers, the pair of em. She was beside herself when she heard of his passing. Least her grief ain’t for nothin’ now that you’re willing to foot the bill. I’m sure she’ll be grateful to ya.”
The whiskey boiled in his mouth, despair and doubt equally mixed, as he heard Pearl say those damned words. He swallowed, and his tongue was dry as sandpaper when he tried to speak. You idiot. It was speaking again, now using Maria's husky voice. It was the demon that writhed and roared inside him like a rabid beast the one he lent his soul to whenever he held a gun or pulled a trigger. The one he used to kill Garcia. You know Pearl's reputation. You think Muskie was some paragon, some untouchable summit that you couldn't comprehend. Principles? Please. You just sell death and destruction, Peter. He downed the whiskey again, but it didn't seem to help. The whiskey wouldn't help.
No, he had to stay calm. Just stay calm. Muskie would tell him to stay calm. He was here to negotiate and Pearl had forgiven his debts. He could forgive this. It was a successful deal. So, what if it was true? His brother was dead. He was dead. His fist clenched as he struggled to contain his breathing. But he was still alive in his heart. In the words that everyone spoke about him. In the stares that everyone gave him. In the shop he worked in, the bricks and rebar that they wove together with their blood, sweat, and tears. Muskie was dead, but Pike didn't know why everyone was intent on making him feel like he still lived.
The club began to remind him of river water; in a sickly pallor of amber light, pond scum danced in the air above the drowning masses of bodies around him. The whiskey was flowing down through his fingers, the color of blood,his brother's blood,and the jazz music transformed into a dirge that pounded against his skull. The singer on the stage behind them broke out into a wild verse and Garcia's blubbering voice sang from his throat. It was then Maria's on the next verse and then Muskie's voice at the crescendo. All taunting him. The next sentence pried its way out of his boiling stomach and flew out in one hot breath.
"You're lying," Pike said, uncertain, his face shining with a sickly pallor. He pushed away the shot glass and leaned in toward Pearl. "I know my brother. He's married. He wouldn't sleep with anyone in this rat shithole. He's married, ring and all. I know my brother and he wouldn't cheat. So, either this is a pretty sick fucking joke, Pearl, or you're fucking with my head. God knows everyone already is."
"Pike, just calm down, hey? Drinks on the - ," Shoshanna attempted to interrupt, raising her hands with a bar towel in one in a placating gesture, but Pike ignored it, barreling forward.
"My brother told me everything," Pike chuckled to himself halfheartedly. "He had to have told me everything. You think you know Muskie better than I do? I'm the one that buried him. I'm the one that fucking buried him!" He turned his head out into the crowd, some of whom were now staring at him, and spotted Roger trawling around like a bear, shouting out to him. "You hear that, Roger? You want to know what happened to Garcia too?"
"Pike!" Shoshanna grabbed his arm now. Her lips pinched tight enough to break a needle in half. Her face was smeared with disapproval, but her slate-gray eyes cast a soft gaze toward him. "It's true," she said.
Pike wrenched his arm out from Shoshanna's grip violently and then the fight drained out of him, the hubbub of the club returning to its regular rhythm. Shame flitted across his brow like a roach before he veiled it under a slow draught of whiskey.
"Well, shit," Pike groused, looking at Pearl apologetically. "If you want Roger to throw me out, now would be a good time. Your man's just itching to do it."
Pearl watched the realisation sweep across Pike’s features like watching a lifeless body plummet from a great height. She wiggled her backside further back in the barstool, angling her cocked head with exaggerated curiosity. Like a vindictive elder sibling may shatter their younger siblings reality by exposing Santa as a fraud, the Madam poked her bottom lip out with an inflammatory pity at Pike as his widened eyes flicked frantically between Shoshanna and the Madam. She ignored Pike’s vehement denials of reality, simply puffing on her cigar wordlessly, sneering at Shoshanna’s gentle reassurance. When her tattooed hand reached across the bar and flexed against Pike’s arm, it triggered Pearly’s neck to crick and fasten her employee with a disapprovingly withering look. She didn’t so much mind the blithering, grief-struck rebuttals of truth… It was the raucous behaviour which followed that really itched her shit. First he insults her with some piss-poor, lowballer offer? Then he starts running his mouth at a less than palatable volume? She tutted like a disappointed headmistress, shaking her head disapprovingly.
Pearl’s free hand ever so slowly floated to her garter, fingers tantalising the stock with a brush of her twitching pads. She wasn’t trigger happy enough to lap up the prospect of drawing her Smithy like a parched, stray dog. Pike O’Malley was not someone to point at with a pipe ‘less you were ready to bury a bullet firmly between his eyeballs. You better make sure your aim is flawless, too. No, Pearl wasn’t naive enough to think drawing Pike’s very livestock on him, turning his own metal against him, would result in anything positive. And at this close range? She’d be scrubbing his claret from her hair for days. Not to mention the buzzkill a murder at the bar would be…
Roger seemed to cross the Soirée dance floor in exactly 2 lengthy strides. She could feel his presence before registering the shadow of her bodyguard enveloping her from behind. He stood behind the bar stool, his girthy shoulders dwarfing Pearl as she sat a little stiffened in front of him. The bald, balky bouncer watched O’Malley as he washed down his shame alongside a mouthful of whiskey with a blank stare. Pearly shot a sidewards glance at the Soirée crowd that had stirred at Pike’s little outburst, smiling as they’d resumed whatever it was they’d been doing prior the interruption. She clicked her tongue, drew from the last of her cigar, and allowed a waterfall of smoke to slither up from between her lips. The Producto was as good as done. Pearl pinched it between thumb and forefinger, leant past Pike and stubbed it out in the ash tray.
“You’re quite right, Petey” the Madam conceded. “I’m pretty sure Roge is chomping at the bit to drag your ass outta here. Can you blame him? You made a right song and dance out of all this. But, listen, let’s kiss and make up.”
The Madam held out a hand like a high-flying businessman, eyes levelling with Pike’s, her elongated nails draping from her nail beds like talons. A handshake. As if they hadn’t just agreed to write off a couple thousands worth of his dead brother’s booze bill and settle the price of the pussy he was a slave for.
“Shake on it. I want the money in instalments, alright? Easier to bury that way. Bring me a grand a week.”
She unravelled from her barstool, tossing her loosened jet black pin-curls over her shoulder. Her body language told him this conversation was done. She placed a hand on Peter’s arm, in the exact same spot Shoshanna had grabbed just moments ago, and shot him a pitying smile.
“You stay as long as you like, darlin’. Have another drink. Then maybe have yourself another. But you pay as you go, ya heard? No tabs for the O’Malley’s no more. Ain’t no more brothers left to be pickin’ up your bill should you decide to go and pop ya clogs on me.”
Pearl disappeared in a plume of YSL “Opium” and the clatter of her beaded skirt. Roger lingered for a moment, his beady eyes narrowing at someone across the room then turning back to Pike.
“Thanks for stopping by, Pike” Roge said, his tone etched with warning. “Who’s your mate? He ain’t taken his eyes off you the last 20 minutes.”
The meaty man jutted a chin that melted undefined into thick neck at the general direction of a man sat a few seats away. With that, he disappeared in pursuit of Pearly who strutted across the Soirée dance floor, hips swaying.
Pike's eyes watched the two fade away into a world that he didn't dare understand, but Muskie understood. He thought about dwelling on it more before he decided to dwell on the whiskey he'd been ignoring in front of him all along. His calloused palms grabbed the glass and took a lick of it. His eyes then turned to the man Roger pointed out to him. It was hard to make out his figure. A light bulb was flickering above him erratically like a dying animal. His trenchcoat was one size too big for him, the coattails drapped over the bar-stool, swishing back and forth like a tail. His arms move languidly on the counter, accepting a glass flute from Shoshanna with a nod of thanks while his troused legs were tense, coiled like a spring.
" I think you've gone fishing before," The man said plainly without looking at him. Before Pike could clarify, the man replied again in the span of a heartbeat. "Oh, yes, you look like the type. "
"Once or twice," Pike half-lied.
" Folks say it's a matter of skill. I say it's a matter of patience. Everyone tries something different. A different spot, something more tasty to dangle onto a hook, wade out into the waters, but I like to wait. The longer you wait, the more satisfying the catch is," The trenchcoated man traced his finger around the rim of his flute before turning to face him. Pike could only see a tooth studded crescent scar cutting through a pepper stubble. " Wonder what it was it was always like for the fish. Caught a trout out at the Merrimac once. Used a little twine and a old tin can. Hook was in its jaw - " The man curled his finger around his lip and tugged at it. " - and I normally would have killed it on the spot but I just stared at it. Look at it in its blank eyes. Trying to see it could speak, frown, say anything to me. "
" That's because it's a fucking fish, " Pike retorted, trying to hide his unease..
"Maybe, but, I'm patient. I'm sure the next one will talk." The man finished off his drink, dabbing his lips with a napkin he produced from his trenchcoat and then, left Pike to wallow in the sea of jazz, spilt drinks and rat piss that permeated the Soiree.
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