The stairway bottomed on a gray door, less weathered than the exterior door and partly ajar. A yellow sliver of light streamed from the crack. I stood still and listened. There was no human sound; no radio, footsteps, or dirty jokes. Just the incessant thundering of whatever machinery was down here, in what I imagined was the subbasement to the building. My blouse was damp, my nerves were on edge. The heat intensified. I pushed the door open a crack.
Nothing. Just another corridor, better lit than the one I was in. On the wall hung a tattered sign:RESULTS COUNT! DO THE JOB RIGHT! I peeked around the door but the hall was empty. The air was warmer here, more dense. Beads of sweat broke on my forehead. I felt creepy, as if something were right behind me. I peered over my shoulder. Nothing.
Nobody but me and the machine noise. If there were any maintenance types on duty, they weren’t around. I had to believe they’d come soon. I willed myself to step forward and sneak down the hall. The air grew hotter and hotter. It was hard to breathe.
I heard a scuffling noise and stiffened. I looked behind me just in time to see a small gray shadow scamper along the wall. Wildlife, without a leash. I scurried in the opposite direction until I reached an open door where the machine noise came from. A plaque on the door saidTRANSFORMER ROOM. I stepped inside.
Instantly I felt my gut seem to vibrate and a tingling sensation like static pierced through me. It wasn’t fear, it was something else. A low-frequency hum filled the air. I looked for the source, but it was all around. Huge gray metal boxes surrounded the room on all sides, floor to ceiling.HAZARDOUS VOLTAGE, said one of the boxes, with a red bolt of lightning.WILL CAUSE SEVERE INJURY OR DEATH. I’d had enough of severe injury and death. I got out of there in a hurry.
I hustled through the room to the adjoining one, where the machine noise was the loudest. The open door between the two saidCHILLER ROOM, but the room was steaming hot for a chiller room. There was no place to hide in here, everything was too exposed. Sweat soaked through my suit, bringing up my awful smell. I wiped my cheeks on my skirt to avoid the inevitable poop-drip into my eyes. When I stopped, I was standing in front of a tall brown machine.
It looked like a tin cabinet and readDUNHAM-BUSH. Its round thermometers had stick-needles that hovered at 42 degrees. I guessed it chilled water, maybe for air-conditioning. Pipes and ducts of various colors spanned the ceiling and I realized they were color-coded. Red meant fire, blue meant water, and a yellow pipe readREFRIGERANT DISCHARGE VENT. Suddenly I heard a clanging sound and scooted in fear behind the big Dunham-Bush box. Behind it was a room, a tiny, empty room, with its dented metal door hanging open.
A saggy cot was pressed against the wall of the room and on the floor next to it were newspapers. A wrinkled poster on the wall displayed most of a brunette’s anatomy, next to a dirty gray rag mop. I heard another suddenclang, so I ducked in and hid behind the door. I waited for the sound of footsteps but there were none. Maybe the clang was mechanical, part of the ongoing cacophony. As soon as I got the nerve, I ventured out from behind the door and set my stuff on the cot.
The place smelled faintly of marijuana. Two empty Coke cans sat on an orange crate at the head of the cot, and I picked up the newspaper from the floor. It was from so long ago I wasn’t in it, so I guessed the room wasn’t frequently cleaned. I could use this as a home base, at least temporarily. I imagined the police cruisers tearing around above me, hunting me. I’d gone underground. For real.
I plopped onto the skinny cot next to my stuff and forced my brain to come up with a next step. I was almost safe, and exhaustion sneaked up on me as my tension ebbed. I slumped over, resting my eyes. I felt myself drifting and almost began to doze. I checked my watch: 6:15. Whatever morning shift there was would be in any minute. I couldn’t sleep now, I had to move on.
I imagined I was on the river, rowing. A sleek tan scull slicing a streak through a smooth blue river, running through the bright sunshine. I was exhausted, but pumping away still. Power-stroking toward the finish line. Rowing had taught me that when you thought your last reserve was depleted, you had another ten strokes left. Energy to spare. All you had to do was summon it up. Insist.
I stood up and stretched. I was groggy, disoriented, and exhausted. I figured that my mother’s next treatment would be today, but it was too risky to show up at the hospital. I’d have to leave her in Hattie’s hands.
I crossed to the scuzzy sink and washed the shit off my face with a desiccated bar of Lava soap. I shampooed my hair and dried it with paper towels. Then I redid my makeup, hid my clothes in a filthy corner under the cot, and did what everybody else does on Monday morning in America.
I got dressed for work.
33
The office building was on the other side of town from the Silver Bullet, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world. Its tiny lobby smelled of stale cigar smoke and the pitted floor felt gritty under my new spike heels. A cheap white-letters-on-black office directory revealed only three tenants in the low-rise:LAW OFFICES OF VICTOR CELESTE, ESQUIRE; CELESTE LAND HOLDINGS; AND CELESTIAL ENTERPRISES, INC.
There was nothing else in the lobby except a grayish standard-issue desk, located in front of the elevator bank. An aged security guard hunched over the desk, studying the sports page as he fingered his ear, which barely held an oversized plastic hearing aid. A cigarette hung between his lips. It almost dropped out of his mouth when he saw me.
“Good mornin’, Miss,” he said, blinking as he took in my white silk tank top and black leather suit, whose skirt I’d rolled to an obscene length and paired with seamed black stockings. The personal shopper had promised “happening,” which I now understood to mean tarty. So I’d completed the ensemble with my black sunglasses, a helmet of newly red hair, and a slash of the reddest lipstick sample at the drugstore counter. I was hoping I looked like a professional call girl and not an amateur secret agent.
“Good morning to you, too, sir,” I purred, sashaying past him as if he had no right to stop me.
“Eh, Miss, wait. Wait. Please.”
“Did you want me, sir?” I pivoted on my spikes and smiled suggestively. Or what I hoped was suggestive and not merely dyspeptic. I tried to recall the serial screen hookers I’d seen in movies, Hollywood having presented so many positive images of successful businesswomen.
“Miss… do you have an appointment or somethin’? I have to know before I let you through.”
“My name is Linda. I’m a friend of Mister Celeste’s. A personal friend, if you understand my meaning.” I struck a Julia Roberts pose, hand on hip.
“Just Linda?” he asked, leaning forward in his creaky chair. I couldn’t tell if he was becoming aroused or just couldn’t hear.
“Linda, that’s all. That’s all Mister Celeste calls me, and that’s all I am. Linda.”
The old man stubbed out his cigarette. “Eh, Mr. Celeste isn’t in yet. Nobody’s in yet.”
“I know. I’m supposed to get here before Mister Celeste does. He wanted me to get everything ready for him, the way he likes it.” I waved my new black handbag in the air, as if no further explanation were required. Meanwhile, it contained a cell phone and three crumpled Tampax. Party time.
“Oh. Oh, I see,” he said, and coughed nervously. “How are you gonna get in his office? I don’t have a key.”
“Mister Celeste gave me one, of course.” I held up my Grun key. “His law office is on the first floor, is it not?” A touch of Judy Holliday, for nostalgia.
“Yeh, but how do I know you’re not gonna rob him?” the guard asked, only half joking.
“Do I look like a thief?” I pouted. All Marilyn. If she were tall as a house.