Ribbons (3 page)

3

Matt was tied to a chair. The chair had come with the apartment like most of the other furniture. He was young and didn’t have anybody to impress yet, so he hadn’t really thought about the chairs at all. Now he thought the chairs in his dining nook were ugly and uncomfortable. And the apartment wasn’t quaint or charming. It was a dump. Most of the time Matt felt right at home. Not today. Today was special. Today, he had a guest.

“Uh, Thug Guy?” Matt’s guest hadn’t offered his name yet.

There was no answer.

Matt twisted his neck to try to see what Thug Guy was doing. So far he had been all business. Five minutes ago Matt had been enjoying lunch. Then he’d made the mistake of answering a knock at the door. There hadn’t been any small talk, just a quick jab to the gut. That had been all it took to make Matt forget how to breathe. By the time he had figured it out again, Thug Guy had him zip-tied to one of those ugly, uncomfortable chairs. Now he could see Thug Guy rummaging through the cupboards in his kitchen.

Thug Guy was big but not particularly fit. His family probably came from Eastern Europe or maybe Russia—Matt wasn’t too good with geography. He wore a collarless dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his suspenders looked like they were straining against his shoulders. He turned to look at Matt with a triumphant grin.

“You’re not gonna get all freaky are you?” Matt asked. “Like, sex-freaky?”

He looked over at Thug Guy and had time to notice the black newsboy cap pulled low on his head. It was oddly accented with some kind of bird skull. Then Thug Guy was right next to him, and all Matt could focus on was the blender that dropped onto the table in front of him.
Thunk.

Matt instinctively pulled away from the blender. “So that’s a
no
then?”

Thug Guy finally spoke. He had a thick accent. “This is good one. Do you make the smoothies?”

Matt didn’t want to answer that.

“Hmm . . .” Thug Guy frowned. He looked from the blender cord to the wall socket. “Do you have extension cord?”

“No?” Matt tried.

Thug Guy tilted his head and arched an eyebrow. Then he nodded to himself as if he finally remembered where he’d left his car keys. He went into the living room just a few steps away. He talked over his shoulder as he eyed Matt’s entertainment center.

“You know, you stole much money. You should have better place to live.”

“Borrowed,”
Matt corrected. “I borrowed much money. And I intend on paying it back. Soon . . . ish.”

“Well, until then, is stolen.”

Matt was actually relieved. A little, anyway. At least now he knew who had sent today’s houseguest. Matt was relatively new to Reno, but to get an apartment of your own there, even a crappy one, you needed a few basics: identification of some sort, relatively good credit, and money. Matt hadn’t had any of those things when he’d arrived.

He could have tried to rent a room somewhere. Then he would have just needed money and a convincing lie. But privacy was important to Matt. He wanted a fresh start. Mainly because he was being hunted. Well, he was
pretty
sure he was being hunted anyway. His family wasn’t going to give up on him that easily.

Thug Guy swept aside a couple of movie cases and a little pyramid made out of diet cola cans. He did this with two quick flicks of his hand like he was dusting away crumbs or lint. He made enough room to peek behind the TV.

“Oh! Here we go. It is . . . uh . . . rat’s nest . . . back here.” English may not have been Thug Guy’s first language. “Too many cables. Is fire hazard.”

He reached behind the TV and came up with a power strip. Every plug was filled. Matt didn’t even think he had that many things to plug in. Thug Guy gave it a hard yank. The power strip came free. Then the TV hit the floor with an unmistakable
crack
.

“Dude! I just got that!” Matt blurted it out before he could stop himself.

“Maybe is not best thing to tell me right now?”

When Matt had moved into the apartment, he had unpacked in about fifteen minutes. He’d only had a duffel bag and a tiny suitcase with wheels, the kind that can fit above your seat on an airplane. One bag held his clothes; the other held everything he wanted to remember from his past. The TV
was
a new purchase but not one of many. He had actually bought it using a credit plan through the electronics store. His new identity had
great
credit. But after paying for that identity and a few months’ rent, his loan money was pretty much gone.

Matt clenched his teeth when the blender blades started spinning. He never liked that whizzing sound. It reminded him of the dentist. He tried to avoid the dentist, and he had only ever used the blender once.

“What’s going in there? Not my hands, right? I need my hands or I can’t get your money back.” Matt couldn’t stop talking. “I need my feet, too.”

“You don’t need . . .  uh . . .  junk?” Thug Guy said.

Matt looked down at his crotch. “I need my junk.” He reconsidered. “Okay, take a foot. Or my hand.”

Thug Guy had zip-tied Matt at the elbows so his forearms were still free. Matt thought to himself and made a fist with his left hand. He pumped it back and forth a few times. He was right-handed for most things, but late at night in front of his laptop, he needed his left hand free. He nodded and clarified. “Wait, take my
right
hand.”

Thug Guy responded by dropping two objects onto the table, one on either side of the blender. The first was a comic book. It had been on display next to the TV.
Sandman
, issue one. The cover was in perfect condition except for the silver pen mark where the author scribbled his name. The author had also put a strange little doodle underneath his signature that looked like some kind of ancient symbol. The second object was a tiny alien encased in plastic. Boba Fett looked up at him from a slightly yellowed blister pack. This was the proud Boba Fett from
The Empire Strikes Back
, not the comic relief version from
Return of the Jedi
.

“Choose.”

Matt stiffened. “Oh! Hardball!”

Thug Guy picked up the blister pack and read the package carefully. He was mouthing the words to himself. Then he asked, “What is Bo . . . ba . . . Fett?”

Matt didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he let it out to answer. “Well, he’s a bounty hunter. Technically he’s a clone from—”

Then Thug Guy peeled open the pack to get a closer look.

Matt gave a high-pitched screech and almost tipped himself over. “That was mint!” He let out a sigh and hung his head in despair. “Fine, do that one. Worthless
now
.”

Sandman
issue one disappeared amid frantic whirring sounds and a poof of confetti.

Matt lifted his head. His world didn’t make sense anymore. “But . . . but Neil Gaiman signed that. I had a fauxhawk back then. He said he liked it.”

“I don’t know what that means, but this is torture.” Thug Guy spoke slowly like he was talking to a child. “I am torturing you.”

The doorbell rang. Matt knew this must be a dream. Nobody
actually
got saved by the bell.

Thug Guy stood up and then stopped to point a deadly looking finger at Matt. “Quiet please. Or I make another smoothie.”

He continued toward the door. As he walked, he reached around to the small of his back and pulled out a knife that had been clipped to the inside of his belt. The knife was small, almost stubby, and it had a hook at the tip. He held it hidden behind the door as he pulled it open. He only opened the door a few inches, so Matt couldn’t see who was there, but the voice he heard was chipper and confident.

“Good afternoon. I’m looking for Matt?”

“Busy,” said Thug Guy.

“I just need him to sign for this real quick.”

“I can sign. Is no problem.” Thug Guy’s grip tightened on the knife.

A hand reached out and touched Thug Guy’s shoulder. Thug Guy turned his head a fraction of an inch to look at it, and his whole body coiled. Matt was pretty sure that was going to be the end of that hand. Then Matt’s ears popped, and he couldn’t quite make out what the owner of the hand said next, but Thug Guy’s body relaxed almost at once. Thug Guy took a pen that was offered to him and signed something on a clipboard.

“Make sure Matt gets that letter.” The voice sounded very serious, and Matt thought about screaming for help. Then Matt looked at the knife again.

“I will.”

“Okeydokey! Have a good day!”

The door closed, and Thug Guy turned toward Matt. He looked a little confused as he stared at the envelope in his hand. He shook his head and blinked his eyes like he was trying to wake himself up. Matt noticed how blue his eyes were—too blue.

“Registered mail. Must be urgent. I will read for you.” His voice sounded quieter than before. “It is from your Uncle Quentin.”

“Really?” Matt’s hands were tingling. The zip ties were starting to cut into his arms.

“Really.”

Thug Guy took a seat next to Matt, knife still in hand. He slid the blade under the flap of the envelope and gave a gentle pull. The paper cut without a sound. He looked at the knife, blew on it, and put it away. Then he pulled a single folded piece of paper out of the envelope. Matt couldn’t quite read it, but he could tell it was printed or typed rather than handwritten.

Thug Guy started to read slowly and carefully. “
Matt
. . . that is you,” Thug Guy clarified.
“You know I am not one for
. . . uh . . .
verse
?
But read this and take it to heart. He who brings trouble on his family will inherit only wind, and the fool will be servant to the wise.
That is quote.
Proverbs, eleven twenty-nine.”
Thug Guy looked up at Matt briefly and then back down at the letter. “Then he says,
Come to my place in Las Vegas. We need to discuss your future. Our fate and fortune are
. . . uh . . .
intertwined.
”

Thug Guy set down the letter. It didn’t look like it was signed but he saw his uncle’s name and address at the bottom.

Thug Guy pursed his lips. “What does this mean?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t talk like that.” Matt thought for a second. “I don’t
think
he does anyway. It’s been awhile.”

Thug Guy peered into the envelope while he absently traced a finger over the skull on his cap. Empty.

“In fact, I’m not sure how he even got this address.” Matt was speaking more to himself now.

“Fortune?”

Matt grinned. “Well I guess I’ll have to go find out.”

Matt was starting to feel like himself again so he added, “Unless you want to pull out my salad shooter and play with that for a while?”

“Ha-ha. Funny guy.” Thug Guy didn’t laugh, though. Instead, his fist shot out.

Matt’s head snapped back, and a little arc of blood splattered onto the letter.

4

Foster adjusted his glasses and watched Candice work. The glasses always seemed to sit at an odd angle on his nose. He wasn’t sure if the nose pads needed adjusting or if his ears were just crooked. The glasses were the same ones they issued him in prison, and he was kind of embarrassed to go in to ask for an adjustment at the local Lens Hut. They might ask him where he’d gotten them.

Candice looked like an angel. Meaning she was actually wearing angel wings. They were the kind you might find at a Halloween costume shop. She wasn’t wearing much else. Her white lace bra was puddled on the ground at the back of the stage, lost in the darkness now. She had shot it back there like a rubber band. Green bills had fluttered onto that stage like falling leaves. Now she was working up to her big finale. She turned her back to the audience and slowly bent over. Just as slowly, she pulled her thong over her hips, down her thighs, and around her ankles. Then she straightened and grabbed the pole, one arm low, one high. With a kick, she flipped herself upside down so that she faced the crowd. She paused, letting the crowd wonder what came next. Then her legs spread apart to match her wings.

To Foster’s surprise, he wasn’t hard. Not even a little. He had seen the act many times before. He was more into watching the crowd. There was a rhythm to it, aside from the driving beat coming through the sound system. When Candice bent over, the crowd leaned in. When she kicked, they all leaned back. When she slid off the pole, hands flew out and more bills fluttered down. She was a conductor.

The lights dimmed and Candice wrapped a white satin robe around herself. The next dancer was already heading to the stage. A couple of guys noticed Foster in his janitor’s jumpsuit. They were obviously drunk, but it probably didn’t matter. They were cruel and horny and needed some kind of release.

One of them had a goatee that was dyed blond. “Oh man, look at this guy. I bet he has to polish the pole every night.”

The second guy covered his mouth, but it didn’t do much to hide his snorting laugh. Between grunts, he managed to add, “All three inches of it.”

It was the obvious joke to make. Foster pretended not to notice and pushed his cart forward. Stuff like that really bothered him. He knew it shouldn’t, but it always did. Trying not to think about it just made him think about it more. Sometimes, a rage built up in him out of nowhere. Sometimes he got so depressed that he took sleeping pills just to make the day end earlier. He was floundering between the two when Candice stopped in front of him.

“Hey, Foster.” Her smile made him feel like he was part of something. Not much, but something.

“Oh, hey, Candice. Nice show.” He meant it. He knew she practiced to get it right.

She must have seen Mr. Goatee and Mr. Snort watching. They were in the back row, which meant they didn’t tip much. She touched Foster’s arm and leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. He supposed she meant well, but that only made him feel more uncomfortable. She slowly and deliberately gave the two in the back row the middle finger. Which probably only made them more excited. Then she turned to head backstage.

As she left she added, “Watch out for the boss.”

Foster pushed his cart forward again, but his eyes followed Candice as she disappeared behind the stage. Then a hand grabbed his cart.

“Yeah, watch out for the boss!” It was the boss.

Foster stopped short. His boss always looked overdressed for the Tail Spin. His suits were too formal, and the white at his temples made him look more distinguished than lecherous. He might look right at home dealing cards at a casino. He’d told his employees to call him Sam, but Foster always called him sir.

“Sorry, sir!”

Sam gave him an intent look, as though he was considering something. Then he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head with a smile. “Foster, I have an important task for you. It’s going to require all your limited concentration. I know you’ve been working on your mopping skills?”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam held out two hands and rotated them one after another like he was scrubbing something. “Wax on, wax off?”

“Huh?” The reference was lost on Foster.

“Somebody just waxed off all over one of the stalls in the bathroom.”

“Men’s room?”

“Nope, you’re in luck. Women’s room. But cum’s still cum.” Sam pulled Foster in close, as if he was about to trust him with a secret. “Don’t forget to check the ceiling.”

While Foster was still processing that, Sam left him to his work and followed Candice to the dressing room.

Foster didn’t
love
this job, but he did love not being in jail. Minimum security wasn’t really violent, but it was dehumanizing. When you were bad at fitting in in the real world, it was worse in prison. You never had any privacy. He couldn’t remember sleeping for more than two hours at a stretch during his two years, eight months, and five days of incarceration. And when he had finally gotten out, nobody had been waiting for him.

Finding a job was crucial to his parole. It meant he could stay in his own apartment instead of the halfway house. That time alone let him right himself when he felt off-balance. He still didn’t get out much, and he didn’t have any friends. He remembered having friends at the orphanage, but he also remembered feeling like he was always losing them as they made their way through the system. Eventually, he stopped trying. By the time he’d turned eighteen he’d stopped caring.

Foster propped the door to the women’s room open with his cart. It was empty. It usually was. The employees had their own bathroom next to the dressing room, and while some strip clubs in Vegas got their fair share of female customers, the Tail Spin was generally not one of them. He found the right stall on the first try. He’d had a fifty-fifty shot.

Foster wondered if people carried Sharpies in their purses or pockets for the sole purpose of defiling bathroom stalls. Did it give them a thrill knowing that they had a pen ready to help express whatever twisted thought happened to wander through their minds while they popped a squat? It implied some kind of forethought. They would call it “premeditation” on one of those crime shows. The contributions on the stall door didn’t seem to support that theory, though.

Instead, there was poetry:

Twitter me this, Twitter me that,

No Wi-Fi so here I shat.

And there was religion:

Jesus is Lord

Which apparently struck a cord with another customer who added:              

of the Rings

And another:

Spoiler alert!

At least it was bringing people together.

The artistic mood had struck somebody who’d decided to draw a nice, calming beach scene. Two driftwood logs with a clamshell in the middle. Foster was disappointed when he realized those weren’t logs. And the thing in the middle wasn’t a shell. He became disturbed when he realized the thing that wasn’t a shell had
teeth
.

Surrounded by such masterpieces, it was hard to tell how somebody had mustered up the willpower and imagination to keep an erection long enough to add his own, more
biological
contribution to the walls. And yes, the ceiling.

Foster went to work, thick rubber gloves pulled tight over his hands like industrial strength condoms. He dipped his sponge into his bucket. He didn’t squeeze it to wring out the excess water. He figured he needed all the help he could get. He held his breath and pressed the sponge against one of the metal walls. It was more of a reflex than a precaution. Like holding your breath right before you rip off a Band-Aid. Soapy water reluctantly bubbled out of the sponge and sloshed down the wall toward the snot-like streaks. That’s when Candice came in.

Foster was startled and pressed the sponge a bit harder than he intended. A wave of soapy water cascaded down the wall and splattered on the ground. Well, not
just
water. Foster did a little hop backward and ran into the toilet. He was going to have to mop the whole floor now.

Candice didn’t seem to notice. In fact, she stared straight ahead, looking at herself in the mirror above the sink. Her eyes were wide, and she didn’t blink. Foster had never noticed how blue they were. They almost looked unnatural. She muttered something that Foster couldn’t quite make out. He was just about to ask her if she was all right when she turned on him with a snarl.

“What are you doing in there, you little perv?” It was like she’d just suddenly remembered that she hated him. Which was strange, because she had always been so nice to him before.

He didn’t know what to say. Maybe she thought he was a customer hiding in the stall to spy on her. He tried to explain. “Candice, it’s just me. Foster.”

She took two steps over to the stall door. It had started to close a bit on its own. She pushed it back open. Foster still hadn’t seen her blink.

“I know who it is.” Her eyes scanned the walls, then the floor, and then Foster’s crotch. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

Foster looked down at his own crotch. He was the exact opposite of horny.

“I don’t—” he started.

“Is this what you do when nobody’s looking? Hide in here and stroke that pathetic cock?”

“No, the boss said—”

She leaned in close to his face. She had a doll’s eyes, unfocused and too wide. “Did you run in here right after I touched you, to do your nasty little business?”

Foster cringed and tried to step back, but he was right up against the toilet. He lost his balance and had to sit down. Candice continued.

“Fuckin’ sad. I bet I remind you of your sister, or your mom or something.”

She paused to cross her arms and sneer. Foster took a breath and tried to rally. He was cut off by somebody else this time.

“What the fuck’s going on in here?” It was Sam.

Foster remembered having nightmares where he knew he was going to be grabbed at any moment by the thing in the dark without eyes. The thing that would tickle his ribs with savage jabs while sniffing him with its tongue. All he had to do was scream. To cry out for help. In his dream he would open his mouth, but all that came out was a breathy squeak. He felt like that now. It was a good thing he was already sitting down. And it was probably a good thing that he was sitting on a toilet.

“I found this little prick jerking off to me!” Candice said.

Candice backed up as Sam came to stand in the stall doorway. Sam’s foot made a little splash and then slid on something in the water. He put out a hand to steady himself, but his hand slipped on something too. He didn’t fall, though. He saved himself by grabbing Foster’s shoulder. The sudden jolt shook something loose in Foster. That
something
was gas.

“That’s it, Foster. Get the fuck out!” Sam hooked a thumb toward the bathroom door behind him. “You’re done here.”

Foster finally found his voice. He had to work to push the words out, one deep breath for each syllable or two. “You. Said. To clean. This. Up.”

“Yeah, clean it up. Not make more,” said Sam.

Foster felt the jabbing at his ribs. “No,” he pleaded. “No. This is all I got.”

“Take it up with your parole officer.”

Foster looked past Sam to Candice. She finally blinked. She couldn’t stop blinking now. She also kept turning her head from side to side, like she was trying to figure something out. She didn’t look angry anymore. In fact, she didn’t seem to notice Foster at all.

Sam put a hand on Foster’s shoulder. He spoke as he helped Foster to his feet. It seemed like he was saying a lot more, but all Foster could make out was the last part.

“Go home, Foster.”