The Bialy Pimps (54 page)

Beckie looked around the lobby, taking it all in.
 

“It’ll be quite a party,” she said.

“But not exactly like old times,” said Tracy.
 

Beckie shrugged. “Isn’t that up to us?”

“Is it?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I think it is. They’ll give us a script, but we can do it our way. Just like any actor can play a part his own way.”

Tracy thought it over. They
should
try to make the most of it. They
should
turn lemons into lemonade. If they could do it their own way, they pretty much had to. It was the unofficial last hurrah. Everyone knew that after tonight, the whole thing started to fall apart. So why not make tonight an affair to remember, and dance the last dance as only Bingham’s folk could?
 

For a few hours tonight – agents or no agents, cameras or no cameras, fame or no fucking fame – Bingham’s would become Bingham’s again.
 

In the privacy of his own mind, Tracy swore that it would. It had to.

Much to everyone’s surprise, Roger braved the crowds and the noise to be there for the New Year’s Eve gala. He wore a white tuxedo that looked like it was rented and never returned back in the mid-seventies. The ensemble was crowned with a tall, stiff top hat with a silver band. In his uncertain right hand, he held a white cane.

“He’s the black Liberace,” Rich said with awe.

“Shit,” said Smooth B.

Although Roger’s stoic manner changed not a whit, everyone who knew him felt their respect instantly ratchet up a notch when they saw him sashay through the swinging front door. His face gave no indication that he knew that he was at a party, and he still loudly declared his request for a medium Diet Coke when he reached the gaping mouths at the counter, and he still took up a casually cool station across from the counter and greeted the young women who entered in his high-pitched voice, but his eyes were vacant and uninterested in the commotion going on around him.

“I wonder if someone dressed him like that and sent him over,” Mike mused. “You know... without his knowledge.”

Beckie smiled and shook her head. “No, Mike. Roger knows exactly what he’s doing. On some level, he always has.”

They watched the jazzy specter as he reclined in the chair, his tuxedo tails flapping through the lattice in the back to hang pendulously. He was as smooth as smooth could be.

“That’s one smooth motherfucker,” Smooth B said. “And I
know
smooth.”

The can light above him seemed to be a beacon from Heaven. Roger looked positively angelic in its glow. He lit a cigarette and puffed it, allowing the creamy smoke to drift upward and give the light physical, churning substance.
 

Angela the Agent stepped forward and addressed him. “Sir? You can’t smoke in here anymore. And we’re having guests by invitation only. We’ll reopen in the morning, but...”

Tracy had walked into the counter area after putting on one of his favorite jazz CDs. He stepped astride of Angela and held up one hand to her without looking over, playing smooth himself and pulling it off splendidly in the piano bar atmosphere. He seemed to be in black and white.
 

“Let the man stay,” he told Angela, interrupting her. “And let the man smoke.”

Angela turned and started to protest, but something in Tracy’s eyes made her stop. He too wore a tuxedo, though it was less ostentatious than Roger’s oldie-but-goodie, and he too looked serene under one of the bright can lights. He lit a cigarette of his own and smiled.

The highbrow guests had begun to arrive, and nobody cared for them. Roger was a welcome addition, a perfect touch of the old order to accent the planned return to quasi-normality. The store was supposed to be brightly-lit and loud, and the paparazzi was supposed to rule the event. Angela and the others had a grand vision in mind: a sea of celebrities and celluloid under the fire of flashbulbs, glamour and the perspiration of decadence. They saw champagne and too-perfect orthodontic smiles; they saw money and fame and a well-choreographed circus under the shining beacon of these new, hot, rising stars, each wearing sponsors’ clothes and spouting sponsors’ slogans. They saw a room spilled with clean, sterile light and pumping music. And watching it all, cataloguing it all, they saw the cameras.

They had made it as far as the set. By the time the set was constructed, the traditions of Bingham’s disappearing behind false walls and flamboyant decorations, the staff had already reached its consensus:
Not this way. Not here. Not tonight.

Philip, who knew the Bingham’s electrical circuits inside and out because they were always failing (ghetto as they were), had sabotaged the massive bucket lights and most of the outlets in the walls. All that worked were the can lights, and there was nowhere to plug in accessories.
 

The dark, moody atmosphere did a lot to hide the new decor. Nick suggested that in order to complete the lounge aura created by the muted lighting, everyone should don sunglasses to go with their sober formalwear. Everyone who liked to should smoke, and smoke a lot.

“What are you wearing?” Angela demanded when she saw the crew in their sober suits and tuxedoes. “It’s almost time to get underway! Where are the Hilfiger sweaters? Where are the Nikes?”

“No idea,” Rich told her.
 

Nick put a lazy hand on Rich’s shoulder. “They’re gone, man. Poof!”

“Well,” she responded, “that’s just great. First the problem with the lights, now this. Where are some other outlets? There are only a few that work. We’ll need to get some more lights on in here if we’re going to broadcast.”

Philip smiled a Cheshire grin and made a half-nod. “There are no more,” he told her.

The jazz accompaniment had been Tracy’s idea. Angela didn’t like it at all. After another half hour trying to make the lights work, she stomped up to the counter, desperate to complain about something she could control.

“What is this?” she demanded. “Where’s that MTV mix album I gave you?”

Nick tipped his sunglasses. “Poof!”

“What, do you think this is funny? This thing is costing us millions to put on. Do you want to ruin it? Are you trying to put everyone to sleep? For Christ’s sake, at least change out of those zoot suits and put on some jeans. You look like the Mafia!”

Tracy pointed to the door, where Bricker was checking names against a guest list and doing a poor job. He had allowed Roger to enter and had plans to allow other favorites ingress as well.

“The mayor is here,” he said.

Angela scampered over to the door and muttered an apology to the mayor, explaining that there had been technical problems and that all would be back on track soon. The mayor shook his head and said something.

It occurred to Darcy all of a sudden just how bizarre the whole thing was. The mayor was dressed in a jumpsuit with sequins and stripes, conforming to the announced dress theme based loosely on the Bialy Pimps’ first video. He held a plastic version of Bingham’s own metal spatulas in one hand, and was prepared to duel with it. Spatula dueling had been the brainchild of the marketing team and had caught on like trademark wildfire. The mayor of Columbus, Ohio, a leader of men, dressed in hip-hop gear to celebrate the annual turnover. Soon, the store would be filled with other such brainless Xerox copies of their own idea, all vying for the open seat on the Bingham’s bandwagon.
 

It was ironic, she thought, that the staff had gone elegant – ultra-conservative, in fact – in order to rebel. This New Year’s bash would not be filled with traditionally-clad revelers in ties and long gowns; rather, the cameras and flashbulbs were hungry for this new cult of nonconformity, this group of people who were eager to be different in the exact way specified by the MTV creative team. The lenses would watch with fascination as members of the upper crust flung food at one another and slapped each other with their plastic toys. They would urge the society members and politicians to prove that they were not stuffy, that they too could laugh about crass sexual hijinx and violence now that the media had decreed it to be worthy and acceptable and proper.

The staff looked like chaperones in the low light. They stood stoically in the shadows in full dress, watching as the mayor was seated with several VIPs who were already at their table.

Then the big lights came on, strong and insulting in the small space. A man ran out from the back hooting that had done it, he had figured out where the problem was and had fixed it. The others clapped him on the back and congratulated him, saying he’d saved the evening.

“Well, shit,” said Philip.

A few seconds later, the soft jazz snapped off and a grip was shoving a Party Mix CD into the stereo and turning the volume high. The disco ball began to spin, the mechanized monsters around the room whirred to life, and the party began to move. The suits smiled, the revelers began to duel, drink, and whoop, and the agents relaxed.

Slowly, warbling and uncertain, Roger began to whistle.

By ten-thirty, Roger had begun to laugh. The room was packed to the walls and nobody paid much attention. Probably, nobody could hear it.

“Get the bagel-slicing machine,” said Philip.
 

Tracy looked in Philip’s eyes to see if he was serious and found a steely, far-away look. Then, duly convinced, he scampered around the corner into the back room and shot down the stairs to the basement. He knew where – and what – the legendary bagel-slicing machine was. Everyone knew. It was the stuff of Bingham’s lore, and Tracy was both eager and a little bit afraid to see it in use.
 

So. This was their last chance at glory, then.

To Tracy, Philip had sounded like a general in a science-fiction movie who has decided that circumstances are dire enough to justify the last-resort secret weapon. In the movies, the secret weapon was always the coolest one, guaranteed to kill a lot of bad guys and put on a great show in the process. But the thing was, circumstances had to be very bad to use the secret weapon. You had to be desperate before you’d consider it. It was always do or die, but that was okay because in the movies, the secret weapon always worked.

As Tracy reached the bottom of the steps, a movement in the corner caught his eye. Or at least, that’s how it had seemed. He looked there now and saw nothing. He told himself to calm down, that it had been his imagination. The basement was spooky. It could play tricks on your senses, like a funhouse.
 

Only, now he could hear a scratching sound in the darkness, too. Something was down here with him.
 

Or some
one
.

He shook his head, reminding himself not to get spooked, reminding himself to keep moving. It was probably just The Rat. He was due to return, wasn’t he? But then Tracy remembered what Darcy had said the other day, about how there might be more than one rat after all. The thought unnerved him. This was alien territory. He was an intruder in this place, about to enter the dark, seldom-used chambers without any kind of defense. How many rats could there be? Dozens? A hundred? And would they consider him a threat worth acting upon?
 

Get a grip
, he told himself.
 

But it didn’t help. There was a hundred thousand watt party going on upstairs, but the basement, with its deep shadows and thick stone walls, was as dark and muted as ever. He could hear the people upstairs, but it was like hearing them through cotton. The safety of all that humanity felt miles away.

He had to focus. He was the sci-fi general’s right-hand man, in charge of arming the secret weapon of glory. The general couldn’t fire the last-ditch weapon if Tracy didn’t bring it to him, and then the day would be lost.

We’re all counting on you, soldier.

And really, whatever horrors the basement held were small potatoes compared to the situation topside. The crew’s attempt at silent sabotage had failed, and their less-than-subtle wardrobe deviation hadn’t really concerned anybody. The situation was getting desperate. The store was filled with exactly the wrong kinds of people – people they would have silently loathed at the old Bingham’s and who they would have sprayed with the purple cleaner or loosed the monkeys on just a few weeks ago – and the crew had few remaining lines of defense. They couldn’t rebel. Rebellion was exactly what those people wanted. It was what they expected. It was, in fact, what they had come here to see, and to witness, and to feel, and to... to be a part of. Right now they were just random people, but very soon, they’d become
part of the phenomenon
. Those random people would soon share something with this place and with the crew. They’d all have created something together, and be bonded for life.
 

But Tracy didn’t want to be bonded with the people in the lobby. He was already bonded with his crewmates, and that was an exclusive club, baby. There were some people you just didn’t want laughing at your jokes. There were some people you didn’t want sharing a piece of your soul.

Tracy jumped as he heard a rustling noise in the far corner. And now, looking over, he could almost see an amorphous shape where the noise had come from. It was a shape he didn’t recognize and didn’t think was supposed to be there.

It’s just a shadow. It’s an old piece of aluminum siding or something.

And that was possible, because whatever it was looked way too big to be a rat. It seemed to be moving slowly. Stirring. Waiting.

It looks like a man sitting over there, for Christ’s sake. A leg, a foot... a little knobby, sure, but it’s a man before it’s a rat.

(Unless it’s
many
rats.)

He stood still for a second, listening to the thumping beat of the party resonating through the floor. The treble notes, along with some of the chatter, seemed to trickle through the vents. The bass notes shook the very walls. It all sounded recorded down here, canned and phony.