Death & the City Book Two (36 page)

I follow him on the rabbit-run around the venue, checking cloakroom, bars, toilets, storage cupboards, the stage, the D.J. capsule - which Crank has locked, evidently wishing to protect his music collection - and the cellar, chasing out any last customers or staff members we find. Stacie finally stops her radio announcements, and Coop immediately cuts in.

"All security staff on Fire Exits report in, please," he orders over the radio, pointing me towards a door at the end of the stage which hasn't been checked yet. Looks like the performers' dressing-rooms.

The others call in their site positions, and current status regarding Fire Exit clear, or still moving customers outside. In the meantime, I go and try the last door. It's locked, but I conclude it's a deadbolt, meaning locked from the other side. I bang on it and give it a boot as well for good measure with the reinforced toecap of my work Docs, hoping that whoever's on the far side isn't doing anything stupid. Would be just my luck to catch Animal Henson in a compromising position with a shadow dancer during Evac.

The door opens, and it's fireman Zack, who had been standing with his foot against it from the inside.

"Well done," he says, deadpan. "Just checking your thoroughness on final checks."

"Funny," I reply, nodding, not really bothered if it's true, or if he was just rifling through some stripper's underwear. "Anyone else in here with you?"

"No," he says, holding the door open. "Could use your help, though. Is there an alarm re-set control panel or fuse-box in here? Someone's cocked up the alarm system installation, they've got the new one and old one both wired up. I need to find the old circuit-breaker to disconnect it."

"Wouldn't be in the basement where the toilets are, or something like that?" I query.

"According to the old theatre plans it was backstage, so around here somewhere," he muses, scratching his head under his helmet, before pulling it off, exposing his dark crew-cut hair with the long zig-zag scar diagonally across his scalp. Which everyone assumes is a fashion statement, instead of bothering to find out was the fish-tank falling on his head when he was a toddler. "This was a proper theatre in the old days, before it was a cinema even. I bet it's boxed in behind one of these new stud walls."

The dressing-room is full of toiletries and shadow dancers' cosmetic cases, changes of clothes, and even changes of hair scattered around. It's newly-whitewashed, with faux leather furniture, large illuminated mirrors, and a cheap white tiled shower and toilet. Sockets by the mirrors have hairdryers and straightening irons plugged into them. Looking around, Zack runs a finger along the surface of the counter-top experimentally, and looks at it.

"Is cocaine usually orange and sparkly?" he asks me idly.

"That's probably blusher or bronzer," I reply, looking underneath for any panels. "But I couldn't tell you what else might be in it."

"Wouldn't surprise me if they were snorting or injecting it," he says, still with his typical deadpan expression. "Trying to fake tan themselves quicker from the inside out. I bet it's behind one of these mirrors they've screwed to the wall, or they've tiled over it."

"There's a door here," I tell him, looking around the far side of the shower cubicle. "No handle, and a star key lock. Might be storage."

"Could be the old stage door," Zack remarks, taking a huge bunch of keys from his pocket and finding a star key of the right diameter, inserting it and jiggling it open. The door swings outwards, and reveals a dirty undecorated corridor and a musty smell, a harsh contrast to the fresh white paint on this side. "Yeah, the undeveloped maintenance area, leading to the disused Fire Exit, or stage door, as it used to be called. They're supposed to get permission if it's ever used, because it's not covered under the rest of the Health & Safety for the new development. Mostly because it's all glass recycling bins outside at the far end now, and Subway's garbage skip from next door. So if you notice they're letting the dancers use it, or letting celebrities in and out to avoid the front door, they're not insured for use as an entrance or exit - it's maintenance only. It's down here somewhere."

He flicks a metal ball-pin light switch, and old non-energy-saver light-bulbs pop into life.

"Doorman Lara, what's your location please?" Cooper calls me over the radio.

"Just doing final walk round with the Fire Service, locating old alarm panel fuses," I reply into the microphone.

"Okay, report to Evac point outside Pittarama soon as you're done, please."

I follow Zack into the corridor, where a few doors lead off into weird cupboards and closets, containing all sorts of things - from what looks like a post-War mop and bucket collection, to a giant tarnished copper-coloured defunct water-tank, stacks of empty film reel tins, and grubby rolled-up ancient film posters and flyers. I would have loved a rummage, looking for anything of original
STAR WARS
value. But the only one I recognise at a brief glance is a mouldy
Star Trek: Wrath of Khan
,
which has been half-eaten by rats or mice.

"Here we go," Zack opens another door with his star key, on the left into a larger room, and flicks on the light switch. "Wow, this is old. Found the electrics, though."

"What's all this stuff?" I ask, trying to rub the dust off the door's old plaque to read it, as he opens the panel.
Consuetudo Et Proprietas.
More pretentious pigging Latin…

"Looks like the old thespian's theatre costume and props department," Zack grunts. "Shouldn't keep this old stuff in here with the electrics. Health & Safety would do their nut. I'll make a note for our report recommending they bin it."

I open a warped and dusty trunk. A carnival of masks glitter and sparkle at me, like a serial killer's Christmas present.

I close it again and nudge it with my foot. It's not nailed down, unlike the rest of the fixtures in The Zone that Cooper mentioned earlier.

"I'll take these outside now if they're in the way," I say, casually.

"Take anything out you want," he says, with a grin. "None of it's on the site inventory."

"Where the Hell have you been?" Cooper asks me as I report to the bus stop, attempting to brush half a century or so of dust off the front off my hi-vis and sleeves. He tries to be helpful and join in, but when Animal sidles up saying I've got dust on my backside, I push them both away good-naturedly.

"Had to help the Fire Service move some stuff that was in the way of the electrics," I say honestly. "Was saving the venue a bad report and preventing them closing it for the rest of the night otherwise."

Mgr Stacie, the shadow dancers in their towelling bathrobes and stilettos, or hastily pulled-on Snugg boots, and the rest of the staff are smoking, taking advantage of the break. Most of the customers have queued up again outside The Zone front doors, hopefully waiting to be allowed back in. The queue is attracting more passing trade as well, making the venue appear popular, so it's growing. Stacie looks at me, gives a tight little smile, and mouths 'thank you' before ticking my name off, on the fire drill register.

"You all have to sign this at the end of shift before you leave," she announces. "Right, the alarms are off, back to your positions, everyone. I want all staff back on site before we allow a single customer back into the venue. Would someone please fetch D.J. Crank out of the kebab shop so that we can have some music back on as well, if you wouldn't mind."

Crank is playing on the fruit machine in Pittarama. Solange goes to call him, as she's nearest, and has just extinguished her cigarette butt. I see him punch the button and collecting winnings, before waving to the shop owner and joining us, as we filter back across the street to the venue. To the annoyance of taxi drivers, slinking down the road in kerb-crawling taxi-rank formation.

"Hey," Crank catches up with me as I cross to the central reservation, behind Salem and Pascaline. "Check this out."

He shows me an email on his Blueberry, from his casino banking account.
Congratulations on your win.
The summary detailing his winnings and added benefits is too long to read at a glance, but I see 'limosine transfer' and 'penthouse suite' and 'Playbunny Party' under dollar signs with many many zeros after them.

"You're meeting me at the travel agent's tomorrow to book our flights in person, and pick up the itinerary," he says, tapping the tour operator's name listed as sponsor on the email, which pops up various optional methods of how to book. "You better have a passport. Give me your number."

Still slightly bemused, I type it into his phone, and hand it back. He dials it immediately and my phone rings in my pocket, so I take it out to save the number.

"What's your real name?" I ask him, opening
Add To Contacts
.

"Just Crank is fine," he grins. "Plenty of time to laugh at my real name on my passport."

He pats me on the shoulder and runs back inside to get back to work.

Probably among the more surreal people I know, I think to myself.

Head office ring me as I'm doing a toilet check, shortly after re-opening. Customers have flooded in,
en masse
, needing the toilet desperately after nearly fifteen minutes spent waiting outside, controlling their tiny alcohol-sensitized bladders.

"Hey you," they greet me. "Just checking your Zone payload reached double on the double or nothing."

"What's that?" I ask.

"The theatrical costume department, we guessed you'd find something useful in that room with the old fuse-box in, given the opportunity," they say. "Also might need you as Standby on some long-distance jobs, so you should make sure you turn up to book those flights with D.J. Crank tomorrow."

"Oh, so he wasn't joking?" I remark. I try to recall what happened with Mexico. Something about a Martial Arts Conference weekend, and a spare ticket I was offered for twenty quid at Tae Kwon-Do the week before, after someone dropped out at the last minute. Head office seem to be good at taking advantage of coincidences. Either that, or the world has more than enough contract killers needing dealing with, wherever you happen to look, so travelling at any one time is merely a
busman's holiday
to them. They've never admitted to engineering those coincidences, and I probably wouldn't ask. "Okay, I'll set my alarm, and wash my hair and all that."

"Good girl. Have fun playing dress up as well. Never forget to put a mask on again." They disconnect.

Getting more surreal by the minute. First they're taking the piss out of me for using fancy dress, now they're encouraging it. Like I figured before, they like my way of doing things. Maybe it suits them better, than the kind of guys who sooner or later all start asking for incentives to stop them taking alternative work. Meaning, the sort with pay, and a contract. Declaring it for tax and benefits, optional. But it's so much better, not having that sort of thing on your CV. Tax evasion, I mean.

Zack and his colleague emerge from the office opposite as I leave the toilets, and Zack winks at me and grins as they leave. I just nod and smile. Mgr Stacie emerges behind them, looking a bit stony-faced and serious, striding into the main bar. To me, it looks like she's just attempted to chat them up, or bribe them with V.I.P. passes to get a good report. She wouldn't be the first.

I wonder what Stacie's like away from work, and whether she's as straight-laced, professional, and as much of a slave-driver as she comes across as in The Zone. I recall her greeting Elaine the other night, her glee over the Champagne, and looking forward to Tiffany goody-bags at the corporate do. It's all about the bonuses for her, I reckon. Drive your team like a bunch of mules, and miser away every penny. So that your staff only get scummy tap-water to drink, and the company give you a BMW, a trip to the Bahamas and a Fabergé Christmas cracker every year. Meaning you have no friends at work, but you wouldn't want to have to share your corporate loot anyway. Never mind, I think. Not my problem.

She reappears again eventually, as I'm punching tickets in the lobby, and stops to take a call on her mobile.

"Hi, hun," she trills. "Yes, I'm
definitely
up for a spa treatment tomorrow. It's been absolute Hell here tonight. Fire drill and staff misbehaving and all sorts. I need a salt ice scrub and a good hot stone massage, I can feel it. And you don't even want to know about my nails. I think I'll just book myself in for the works. Meeting who…? Ooh, I'll look forward to that. How is your latest study coming along…? Oh, goody. Well, sign me up for the trials at the earliest opportunity, darling. Ten years younger is the minimum I need after tonight, I can tell you. Kiss kiss, see you tomorrow."

She puts her phone away, and gives me a broad smile, which without notice is a bit startling. The last thing I was expecting was a sense of female solidarity from her.