In Deep - 2: Remora

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 21^st 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...