Chapter Eight
MELODY CAME OUT OF THE BATHROOM ten minutes later looking transformed. Crisp, put together, and almost innocent if you didn’t look too deeply into her eyes. Her blond hair was brushed and tied into a neat ponytail. She’d managed to conceal her black eye with some skillful makeup application.
She was still wearing her work clothes—the tight tank with the Pearl Club logo stretched across her breasts, the shorts that gave an enticing hint of firm buttock—the “tip multiplier,” he called the uniform. A genius piece of marketing that shamelessly capitalized on the weakness of men.
She caught his eye and plucked the front of her tank top before sitting down and draining her coffee mug. “I read an editorial in the paper a couple days ago. This pisses some people off. They call these uniforms exploitative, a shameful example of flagrant sexism. Legitimate businesses walking a fine line between entertainment and prostitution. As if Pearl Club was a low-rent strip club selling their employees through the back door. As if I need a civic babysitter.”
“Some people have too much time and sanctimony on their hands. But it is sexist, you have to admit.”
“Sure it is, but I have a good-paying, honest job in a skimpy costume. Big deal. Nobody’s telling me to get on my back or on my knees. Anybody who says there’s a fine line between this uniform and selling your body for real doesn’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.”
The tough Melody, the one he knew best, was back. “You’re absolutely right.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re wondering about me.”
“It’s none of my business. Besides, it doesn’t matter.”
She traced a finger around a rectangle of light the sun painted on the table. “On the streets, you don’t do it for money, you do it for protection or drugs. That’s a fine line.”
“Maybe you should write your own editorial.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Can I ask you something that doesn’t have anything to do with Pearl Club or skimpy clothes?”
“Sure.”
“You won’t like it.”
She shrugged. “Whatever. Shoot.”
“What’s the difference between being treated like shit by Ryan and being treated like shit on the street?”
He braced himself for a cyclonic onslaught, but she surprised him by letting her eyes roam thoughtfully around the kitchen for a moment. “Nothing, I guess. Nothing at all. Maybe that’s just what I got used to.”
“You can get used to anything bad if you deal with it every day.”
“Like war?”
“Like war. But it doesn’t have to be like that. It shouldn’t be like that.”
“Is that what you’re working on figuring out?”
“I’m trying. Does Ryan have a black Jeep?”
“No, he drives a Beemer, I told you. Why?”
“Nothing.”
“That was a pretty specific question for nothing.”
He shrugged. “I’m not only dangerous, I’m paranoid.”
She didn’t smile, but her single dimple on the left side of her mouth made a brief appearance. “At least you’re not an asshole.”
“Now that’s something I’d like on my headstone.”
Melody finally laughed, then tossed a twenty on the table. “For the beer. I cleaned out your refrigerator last night.”
He pushed the money across the table. “I quit drinking.”
She didn’t pick up the bill. “As of this morning?”
“Yeah.”
“When I was in treatment, they said I could never drink again or I’d relapse.”
“I guess they were wrong.”
“They wanted me to believe that addiction is an essential part of my identity, but it’s not. Addiction is complicated, humans are dynamic—and there are no absolutes. But it’s probably a good thing for you to do, quit drinking. With the meds and all.”
“That’s what the doc says.”
She fussed with her purse, checked her phone, pushed the money toward him. “For the crash pad then. It’s hard to find lodging this good on short notice.”
“The toast won you over?”
“The coffee was better, but that’s not saying much. What time do you start?”
“Four. The easy shift.”
“Me, too. See you then.” She got up to leave, made it to the door, then paused, hand on the knob. “What’s the worst thing, Sam?”
“What do you mean?”
She looked over her shoulder, then walked back into the kitchen. “You know. I heard you shouting this morning.”
A good question, and one nobody had ever asked him outright. What was the worst thing? Waking up screaming after a combat dream or some seriously fucked up version of life on the base? Losing a wife? Traumatic brain injury that came with blinding headaches; memory loss; partial hallucinations when the world went unexpectedly blurry and you saw strange shapes, strange colors? Working as a bar back when you had an engineering degree and a Purple Heart? “I don’t know. I guess that’s the worst thing.”
“I wanted to help … I just didn’t … I didn’t know if I could. I wasn’t sure what the right thing to do was. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what the right thing is either, Mel. But thanks.”
She nodded, then let herself out quietly, leaving Sam to ponder the twenty dollar bill sitting next to the plate of languishing, butter-sponge toast. For some reason, the whole tableau seemed absurd, just sitting there like an ironic piece of pop art. Even more bizarre was his sudden thought that if you were a starving refugee in a war-gutted country, maybe this toast and this money would be your symbol of hope—something you might tattoo on your bicep or put on a national flag if you ever won the toast and the money from the enemy.
And that pretty much closed the circle on absurd for the day. At least he hoped so.
Chapter Nine
NOLAN HATED PARKING GARAGES. EVEN IF they were above ground, they seemed subterranean and stifling, places where trolls of all kinds could lurk unseen. There were so many opportunities for concealment: behind cars, pylons, elevator vestibules, in stairwells. One of the most important skills a cop could possess was identifying potential hiding places because clues and criminals were reluctant to be found.
It was the same with her car keys, which was why she was late for work this morning; but traffic on the Hollywood Freeway would be the official explanation, one nobody would question. It was her belief that people in LA were unremittingly apathetic about being late to any engagement because no effort was required to come up with an excuse. And if you were socially awkward, it was a great icebreaker at parties.
I’m so sorry I’m late, the 101 was an absolute nightmare!
Oh my God, you’re lucky you weren’t on the 405!
Don’t even get me started on the 210, I can’t believe people actually live on that side of town …
She stepped out of the car and felt the promise of a beautiful warm day on her skin, forgetting about lost keys and traffic and serial killers. But it was hard to forget her aversion to parking garages when she heard footsteps echoing strangely behind her, glancing off the concrete surfaces, folding into an eerie frequency. Even though this was a police garage, she put her hand on her weapon before turning around.