The Lie Spinners (The Deception Dance) (36 page)

“
Similar,”
Stephen says, “But don’t repeat that to anyone in the
Leijonskjöld.”

“
They
all have one?”

“
Yes,”
he leans against the counter.

“
And
what was that word you have tattooed above the dots?”

Stephen
runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up more than ever.
Is
he… blushing
?

“
It
is the name of God.” He adds “—not in English.”

“
You
all have that?”

“
Not
all of us. And also, the Leijonskjöld, or more my grandfather,
insisted that it was only for men; so Cassidy was never allowed to
get that one. Though, I believe that if she had, it would have
disappeared when she was infected.”

“
After
spending this whole day with Pom, it’s hard to believe that he
would sell those pills,” I say, voicing something that’s
been bothering me, “he just seems like such a good guy.”

“
He
is,” Stephen says, “People are... complicated, Raven. Pom
has his reasons; he’s in desperate need of money—”

A
banging on the bathroom door makes us both jump. Stephen grabs my
ankle, hoists it onto the sink (almost making me lose my balance),
whispers, “wince,” and then opens the bathroom door.

Polite
Goon’s bulk fills the doorway. He immediately turns to me and
asks, “Are you alright?”

“
Leg
cramp,” Stephen says.

“
Charlie-horse,”
I say, remembering to wince.

“
She’s
fine.”

“
I’m
fine.”

“
She
does not need a medical student for a leg cramp. Get out of the
bathroom,” Polite Goon says. Even though he’s wearing
sunglasses, I can tell he’s giving Stephen a not so subtle
glare of warning; from his expression, it weirdly seems like he’s
defending my honor or something.
Freaking
noble goons
.

“
I’m
fine,” I reiterate, “he was just showing me how to
stretch it out.”

“
Who
closed the door?” Polite Goon asks, not taking his glare from
Stephen.

“
I
did,” I say, “I didn’t want you to see the light
and feel the need to come check on me…since I’m fine.”

Stephen
throws up his hands in an ‘I did nothing-stop giving me a hard
time’ gesture and jumps back onto Linnie’s bed (which I
hope Polite Goon didn’t notice was perfectly made a second
ago).

Polite
Goon accepts my answer and nods once to me before leaving back
outside.

I
turn off the bathroom light and climb into bed. Half an hour later,
Stephen joins me. When he lies beside me, holding my hand, I fall
asleep.

Day
Eighteen

“…
Stir
it, do not shake it,” Pom says while handing a plastic cup of
vodka over the bar to some girl and accepting money.

“
I
thought it was, ‘
shaken,
not stirred,
”
I say while stirring the gin and vermouth in a glass of ice.

“
Definitely
no, Stephen’s Friend,” Pom says, laughing, “Now
strain it, and twist one of those lemon rind strips over
it…congratulations! You have made me my drink. Hand it over.”

“
What!”
I say, smiling. “I can’t even taste it?”

“
No.
Now this is very important, lesson number thirty six: do not taste
people’s drinks before serving them. Now, hand it over.”

I
huff out a laugh. Even though I’m still in a near-constant
state of minor ‘panic-attack’ over Linnie during the five
days I’ve worked at this bar, I’ve found it surprisingly
hard not to laugh around Pom. I hand him the Martini in a tumbler
glass.

“
Watch
it!” I hear a girl shout.

When
I turn, I see an American-looking guy literally shove his way to the
bar, though it’s unnecessary because the crowd is pretty thin
at this time. He ignores the irate girl, who he just pushed to the
ground, and lays his hands on the bar near Pom.

Immediately,
I know what he’s after.

He’s
not as disheveled as the people in the ever-growing-crowd that
gathers around the back door in the alley behind the club—but
this guy has that hungry look I’ve only ever seen on these
Venom
addicts
.

I
tried to bring them some food (well, more I tried to bring the kiwi
girl some food) on my way out yesterday; when I walked through the
crowd I had held out the bunch of bananas, no one took them. When I
laid the bananas on the ground, Polite Goon had told me, “
You’re
wasting good food
.”
I still left them though. They sat untouched in the same spot when we
came to work at three today.

But
this guy here at the bar looks almost normal, he has a light brown
dusting of bristles on his chin and his hair and clothes maybe a bit
slept-in, but otherwise he’s still clean and neat; the only
thing startling about his appearance (besides the hunger) is the
feverish pallor to his skin and the red outline to his eyes. “Hey!
Hey you!” He shouts to Pom who stands directly across the bar
from him.

Pom
sips his martini. Then looks around and points to his own chest,
“Who, me?”

“
Get
me some more of that
stuff
,
I have money,” The American says he throws a stack of baht on
the counter.

Pom’s
voice turns serious, “Keep your voice quiet. Show me your
spider.”

The
guy glares but turns his neck and starts fiercely pointing at a white
blotch on his neck, saying, “I have one, you can see it there.”
But if a spider lives on the tiny web tattoo, it’s too small to
see.

“
Take
your money. Leave this club, now,” Polite Goon says to the
American, stepping up from where he was keeping his gentlemanly five
feet of distance.

The
American shoves his stack of bills across the bar so they spill at
our feet. “Where is my Venom?” he hisses, “I’ll
leave when I have it!”

Polite
Goon grabs the back of my shirt and none-too-gently yanks me back far
behind and to the other side of him.

“
Thank
you for the very big tip,” Pom says, “but we cannot waste
any more pills on you. Leave.”

“
No.
Way. Man!” The American lunges at Pom.

Polite
Goon calmly and in one motion, grabs the American, yanks him over the
bar and hurtles him at the door behind the bar. The door (somehow)
opens just in time for the guy to go flying through. The guy’s
side hits the floor of the back room with a ‘
thwap’
sound
and a loud “umph!” He keeps sliding all the way through
the back room. The back door that leads to the alley opens on its
own, exposing a small crowd gathered just outside; that crowd of
homeless-zombie-people start shoving at each other to get in but the
American guy slides directly into their legs sending them all
tumbling into the alley like bowling pins. The back door slams shut,
followed quickly by the bar door.

No
one in the bar even notices.

“
What
the…?” I whisper.

Polite
Goon walks back to his five-feet-away spot and Pom takes another
drink order (as if Polite Goon hadn’t just thrown a guy like
thirty feet and opened two doors with his mind…).

“
I
am so glad someone stole that pill I sold you,” Pom says as he
pours a drink near where I stand. A couple days ago I had told him
about the incident with the psycho girl and why I had never taken the
pill.

“
Have
you ever taken one?” I ask.

“
Do
I look like a
khohn
suuhr
to
you?” Pom asks.

“
I
can’t tell you, I don’t know what a ‘
con
surr’
looks like,” I say trying unsuccessfully to repeat his Thai
words.

“
That
guy,” Pom points to the back door, delivers the drink, and then
stoops down to gather the cash the American guy practically threw at
us.

“
Why
do you sell them, then?” I ask.

Pom
looks up at me with his hands full of cash. “I will give you
two guesses.”

“
Fair
enough,” I say, remembering that Stephen told me that Pom is,
for some reason, in desperate need of money. But not ready to let it
go I come back with, “Okay, but then why didn’t you sell
one to that guy?”

Stephen
comes out of the back room smelling strongly of cigarettes just in
time to see Pom stuffing the two handfuls of cash into the communal
tip jar.

“
Pom,
did you dance on the bar again?” he asks.

Smiling,
Pom makes a rude gesture and walks away; he does not answer my
question.

Stephen
was in the back room, he possibly could have opened the doors without
me noticing; but after all I’ve seen in the past year and a
half, I know better. For whatever reason—it seems my own
personal Polite Goon opens doors with his mind.

A
short boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, whom I’ve seen
nightly, runs up to the bar across from us. As always he hands Kasem
a piece of thin paper with a couple Thai letters on it. Even though I
don’t read Thai, Kasem uses one of his webbed hands to hide the
note from me. After reading it he puts the note on his tongue. The
past couple nights he’s handed the boy some kind of message
back, tonight he just nods.

The
boy, who always looks a little nervous and never takes his eyes from
the floor runs from the bar, weaving through customers.

The
rest of the night I spend at my “Bucket Station”. I open
the bottles, pour them over ice, add straws, and serve. I start to
seriously look forward to when people order beer (just for variety).
In the last five days, less and less people have been crowding in,
it’s still packed in the clubs from eleven to last call but
beyond the bar and dancing crowd I can see moonlit sand and open
space.

Pom
told me the crowds come in cycles; the biggest before the Full Moon
Party, but a decent crowd travels in for both the ‘Black Moon
Culture’ and ‘Half-Moon Festivals,’ between the
parties the crowds will dwindle a bit. Black Moon Culture. Half Moon
Festival. Full Moon Party. Then one week until I rot, thirty days
from today.

Every
once in a while I search the crowd for faces I recognize—or
moreover, Jones’ face. I had expected him to track me down in
days, it’s been two weeks and I’ve seen no sign of him.
Not that I’m complaining, having Jones here is a complication I
don’t need right now, it’s just a little surprising.

“
Nathan,”
Pom calls to Stephen. “These ladies want to speak to you.”

Dragged
back from my thoughts, I look over to see the ‘two ladies,’
who are two gorgeous brunettes, both probably in their early
twenties, standing at the bar in nothing but bikinis.

Stephen
turns and for a moment I’m selfishly hoping that the two
brunettes will be scared off by his scar, but they don’t go
anywhere. They smile and one of the girls says (something that sounds
like), “
Du
er fra
Norge
?”