The
walk to the Gilman House wasn’t far. Along the way I spotted a few groups of
kids huddling out of the rain under closed store entrances: all hoodies and
visible resentment. At least in my day we took pride in our appearance: yeah,
we were all into the same issues with booze and glue and petrol sniffing, and
even harder drugs, but at least we kept a lid on it.
There’s
a thing about Innsmouth that most folks coming here for the first time don’t
get – we’re real conservative. The
Feds took us down: they invaded our property, burned our houses, imprisoned our
people and dynamited our sacred sites. They violated about a dozen of our Constitutional
rights and told us to suck it up. We came back humbled; we came back beaten.
Nowadays, if a government agency came through here and vetted us, we’d stand up
as a beacon of what it means to be American. There are folks living here now
who don’t know what it means to be anything else: no-one mows their lawn on a
Sunday morning; no-one paints their mailbox a garish colour. Okay: no-one mows
lawns here, or paints anything; but if it happened, the community would sort it
out. We’re the kind of folks who know that a calm surface can hide a multitude of
deep, dark things...
I
was born in the camps. I grew up saying “hey Joe – you got gum?” to the guards and
I ran all over the compound as a gofer for whoever wanted me. I remembered old
man Gilman, back when he used to darken his thinning hair with boot polish, when
he was everybody’s ticket back to Innsmouth and a normal way of life. Back
then, I don’t think the authorities realised how long-lived we were; but those
of us in the know knew who was who and what was what.
I
stood outside the crumbling facade of the Gilman House and straightened my hat:
this was the site of my high school prom; the place where my family celebrated
my 21st birthday; I took Charlene here five days after Doreen told
me we were through... I shook my head and pushed open the grandiose glass
doors. The foyer was all hard tiles, cane chairs, potted ferns, and a dank
whiff of rising damp, just as I remembered it. I fronted up to the Reception
Desk and hailed the wage-slave.
‘Hi,’
I said, ‘Winston Gilman says there’s a stranger staying at the hotel – can you
give me any particulars?’
The
bellhop took a step back and ogled me through his thick lenses: beneath his
pill-box hat he looked like a parody of a hotel employee. Like something from a
Coen Bros. movie.
‘And
you are?’ he said.
‘...Someone
in the employ of Winston Gilman,’ I
offered. ‘Feel free to confirm that telephonically.’
Coen
Bros. chose to do as instructed. In short order, I was shown the guest
register.
Our
visitor was listed there as “John Smith – Travelling”, so I slammed the book
shut, blowing a wave of dust through the air, and slid it back across the desk.
‘Watch
it, man,’ complained the wage slave, ‘I got allergies.’
I
tipped my hat and wandered away to the Lounge.
Inside,
Sherman Sargent was polishing glasses behind the bar, so I bellied up and got
him to put the crystal to other uses.
‘You
stayin’ fer the supper show?’ he burbled.
‘Depends,’
I said. ‘What’s for supper?’
He
flashed me a grin that was pure South Pacific; deep south, if you know what I mean.
‘Remora
DeLancey,’ he drooled, ‘new singer. Boy! She hits all the right notes! Comin’
on now.’
I
turned around to face the stage. The brushes slithered over the snare drum and
the double bass throbbed its despair. Around the room a hush descended among
the spectators like blood had hit the water.
The
close spot flashed on and lit up the singer standing there as if she’d just
materialised from space. She wore a tight, black-sequined dress that clung
everywhere it was meant to and her arms writhed in long, matching gloves. Her
dark hair was piled high in an elaborate coiffure and silver flashed at her
pale ears and throat. Her long legs were encased tightly by the shimmering
fabric which spilled out around her ankles onto the stage. I couldn’t remember
the last time I’d heard “The Man That Got
Away” but after Remora’s performance I wouldn’t need to hear it again.
Enthusiastic
applause erupted as she finished. She blew a few kisses to the fans and then
shimmered off the stage towards the bar. When she moved it wasn’t anything like
walking; more like she just glided across the parquetry. As she approached, the
extravagant chignon uncoiled and lay itself flat in a long ropey fall to the
small of her back. At this range, I could tell that those sequins were actually
scales.
She
gave Sherm’ the sign to pour.
‘Name’s
Remora’ she said after downing the drink and signalling for another.
‘So
I’ve been told,’ I answered and offered Sherm’ the same sign-language.
She
gave me a slow-burning sideways look and rolled around against the bar, leaning
back on her elbows to survey the room.
‘Lotta
woo-woo comin’ outta that dress, lady,’ I observed.
Her
eyes slid sideways again and she flashed a pointed smile. ‘Guess I’m having the
desired effect then.’
‘Not
hardly,’ I said, sending my drink to Davy Jones’s Locker, ‘titties don’t cut
much ice where we’re going.’
She
hissed like a snake with a sore head and slammed her empty shot glass on the
bartop. Sherman leapt to fill the void. She moved close and purred in my ear:
‘You workin’, shamus?’
I
signalled Sherm’ for a re-fill. ‘Ah-yup,’ I said, ‘for the moment.’
The
black claw on her scaly hand clinked on the rim of my glass and kept me from
getting around my dinner. ‘You always drink when you’re working?’ she purred.
I
carefully unhooked my whiskey and turned to face her. ‘I said I’m workin’; I
didn’t say I ain’t drinkin’.’
She
smiled and let her gaze slither across the expanse of my shirtfront.
‘Hmmm,’
she smiled, ‘A man after my own heart. Maybe I’ll see you around then?’
‘Maybe,’
I said, and watched her slide back onto the stage, her hair coiling itself back
into its elaborate styling. I ran a finger around the inside of my empty shot
glass and wondered how it was she knew so much about me...
To
Be Continued...
No comments:
Post a Comment