Shade City

 

 

by Domino Finn

 

 

Copyright © 2014 by Domino Finn. All rights reserved.

 

Published by Blood & Treasure, Los Angeles

First Edition

 

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to reality is coincidental. This book represents the hard work of the author; please reproduce responsibly.

 

Cover by Elderlemon Design

 

Print ISBN: 978-0-692-24295-7

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes dreams are more than dreams and life is less than death. I always harbored ill feelings as I wandered the lonely streets of the city, even years before I moved to Los Angeles. After I met Violet, I knew why.

This world was dreary and suffocating and entrapped me in a haze; I moved through it with the grace of a hippo underwater. The buildings were mere shells and the roads desolate. It was a cryptic dance with a foreign tempo, and I struggled to draw meaning from it. There was something I was missing. Some final trick that would pull the shade away and reveal to me the true wonders or horrors of what encompassed me. And I was so close.

And then, like all dreams, I awoke at the most inopportune moment.

 

 

 

Full-on nightclubs are majestic articulations of wonder. I'm not talking about bars or lounges or other places where friends can gather and drink and bullshit. No, I'm specifically referring to dark halls and blinding dance floors, music that prohibits conversation, and crowds that make it difficult to maneuver. Clubs are all about limiting activity in a way as to focus it, restricting the senses and squeezing them into uncomfortable positions where the only recourse for enjoyment is to let go and become completely free.

Free. It's a funny word that means a lot of serious things. I saw a lot of free people here. But any time you have an amalgamation of this much fun and exhilaration and sex, you'll always attract some fakers. And I saw every single one of them for exactly what they were.

The mass of people was an ocean, sometimes drifting together like a slow current, other times crashing against each other in waves. The crowd was as diverse as you would find in a body of water, too. Low-lifes, trust fund kids, businessmen, drug dealers (were those the same thing?), party girls, working girls; white, Chinese, Mexican, and more; pretty, cute, and ugly. It took all types.

There was the group of well-dressed guys with loosened ties still clinging to their necks. They didn't get out much and used a special occasion as an excuse to fly the coop.

The couples grinding on the dance floor, trading partners until they found an acceptable pairing, if only for the moment. They wouldn't have been here if they had someone to go home to.

A group of friends egged each other on, pressing to make the most of their ill-advised antics. This was their release. After a long week of menial labor, they came here to discover new ways to stay sane.

Others, like the old man who sat at the bar, ignored the raucous activity except when it begrudged him a bump or a shove. He just came here to indulge in his addictions. He wanted to feel normal so he surrounded himself with crazy.

The four girls in a circle on the dance floor wearing high heels and tight skirts. They thrived on the social atmosphere. They wanted to feel wanted. Needed to be needed.

And of course, there was the tall girl next to me who watched them. Like me, she wasn't dancing, but for entirely different reasons. It was obvious she was dragged here and hated every minute of it. The only thing she hated even more was the thought of being labeled uncool by her friends. So she came along, swallowed the contents of her cups, and was sometimes even persuaded to dance.

You'd think it was hard to fake it more than she was, but you'd be wrong.

So who am I to judge? A transplant from Miami to LA. New to the city, but not blinded by its brilliance—mine is an outsider's inside perspective of Los Angeles. And, of course, I've always been a studious drinker. Are those qualifications enough? How do I know the things I know? It is easy for me to recognize the gamut of human emotions when I experience them all myself. There is a little bit of everybody inside all of us, and I understand that better than most.

I craved the adrenalin. I fed off the camaraderie. This scene was perhaps the only time I truly felt that I could cut loose. And as for those participating in the charade of fun, well, I wasn't dragged here and certainly didn't seek anyone's approval, but I was the biggest faker of them all.

* * *

Music filled my ears. I hovered on the edge of the dance floor, in the sound of the moment. The weekend anthems were always electronica at Avalon, a converted theater that was as much a staple of Hollywood as the manic club scene allowed. The venue was about mass business. It didn't have the most refined interior or subtle offerings, but what it did have it had in spades. Five bars were strewn about its cavernous interior. There was a side alley for smokers and a terrace upstairs with an open-air ceiling that had a view of the Capitol Records building. The mezzanine seats were mostly intact and provided ample opportunity to engage in passionate rendezvous. And, of course, the entire layout wrapped around the main stage. The accompanying floor area had been cleared of chairs to afford the kinds of crowds that should never be contained in one place. State of the art lights spun wildly above, sequenced with the blaring of countless speakers. It was an old theater, beat up by the throngs of partiers, stripped of its beautiful propriety and made magnificent in a new way altogether.

I pulled out my pocket watch. It was a Hamilton 940, a shiny brass number. An antique. A partner in crime.

"You're officially eighteen today," I said to the watch. I stared at the timepiece and sighed. Hearing nothing but the music and the crowd, I slipped it back into my jeans.

The DJ was capable, spinning a good Daft Punk remix that had the horde swimming on the sticky cement. I almost wanted to be out there. It was these moments that made the hunt pleasurable, although they were somewhat distracting. Even though I was in a club, the discipline to remain alert was a priority. As I saw the girl break away from her compatriots in the field and make for a spot at the bar, I killed my third drink. I was mostly alert, anyway.

I followed each step of her candy heels along the moldy carpet. Her red blouse hung loosely over a black skirt that was tighter fitting than it should have been, but her legs were more appealing for the effect. Her supple thighs were mesmerizing as they danced ahead, slightly sweaty but awash in a bath of perfume that was ever sweeter as I closed in.

I forced myself past some kids who were downing shots and building up their liquid courage. The girl flicked her long brown hair to the side, waiting for the attention of the bartender. I didn't need courage or patience. I brushed my chest against her arm as I put my side to the bar, ready to reload. She didn't say anything.

There was a blonde woman mixing cocktails, a little older than the crowd but with big enough tits that most men would have settled for the cleavage. She was doing her best to ignore her customers, and the girl with the brown hair was doggedly determined to change her mind.

I smiled and held my hand up to signal the guy standing farther down. He was occupied as well—that was one of the signs of a good bartender—but he immediately saw me and nodded. That kind of notice wasn't afforded to just anyone. As I pulled my leather money clip from my pocket, I took that as a sign I was a good customer.

The brown-haired girl next to me pouted and put a hand on her shapely hip, giving me a jab with her elbow in the process.

"This stuck up bitch won't even look at me," she said to no one in particular.

"Of course," I cut in. "She works off tips."

The girl turned to me. Her nose looked bigger up close and I could see the pale hairs above her fat lips. But she had big, seductive eyes.

"I was going to tip her."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm not questioning your ability to give her a dollar. And she might be stuck up. I can't say. But I think her target audience would say she was doing an amazing job."

She watched as the blonde bartender bent over to grab a beer from a cooler. Her miniskirt rode up and her pink underwear flashed at the onlookers. Then she turned around and placed the bottle in front of a pack of guys, leaning forward and looking down, acting unaware that all their eyes were on her chest. The old lady was a pro.

The girl still seemed dissatisfied but her eyes held an envious tinge. "I wish I had boobs like that."

"Me too," I said.

The girl widened her mouth in surprise, but the corners of her eyes wrinkled playfully. Her hand swatted my chest in admonishment. She let her fingers linger an extra moment. Her nails were short and painted a bright red to match her outfit, and she was wearing an engagement ring with an expensive diamond.

"Maybe if I had boobs like that, I wouldn't give you the time of day either."

I nodded at the probable truth. "Well since you don't and you are, you might as well give me your name so I can buy you a drink."

With perfect timing, the male bartender put another Captain and coke down in front of me.

"Thanks, man," I said, stirring the glass with the cocktail straw. "And one for her."

"Two actually," she said, almost apologetically. "Long Islands."

I raised an eyebrow at her but nodded for the bartender. This was a trade, after all. Most men think it a necessary part of their repertoire to buy women they're hitting on drinks. I say they're suckers. You want to find women that want you, not want something
from
you. Drink after drink after drink; they might get lucky, but they're not doing themselves any favors. Me? I wasn't often seen buying women drinks for the purposes of pleasure. This time was different. I had more... nefarious intentions.

"Pam," she said. "That's my name. But I'm not one of those girls who'll dance with you for five minutes for a drink. I can pay." Pam reached inside her purse.

"No, no," I insisted, "it was my offer. I have a hookup here. I'll get it." I put my hand on hers to stop her from retrieving her wallet. She didn't shy away from the contact. "My name's Dante Butcher. And I'm not really in the mood to dance."

* * *

The bartender returned with the other two drinks. "Twenty-seven," he said.

Nice. He had given me mine for free. I handed him two twenties and told him to keep it.

"So let me guess," said Pam, flitting her lashes at me suggestively. "You're one of those smooth-talking guys who's used to sweeping girls off their feet?"

"Off their feet, on their feet. On their hands and knees. It doesn't really matter much, does it?"

Her smile tapered a little. "Maybe I've got you wrong then. Maybe you're just a dick."

"Well now you've got a bead on me. I am."

"You are what?"

"A dick. There's no maybe about it."

She pursed her lips as she decided how to respond to that admission. Always beat them to the punch, I say. The sooner they know who you really are, the sooner you can get past the boring introductions.

Pam glanced at the Long Islands sitting on the bar. "Well, it's not very dick-like to buy a girl a couple of drinks."

I considered her premise. "I'm more of a casual dick, really. It's more about my complete apathy to people's problems than a need to be a douche bag. Trust me. I get into enough fights without needing to look for them." I brushed my hair out of my eyes and looked deep into hers. "What about you? Tell me something about yourself."

Pam smiled. She wanted to play along but was at a loss. "Um, like what do you want to know?"

"For starters, who's the other drink for?"

She hesitated and looked shy but held up her hand and showed off her ring. "My fiancé."

"Oh, I didn't notice," I lied. As I returned my money clip to my pocket, I reached around for a small plastic vial and screwed it open. I turned my back to her as I grabbed her drinks, carefully pouring the powder into one of the Long Islands and swirling the liquid to hide the evidence. Then I faced Pam again, holding both glasses in my hands.

"Bunny!" we heard, almost on cue. We turned and saw a broad-chested dude approaching us. He had a little more fat than muscle but it wasn't an unflattering ratio. He was only slightly taller than average, like me, so his eyes met mine perfectly. "What's going on?"

"Soren," said Pam, slightly flustered. "Hi. This is Dante. We were just talking..."

"About the Winter Music Conference," I finished. Pam's eyes darted to me quickly but she nodded. Given the subject matter and the present circumstances, it was sure to evoke a positive reaction. Especially since he was wearing a T-shirt that said "Ultra Music Festival 2012" on it.

"No shit?" he asked. "Are you going this year?"

"I always do. I'm from Miami and I know some of the producers." Of everything I was doing, this lie made me feel the scummiest. Maybe it was because it was such an LA cliche. People left and right pretended to have connections they didn't. Just another kind of faker.

Soren raised his eyebrows in unison. "That's awesome, brother! I went a couple years ago!"

"No shit. Really?" The poor guy still didn't realize that his T-shirt advertised that to everybody except him.

"For real. I deejay at the Echo on Mondays. We should talk!"

Soren raised his hand to shake mine. This was easier than I had thought. I put both glasses on the bar and gave him a bro hug. I felt the shadow nestled deep inside him.

"He knows the bartender," said Pam. "He got us drinks."

Before I could release myself from the half-shake, half-hug, the girl snatched both Long Islands. The music kicked up in a steady beat and we were jostled to the side by a clumsy group of big women. When I finally turned around, Pam was handing a cocktail to Soren. I couldn't tell which was which.

"Good deal," yelled Soren above the noise. "Let's have a smoke on the patio and I can buy you one in return."

The guy placed an outstretched arm around his fiancée and pulled her towards the side exit, motioning for me to come along. Pam took a hesitant sip of her Long Island as they moved away.

Shit, I thought. What if they had the wrong drinks?

I sighed and tasted my rum and coke. I almost coughed as I inhaled the alcohol. It was even stronger than the last one. As I stepped away, I nodded thanks to the bartender who poured it. The blonde with the big tits was selling sex. She made her tips by flashing her skin. The guy, he had a different game. He replaced flirting with hustle. But the main thing he offered, the thing that he could sell instead of sex, was a heavy pour. My choice of bartender was really just a practical application of my priorities.

* * *

Layers of smoke greeted my face the moment I was on the patio. Technically, it was a skinny alley between two brick buildings. Despite being outside, the smoke hugged the ground ominously. It enveloped the resting patrons like a welcoming party from Hell.