Dead Roots (The Analyst) (12 page)

Tom watched him wordlessly. He was still vaguely aware that he was dreaming, and wanted to see where this was going. Hank made no more attempt at conversation. He covered his feet in soil and packed it. When he was finished, he stood up straight and stretched his arms.

Hank's bones made loud popping sounds, as if he were cracking his joints. His legs straightened, then his waist, then his torso, all locking in place. Tom watched as the tops of his arms froze in the air, then his forearms, so that his hands were hanging limply from his wrists. Hank looked to the sky and sighed.

“Where... are we?” Tom asked.

Hank took in a deep breath. His voice was raspy, as if he was struggling for air, but his chest didn't move.

“Orchard.”

Hank's eyes slid shut. His mouth hung open and froze, and there he stood, face turned up to the sun.

Then he was silent.

********

Tom had awoken and gotten off the train some time ago, but he wasn't lucid until Roppongi assaulted his eyes.

“Let's go see some titties, Tom,” Artie chortled.

Tom looked up at what Artie was pointing at. There was an entrance to a nearby club, with naked Japanese women depicted in posters on either side. Tom groaned.

“Fuck. I just want to find a nice quiet place to wait for Harold. I'm dying over here.”

“You lightweight.”

This place reminded Tom of the Vegas strip, but it was distinctly Japan. The small galaxy of lights were cool colors, whites and blues, lots of street signs shaped like squares and small circles. But much like Vegas, the concrete thoroughfare was filled with tourists. There were ten Caucasians for every Asian person in view. Most were wasted out of their minds, waiting in lines to clubs to get more wasted, or both. Tom rubbed his face.

“When did we get off the train...?”

“Like five minutes ago, are you blacking out?”

“I think so.”

“You pussy. Come on, let's find you a fucking day-care center.”

“Fuck your face, Artie.”

They stumbled down the walkway for several minutes. Artie kept looking around and guffawing at the signs for hostess clubs and strip joints.

“Haven't you been to Bourbon Street, Artie? Shit, you act like you've never seen titties before.”

“That one is an
anime girl
. Oh God, have they got one of those
hentai
arcade games in there? We have to go.”

“No.”

“
Tom.
”

“
Artemis.
We're not going to a
hentai
arcade.”

“You are the fucking
worst.
”

“Tomorrow. We'll do it tomorrow. Get me somewhere with a glass of water.”

“If by water you mean Jagerbombs, then that place looks pretty good.”

Artie pointed at a bar with a subdued blue sign. There was no line outside. Tom approved. He reached into his pocket to get his wallet ready, but then had a revelation. He swore.

“Keda's got Harold's cards.”

“Eh?”

“We're broke. Keda has Harold's money.”

“Oh, Tom, he'll reimburse us. Come on, let's find an ATM.”

Another several minutes were spent wandering the light-drenched streets. Tom was beginning to feel nauseous.

Tom knew things were taking a turn for the worse when they were approached by a tall, gangly black man in a cheap-looking suit. He had a smile like Rumpelstiltskin, and his hair was done up in cornrows. He hid his eyes behind designer sunglasses, even though it was well after midnight.

“How you doing, boys?”

“Too sober,” Artie responded quickly. Tom eyed the guy's outfit with a grimace. The streetlights bounced off of his sunglasses and gave Tom a headache.

“Japan is beautiful,” the guy said in a thick accent. “Back home there is nothing like this. Best place in the world.” Tom picked him for somewhere in the Caribbean, but a vague factoid Tom had heard about Nigerian immigrants floated around in his head, and he decided that was where the guy was from.

“Yeah, it sure is,” Artie said in that tone of voice, the one you take when a very enthusiastic person is talking to you in an almost impenetrable dialect.

“You boys like the clubs?”

“We love the clubs,” Artie continued. Tom was getting ready to smack his friend if Artie didn't disengage from this shyster, but he refrained, blearily taking in his bright surroundings.

“You boys been to Brunette?”

“What's Brunette?”

“Great club, if you love girls,” the guy continued. “I can't help you if you don't like girls. No one can.”

“I guess you’re right,” Artie said through a forced laugh. Tom grimaced.

“Only a short walk from here. I'll take you to Brunette. Seven thousand yen for an hour and a half of bottomless drinks, great looking girls.”

“How much is that, Tom?”

“Like seventy dollars.”

“Shit, we can cover that. Let's do it, Tom.”

“Artie.”

“Tom, listen to the guy. Seventy bucks and we are set for the night.”

Tom grumbled. “Get us to an ATM and we're in, I guess.”

The guy's face turned up into a smile like a broken lock on a rusty chain link fence. Tom waited to hear the junkyard dogs barking.

The shyster patted Artie on the shoulder and led them down the road, past a couple of convenience stores, to a little gray ATM. Tom stumbled towards it and pulled out his card, with his arm drawn across his chest to shield himself from the cold. The rain had let up for now, but he could feel a drizzle starting again. It wouldn't be long before the torrent came back.

Tom withdrew 8,000 yen and stuffed it quickly into his pocket, half expecting the tall man in the suit to snatch it out of his hand and run.

Their concierge had more class than that, it seemed. They were led another short walk away, to a door leading into a derelict stairwell. It was dark and sparse inside, and a few steps up the stairs cut the outside light from Tom’s vision almost completely.

The interior of Brunette reminded Tom of the restaurant they had been to earlier, brown paneling and dim lighting, but it was clear it had been put together on a much tighter budget. The place was trying to put on airs, pass itself off as something classier. The bar itself on his right was abandoned, all the patrons sitting in booths. They were almost all wearing sunglasses, and either drinking in relative silence or getting private lap dances. Tom's ears were burdened with some trendy dance-pop. He suddenly couldn't wait to get back to drinking.

“This is a pretty good place,” Artie remarked. Their guide was still there, to Tom's surprise and chagrin.

“Let's set you boys up,” he said with that devil's grin. Tom couldn’t figure out if Artie was just gullible, or had dealt with worse hustlers back home. Either would have been feasible.

“All you can drink special,” their chaperone said to the bartender. Tom fumbled around in his pocket for the cash. His other hand brushed against his left jacket pocket, causing a twinge of anxiety to pass through him when he remembered he wasn't armed.

“Tequilas,” Artie requested. Tom's money disappeared behind the counter, and they soon had a pair of shot glasses. The black man had disappeared.

Tom sat himself down on a stool. The guide had been replaced by a pair of fancy women: a Japanese girl, and a black girl flashing painted-on smiles.

“Evening, ladies,” Artie said through a chortle. Tom snorted as Artie's mouth curled back to reveal his missing incisor. At least the girls looked like the sort who would take money.

“Hi, are you guys on vacation?” the dark-skinned one inquired with a sweet smile.

“Yeah,” Tom answered, taking down his tequila shot. “Americans.”
No more girls tonight,
he thought, but he could at least make conversation while Artie did his business.

“Oooh,” cooed the Asian girl. She leaned up on the bar next to Tom. She'd marked him for death, evidently. Artie sidled up with the black girl, and flagged down the bartender for another shot.

“What's your name, miss?” Tom asked.

“Yuriko,” she said.

“I'm Tim. Tom. Thomas.”

Yuriko laughed, he head tossing back. “Which is it?”

“Tom-
ass,
” Artie guffawed. “Tom-
ass
Smell
.”

“What is he talking about?” Yuriko drawled, her plastered-on smile not fading in the least.

“Nothing. I'm Tom. Nice to meet you.”

“I'm Yuriko. Nice to meet you, Tom.” Her voice was thickly accented. To her this was probably good English practice.

“Tom, drink this,” Artie said. Tom looked down. Artie had thrust a shot glass right under his nose. Tom's nose crinkled as he grimaced.

“What is it.”

“More tequila.”

“What's so special about--” Artie tilted the glass and Tom allowed it to be upended into his mouth. “
Blaaah
-- more tequila?”

“Don't mind if I do,” Artie said with a chortle.

“You boys should buy us drinks,” asserted Artie's new friend. Tom groaned privately, but his resistance to the situation was swiftly eroding under the tequila haze.

“Sure,” Artie said, grinning broadly. “What do you girls want?”

“You should get us some glasses of wine,” insisted Yuriko. Tom noticed she was running her finger along his bicep.

“Let's see a price list first,” Tom said. He indulged himself in a burp.

Yuriko reached across the counter, and her hand returned with a laminated menu.
Classy,
Tom thought. He was perusing the numbers on the left side of the menu, when another thought occurred to him.

“Hey, hey. Don't you two work here?”

“Yes,” Yuriko drawled. Tom lifted a finger accusatorily.

“Then why do we need to buy you drinks?” he asked shrewdly.

“Hey, yeah,” Artie said, turning to his own courtesan with a look of feigned anger. “You should get drinks for free.”

“No, it doesn't work like that,” said Artie's companion. Tom had overheard her introduce herself as Camilla, but hadn't really been paying attention. She leaned over so that they could both hear her better over the music.

“That's bull. Ladies should get all the drinks they want,” said Artie, taking the menu in one hand. He scoffed. “This is nothing. Harold should be able to cover this, no problem.”

Tom shrugged. “Go for it, man. Couple glasses of fifteen dollar Pinot?”

“No way, get the twenty-five dollar stuff,” said Artie with enthusiasm. Camilla and Yuriko looked pleased as punch. “Two glasses of-- of the twenty-five dollar stuff,” Artie barked to the bartender.

“I only withdrew enough for the bottomless shots,” Tom warned Artie.

“I've got my credit card,” Artie said back, with a reassuring nod. Artie slapped his plastic out on the counter. Tom resigned himself to keep a mental tally of the bill, but he suspected it wasn't going to be accurate for long.

Tom ducked out to the bathroom, while Artie made banal conversation with the hostesses. He passed a man wearing sunglasses in a booth, leering at Tom and Artie’s girls, and shot the guy a dirty look. The patron quickly returned to his business-- his business being drinking alone in silence.

********

Tom splashed some water in his face from the bathroom sink. He was trying not to throw up.

Alone in front of the mirror, the gravity of his encounter with the succubus was only now sinking in. His thoughts returned to the strange dream he'd had on the train.

Orchard.
'Hank' had said
Orchard
...

Tom tried to place it.
Where have I heard that before…?

 Nothing was coming to him. He tried to steer his train of thought somewhere more pleasant, or he was going to be in for a rough trip home.

He scooped some water from the running tap to refresh himself. He realized he hadn't had anything non-alcoholic to drink in several hours, and took several more gulps. It was far too late to wash away the damp cloud hanging over his head-- nothing would fix that now but time-- but he might be able to save himself from a massive headache in his immediate future.

After some more gulps, he stood with his hands on either side of the basin, staring down. He held in his stomach, suddenly feeling nauseous. He spent a few minutes tossing up whether to go back to the bar now, or try and force himself to vomit.

Returning to the floor some ten minutes after his departure, Tom wasn't entirely sure which option he’d ended up choosing. What he was sure of, was that Artie had to have blown at least a hundred dollars. Yuriko and Camilla were laughing at one of Artie’s awful jokes, and there was a near-empty bottle of white wine sitting pretty on the counter beside them.

“Artie,” said Tom, in a theatrically defeated voice. Artie grimaced. He knew this voice. It was the one Tom put on when he was going to apologize and suggest leaving.

“You getting under the weather, Tom?”

“Yeah. That... that run-in earlier...”

“It's cool, I understand. Let’s just finish off these glasses.”

“Sure, sure. Get me another shot,” Tom said in consolation. Artie handed him a new tequila, putting on a cheesy grin. Tom took it down and hacked his throat.
At least I’ll get to sleep quickly
.

“You want private room?” Yuriko asked the both of them. She and Camilla were both standing up now, and Tom felt himself being ushered. He shook his head fervently.

“Uh-uh. We need to get a train back to the hotel.”

“Trains always leaving from here,” Yuriko said. “You go a little later, come on.”

“
Hey.
Don't you-- don't you order me around, you vile temptress.”

“
Whaaat?
” She was genuinely bewildered.

“Come on, Tom, fuck it, when's the next time you can say you saw strippers in Tokyo?” Artie stuffed his no-doubt-melting credit card back into his jacket pocket. Camilla was pushing Tom towards a door at the back of the bar.

“How much?” asked Tom, stopping her.

“Seven thousand yen, fifteen minutes,” she replied.

“Ugh. Alright, come on,” Tom said to Yuriko, and they were off following the other two shortly.