Hollow Dolls, The (14 page)

They fixed together like they’d done so many times before. Vic
leaned back in his chair. The blood-red crystals of MDMA that Vic had cooked
roamed in his brain and coaxed his groin into that ‘come get some’ desire for
Kim Li again. What he’d cooked for Lynx was a good size hit of china white
heroin. Vic wanted Lynx nice and loose.

Vic slithered back under the blankets and cuddled with Kim Li and
was inside her in moments. They fucked their proverbial brains out, squeaky
springs and all while Lynx leaned back in the chair, drifting off into his
high, not noticing.

 Kim Li and Vic had been fucking so much in the past month that
these little ones seemed like the satellites between planets; lily pads to step
across the pond to the next big lake. He wanted the ocean, her ocean...

Vic took a package off of the side table.

“I got you this.”

Vic put a bracelet on her wrist. It had a dark jewel set in silver
and a little padlock for a charm. He locked it and put the key in his pocket. 

“Together forever,” said Kim Li.

The stone was a deep purple that barely let any light into it.
“What is that, amethyst?” said Kim Li.

“Dunno.”

Kim Li fingered her new bracelet while Vic laid back. He had no
idea what kind of stone it was the dark haired woman had asked him to give to Kim
Li. It was some surprise she was cooking up for her. The woman had fucked his
brains out. Her and a woman named Fiona.
God, they were a hot duo!
he
thought. He tried to remember more about that night up in the properties but
drew a blank. He’d found himself home the next morning safe and sound though.

Time to get down to business.

Vic got out of bed and smacked Lynx on the back of the head. He tapped
a bit of coke on the back of his hand and snorted. Lynx went back to his
nod. Vic smacked again. He crouched down and lifted Lynx’s eyelids.

“You dead yet or what?”

Hefty rails of coke this time for both of them.

Mel walked along False Creek next to downtown, heading toward
Kitsilano, aka ‘Kits’, a fashionable neighborhood in Vancouver’s west side.

Mel had lonely bones; bones that yearned for Winnie. The message
never got to her brain in a rational way. That was how phantom melancholy
worked. It sunk itself into the bones, into the hallways of the brain like
echoes. It was likely someone’s feelings that she and Winnie had picked up on
together and made a point of deciding what it was. Or it was just all the ache
and pain that ever existed in the world that could seep into you through
orifices unknown, encrypted and meaningless. All Mel knew was the feeling in
her bones said she wanted an oxy.

She paused at the location of the former Soft Rock Cafe, now a
small office building near Fourth Avenue and Burrard Street. Everything was
retail and condos. There were units upon units, beside units, wedged units,
buildings that had been renovated more than an octogenarian starlets face. It
was like an architect with a hobbit penchant drew the whole thing up high on BC
bud. Walter could walk right past and she wouldn’t know it. 

“So right here in this building my dearest dad played his guitar
with a guy name Bert.” She was talking to herself on the street again.

She opened the diary and looked at the newsprint ad. A punk gal a
little older than Mel approached from the left with short shocks of black hair,
stone white complexion and some piercings. Mel caught her eye and they
gravitated toward each other.

“Hi, I’m Claire.” She stopped, put her hands in jeans pockets at
the back and pushed out her bust.

Pussy hound.

“Hey, how’s it going?  I’m looking for a place called The Soft
Rock.”

“Sure. A while back it was right here,” she said. “That was a
haunt of my mom’s back in her milder days.”

“I’m looking for someone who used to play there.”

“Well there’s The Wired Monk up at Trafalgar. It’s more jazz
though. Who are you looking for?”

“My dad actually.”

“You’ll have better luck over on Commercial Drive. The prices
skyrocketed here back in the eighties and all the artist types shifted to The
Drive.”

“I’m Mel Willow.”

“Hi, I’m Claire—Claire de Lune’s my stage name.”

“I’ve got one of those too. ‘Bad Bunny’, I’m a dancer. I’m
actually looking for a gig right now. You’re in a band?”

 “I write the songs and front. Call ourselves
The True Lips
.
Hey, could I buy you a drink?”

“Sure, why not?”

“We could walk over the bridge. Kits is a little serene,” said Claire.

Claire pulled a flyer out of her back pocket and held it out to
Mel. “We’re playing Saturday at The Astoria. You should come.”

They walked and talked their way over the Burrard Bridge and
stopped in the middle to look out on the West End. 

“My mum lived there too,” said Claire, nodding toward the high
rise buildings in the West End.   “It was hella fun when I was a kid, then AIDS
hit and things changed quite a bit. My mom still rocks, but with a sock.
Everyone tones down eventually—it’s about survival.”

I was born here, lived in Burnaby with Marlene.

“Your mother?”

“She slithered away recently—permanent like.”

“That bad huh?” said Claire.

Continuing on downtown they found things in common; Oxys, Goth,
and Guinness for starters... the list grew. After having a beer just over the
bridge at The Cecil, Claire suggested they take a detour later to her place and
do ‘a little something.’

“It’s in the Downtown Eastside. The No.5. Orange. Consider it job hunting—they
have dancers,” said Claire.

“Sure, I just need to stop off at my place first.”

Back at her room, she slipped on a low cut Bauhaus tee and checked
the mirror. She’d bought it three years ago at ‘Grime’, a vintage Punk/Goth
shop in Camden. The girls had filled out pretty well even by then.  No bra,
blue jeans, and black leather—standard issue. Claire watched Mel through the
door from the living room.

“Hey star, sometime today...”

“Just a sec.”

Claire stepped onto the balcony and checked out the view; Burrard
Bridge at 6 o’clock, Richmond and the airport at nine, Shaughnessy at ten and
the endowment lands out by UBC at twelve. Right in the middle of it all sat
Kitsilano, the yuppified, gentrified and no longer identified neighborhood of
her mother’s sixties hippie generation. At three o’clock, across Burrard Inlet
was the North Shore: prestigious West Vancouver and points beyond—Whistler
Mountain. Right below in spitting distance was the West End: old folks, queers
and steers, Pacific Drive, the beach and the seawall. You could walk all the
way into Stanley Park, get lost there and come out at the Lions Gate Bridge,
then walk right across that to North Vancouver. It was a neat little package.
Vancouver: Hollywood North, number three in movie production locations behind
LA and New York.

As Claire’s eyes passed 9 o’clock, she’d unknowingly scanned two
significant locations connected to her new friend’s past and future. Past: the intersection
of Mel’s recent accident. Future: and only a half a crow mile from the
first—the Dentowne mansion in Shaughnessy, originally built by descendants of
Vic Denton.

“Nice shirt,” said Claire.

“Thanks, got it back in my Goth days.”

Claire smiled at Mel hoping to see a sign. She thought how they’d
make a great couple.

Claire dreamed. A girl had a right, didn’t she?

Mel followed her along Davie Street and they turned left on
Granville Street toward the downtown core.

A sign caught Mel's eye. ‘SECURITY SURVEILLANCE’.

“Hang on a sec.” She slipped inside and found an easy to fasten
GPS tracker. Something to keep tabs on Winnie.

“Just press this against the inside of a piece of clothing, along
a thick seam preferably. Squeeze, and presto. It’s a tiny CO2 injectable. The
tracker holds on like a tick.”

“Better give me two.” 

Claire was waiting at the bus stop bench, looking out on Granville
Street. Mel joined her.

“God, last time I was here the Stanley Cup riots broke out. That
was a year ago already. It’s like that joke, ‘I went to the fights and a hockey
game broke out’.”

“I know. Crazy like the footballers in the UK. I saw some of the
Vancouver riots coverage on the news back in London. I loved that shot of the
couple making out on the pavement with cops in the background. Brilliant.”

They crossed Georgia Street on Granville: the peak land value
intersection of Vancouver by The Pacific Center Mall and walked another ten
minutes to Gastown’s cobbled touristy streets next to the Downtown Eastside.

“So you’re really giving me the tour here,” said Mel.

“It’s just up ahead.”

“That’s fine, I—”

Mel stopped.

“What’s wrong?” said Claire.

“That’s Winnie!”

She raced after her.

Winnie didn’t realize as Mel caught up from behind and grabbed her.

“You bitch!” said Mel.

Winnie tried to pull away. Mel had her firm and pushed her back
against a book shop window.

 “Shite, I’m not supposed to talk to you Mel.”

“I think you owe me an apology!”

Mel pushed Winnie back hard again by her shoulders banging against
the shop window. Mel had Winnie’s hands pinned up behind her head like she was
a cop making an arrest. She got her one hand under Winnie’s leather jacket. Winnie
hoped Mel was going to feel her up and kiss her. Mel had other plans.

“Win, you have to get away from Alejandra. She’s doing something
to you.”

Mel pressed the cartridge up against the collar and squeezed to
release the tracker.
Done.
 

“I can’t leave, she’ll hurt you.”

Winnie struggled as Mel pinned her to the glass and it made them
both feel restless. Mel missed her body, she wanted to go in the alley with her
and find an alcove. Winnie wriggled like mad to get away, and Mel could see the
craving in Winnie’s wild eyes. It was like trying to hold on to a barn cat at
Fi’s place. Mel kissed her. Their tongues latched together for a few short
sweet seconds and Mel pulled back.

“Come back home with me. We’ll fight her together!”

Mel let her loose and looped her arm tight in Winnie’s.

Customers who watched on the other side of the glass had iPhones
propped in the air.

“Alejandra is watching you,” said Winnie.

“Hey, leave her alone!” A hero in the shop doorway distracted Mel.

She turned. “Fuck off! Mind your business!”

Winnie broke the hold.

Run rabbit run.

It was no use chasing her. Winnie was a lot faster than Mel. Above
where Winnie had just scampered around the corner Mel saw The No. 5 Orange
sign. She remembered how lightning fast Winnie’s little legs were in the dojo. How
they felt scissored around her. She missed the sparring, abusing her little
body. She missed it all. The kiss was a tease, a torment even.

“Who was that?” said Claire.

“Just a friend from back home. Winnie.”

“Why did she run? What’s wrong?”

“Long story.”

They sat with drinks in The No.5 Orange. Mel wanted to catch some
of the local talent, maybe even work there a bit. It seemed like they’d moved
to Vancouver, her and Win, even though it was all temporary. There was also the
chance that she’d find her father and...have some sort of family? Mel’s mind
was running in circles, jonesing for some xannies.

A drunk sat by the stage with a blue and white Vancouver Canucks
cap and yammered loud about fucking the waitress.  Mel tried Winnie on her
cell. Nothing. Claire eyed her. “Just trying to get a hold of Winnie. She’s in
a bit of trouble.”

“What’s up?”

“Well, it’s complicated. We were best friends for years in London,
then I left all of a sudden. I’ve got to find her.”

The man with the Canucks cap was heading to the men’s room and
stopped near their booth. He turned, tipped his cap to his friends.

“Hey ladies, good aphter-noon.”. He put his hand on Mel’s shoulder
then moved his face in close by her ear and whispered, “You’re the one that
should be up on that stage darlin’.”

“Piss off.” Mel pushed his hand away.

In her peripheral she saw him blow his fingers like he’d just got
burned. He took his cap off, scratched his balding scalp, then squeezed her
shoulder.

“C’mon now why not—”

Mel picked the man’s hand off her shoulder pinching his palm
between her thumb and middle finger. The man grimaced and groaned, tried hard
to pretend it was nothing, then within seconds he gave into the pain and his
knees buckled. Mel moved his hand down further to the floor and he fell over.  He
got up and quickly retreated to the men’s room without another word.

“How the fuck did you do that?”

“Pressure points.”

 “Holy crap, I think I’m in love.”

“Another dickhead in a vast sea.”

“Order those drinks now gentlemen, two minutes ‘till the next show
featuring our star of the day, Tifa!”

Vic came up behind the waitress just as she arrived at Mel and
Claire’s booth. He whispered in her ear, “Lickey your Split.”

The waitress turned her head toward Vic and their lips nearly
touched. “Hey baby, you stayin’ for a drink?”

“The usual,” said Vic.

She gave him a peck on the cheek and turned back to the girls’
table.

“Another round ladies?”

“Sure said Mel,” looking intently at Vic as he walked away and the
waitress followed.

“He’s a player,” said Claire.

“That reminds me, I wanted to ask—can you get Xanax?”

Mel fingered Darth, empty in her pocket.

Claire nodded and smiled. “I’ve got something better.”

Vic sipped his beer beside the stage away from the pack.

“And now let’s hear it for Teeeefaaaa!” drawled the announcer.

She slipped out from behind the stage curtain. Customized burgundy
Doc stompers, a black micro shorts and a silver belt with gold eyelets. Black
suspenders over her white halter straining under pressure. A long black pony
tied in a dolphin tail split bounced gently on her buttocks as she made her
moves.

“What a sasspot.”

“Very,” said Claire.

 “She’s doing Tifa from Final Fantasy.”

“Nice,” murmured Claire.

 Mel watched Tifa flow like a magical stream of water in air.

“She fights I bet,” said Mel.

Tifa, was down to her G string. She swung around the pole and slid
down to finish her show with floor work. After, she shuffled through the crumpled
bills and the applause toward Vic who was motioning to her with a hundred. She
bent over deep to bite the bill out of his hand.