My Dearest Jonah (9 page)

I woke late and stumbled across the strewn clothes and empty cans that made up the base level of my trailer. The heel of the one shoe I had slept in snapped beneath my jaunty
weight and I fell forwards, steadying myself in a painful crouch with both hands pressed against the edge of my coffee table, barely able to contain my own amusement. My uniform had been left
scrubbed and clean, drying on the shower rail. This I only realised after my initial lather (pre rinse) as the fabric turned a darker hue where flecks of shower water had caught, and so I strolled
outside while the shower still ran and hung them on the line that runs the entire length of my trailer.

“Verity!” yelled Delores from across the yard, “What in all the world?”

I put my hands to my head and then stared at my open palms as coconut scented suds ran down towards my wrists. “I guess I just wasn’t invented for morning, Delores darling,” I
said with an attempt at ironic self mocking, holding onto the door frame for dear life as I walked back inside. Only as I looked down to slide the bolt did I realise that it was probably the fact
that I was naked as God intended that had caused Delores such alarm.

“Lordy be!” said Ida as I straightened my hair in the glint of the coffee percolator, all the while wondering at what point hedonism became such a demanding creditor,
“I’ve seen some things in my time but never have I seen a grown woman in such a state.”

“And what state would that be Ida? Last time I checked there weren’t no law against bad hair days,” I turned to face her and the room began to spin. “Say, you seen my
pencil anywhere? I always leave it on the counter.”

“Drunk as the day is long,” she hissed, handing me a pencil from the fold of her apron. “It’s not right.”

“And whatever gives you the idea I’m in any way incapacitated?”

She clucked her thick tongue and heaved her bulk across to the other side of the counter. “Barely stand straight for one,” she said. “And your eyes been working to different
beats since you stepped in here.”

“Maybe I’m just struggling to contain my glee at the prospect of another full day.”

“You know V... I do know what you’re going through.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” I said, turning to lower the head on the grill pan.

“My sister takes a drink. Sometimes more than one,” she opened her purse and placed a business card face down on the counter. “If you ever need someone to talk to. Just give it
some thought.”

I took the card without reading it placed it into my bra. Ida tilted her head with faux sympathy and I wanted to club her to death on the spot.

“I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Verity.”

“Bye Ida.”

“Oh - ” she said, hovering in the doorway “ - that boy was in at five o’clock this morning. Sharp as a pin too. Looked like he hadn’t even been to bed. Ask me, you
and him keep the same hours.”

“What boy?” I said, pouring a sugar mound onto the counter and spreading it into a crescent moon with my thumb.

“Smart boy, in a hat, handsome. Said to tell you he’d been asking for you. Said he’d be back for the service at a later date.”

She left and I was snapped into sobriety. I nearly melted all over that counter, Jonah, no word of a lie. Had I sat in silence for the rest of the day I’d have thought it complete. I
turned to flip the bacon when I felt a stabbing pain in my chest and in a drunken fog momentarily convinced myself I was being taken to meet my maker.

I panted and gasped at the sharp shock, clutching my chest, which only made it worse. I opened my top buttons and went to massage the organ externally when I felt it beneath the fabric. From my
bra I pulled the laminated business card Ida had given me. I flipped it over and, as my eyes began to attune themselves to the fine print, began to wish all over again that I had clobbered her when
I’d had the chance.

After that my day played out like a movie you knew you’d hate from the moment you sat down. Each second merely served to confirm the unavoidable: I should be somewhere
else.

That night I walked alone again. As I crossed the already familiar route I traced the constellations overhead with the smoke from my cigarette. Thor’s Belt never looked
so seductive - a diamante tassel ripe for crumpled dollar bills - I thought as I rode that filthy Big Dipper down, deep deep down, into the hollows of The Iguana Den.

The moment the doors closed behind me a shiver trailed down my spine; I suddenly felt like Dorothy in glorious, incoherent Technicolor.

Through the velvet drapes I sauntered, already feeling like part of the architecture; as though my bones and skin would merge with the crumbling plaster were I to so much as lean against any one
of the walls. Its dimensions appeared to have shifted, too. The vestibule now seemed longer, stretched like it was being viewed through the wrong side of a telescope. And the rickety, winding old
staircase was to my knowledge a new addition. I quickly dismissed my misgivings. The amount I had had to drink they could have been speaking fluent Chinese and I can’t say I’d have
noticed. Although it did seem to have a life of its own, within those four walls; a mercurial quality, like The Iguana Den itself were some great thespian that hurriedly took its mark each night
especially for you. I bet no two people in that whole club saw the same thing once they stepped inside.

Also, it has to be said that even by my second visit, that gilded mask was beginning to slip ever so slightly. Of course it was still beautiful, still winged, beating, alive to the touch. Yet it
didn’t fare well to scrutiny. The Iguana Den was at its best from a distance, through the dark or a squint or, best of all, the frothy bottom of a bottle. That shabby charm became all the
uglier the closer you looked. The wood didn’t just flake; it was rotten to the core, the whole place disintegrating before your very eyes, fading like a dream. You could push your finger into
the plaster of the powder room and see straight through to the gentlemens’ facilities were you so inclined. The threadbare fabrics - velvet, lace - only just held themselves together, with a
bleak propriety like mourners at a state funeral. Bricks would shed fragments of themselves in neverending hourglass sands straight onto the floor whilst cancerous spores that trailed brown mist
when touched grew freely on the fittings. I once went to pick up my beer and found a cavalry of termites congregating at the corner of my table. I suppose all art becomes lessened when held to
scrutiny though; zoom in on even the most beautiful painting in the world and you’ll observe cracked brushstrokes or ugly clots of paint.

It was a quieter night. Early, too, which perhaps explained the slim pickings. Kingpin sat with his slight party. At the bar two men perched. One had only one arm and a hurried
knot of bandage where the other should have been. Towards the back Eve sat, more conservatively dressed than before, with the shady outline of a gentleman nibbling the nape of her neck. I stood
stone still and watched them from the sidelines. He took his lips from where they had been buried and whispered something in her ear at which she shot up and slapped him clean across the face. The
attention of the room turned briefly. Kingpin rose slightly from his seat and Eve’s suitor changed from furious to sheepish and slunk back into the shadows. She took a sip of beer and scanned
the room. She noticed me and waved. “Well you’re becoming more regular than us girls, and we’re being paid for the privilege. Only just though. Sit down.”

I did as instructed and she topped up someone else’s glass from a pitcher of ale. “Thanks.”

“Gets you, doesn’t it – like a bad herb. Something about this place just keeps them coming back. I never seen such a regular group of faces in all my life.”

I nodded. “You not dancing tonight?”

“It’s my night off, and if I get my way I won’t remember a moment of it. Want to join me?”

I bashed my glass against hers and she cheered.

We drank down the sharp dust of tequila. A bottle had materialised at our table and with it came a production line of various girls whom Eve introduced me to and then proceeded
to deconstruct the moment they were out of earshot.

“That was Diane,” she told me as a middle aged blonde walked away, wiping the taste of the spirits from the corner of her mouth. “Her husband used to beat her so she upped and
left with his truck one morning. Now she doles out the punishments for paying guests, if you know what I mean. She’s what Miss Jemima calls one of our speciality numbers. An acquired taste
but particularly moreish if her regulars are anything to go by.”

“Who’s the guy at the bar?” I asked, pointing to the drooping one-armed man.

“That’s Paul. Poor Pauly. In here every night of the year. He plays anything he can get his hands on. Or should I say hand, poor darling.”

“How’d he lose his arm?”

“Paul likes to play, only his budget won’t always stretch to the finer things in life, if you catch my drift. So he goes to Kingpin and borrows money. Only debt’s a hungry dog,
and Pauly seldom has the resources to make good on his promises.”

“I don’t get it,” I said, pouring two more tequilas. I downed mine and grimaced as my insides filled and my eyes watered. Eve sipped her measure in one long, appreciative
movement of her throat, barely breaking her speech as she did so.

“Kingpin has his fingers in a lot of pies, all unsavoury, which I’m sure will come as great shock to you. Anyway one of those pies is loans. Of course - ” she said, lining up
two more drinks “ - often the boys don’t have nothing to show for a month’s labour. So he messes them up and extends their repayment window along with the interest rates. But he
doesn’t like to ask twice. And if the money still aint there he’ll think nothing of taking creatively to make up the difference. Sometimes it’s cars, sometimes it’s
televisions. Poor old Paul hasn’t a pot to piss in, and in these situations Kingpin seems to take limbs as his preferred method of repayment.”

I shuddered at the thought.

“Don’t look so sad, honey. Those boys know what they’re getting themselves into. It aint personal. It’s just business.”

“It’s awful.”

“It’s life.”

We knocked back two more shots and sat for a moment as the room wobbled and settled.

“It doesn’t bother you?” I asked, lighting a cigarette.

“I don’t let it. You get to choose what you do and don’t feel if you walk alone, like me.”

“Frighten you then?”

“I’m a smart girl,” she said. “Once you’ve worked out the lay of the land you know where to tread. So long as you’re careful around here you got nothing to
worry about.”

We watched as, with a fey reticence somewhat belied by her peephole bra, Prudence walked cautiously over to Kingpin’s table carrying a bottle of something expensive and two glasses on a
tray. She placed them down and whispered something in his ear. He glanced at her just once, pulling up the sleeve of his jacket to check the time on a large gold watch, before shaking his head and
dismissing her with a wave of his hand before resuming his silence. Prudence walked slowly away looking forlorn, almost frightened.

“Prudence hasn’t been herself for days,” said Eve, noticing my unsubtle glances in her direction. “But it’s none of our business until she makes it so. Best not to
ask too many questions I find.”

I waited in the hallway as Eve ran off upstairs to collect her bare essentials. I clutched the bottle for later and the banister for support until she came clomping back
downstairs, all harangued and red. “God damn Shirley used the last of my lipstick. I never step outside without a fresh coat of lipstick,” she said petulantly, kicking the foot of the
staircase.

“Here,” I handed her a miniature. “Use mine.”

“Life... saver,” she said slowly, stretching the crimson stick as far as it would go before drawing on her lips with my favourite siren red.

A commotion from the other end of the hallway began trailing towards us.

“Tell him I haven’t heard such nonsense in all my days. I keep a tidy establishment with tidy rules. He has problems he knows who he can talk with... ” came a voice, loud but
wavering like a studio starlet of yore. More stomping. A great swathe of fabrics swished into view like a tornado made solid.

“That’s Miss Jemima,” said Eve, picking up her suitcases. “Let’s say hi before we go. She’s a real treat.”

A young girl trailed behind her and as she stopped began to rearrange Miss Jemima’s skirts, teasing the layers out into an even more outlandish trifle.

“Who’s that?” I whispered to Eve, suddenly embarrassed by the situation.

“Calls them her ladies in waiting.”

I lowered my face to hide my smirk.

A corset nipped her waist and pushed her breasts so that they practically merged with her chin, beneath which she wore a diamond the size of a child’s fist. Her hair, like in the
photographs, had been teased up into an old school bun, though strands caught and caked in the industrial strength make-up that cemented her face. She looked a hundred years old and beautiful with
it. And then with a wave of a gloved hand the girl scurried off into one of the many doors that seemed to lead to nowhere.

“Eve darling, don’t tell me you’re up and leaving me already. My very heart would break on the spot!”

“We’re just having us a slumber party. I made fast friends with Verity here and she and I are going to chase the devil with the bottle all night long.”

“Ah,” said Miss Jemima, “so this is the lady. It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dearest.” She held her hand to my face and pushed my jawbone to the light. “Well
aren’t you fine. You two could be sisters. Say you ever fancy dropping by in a more, shall we say, professional capacity?”

I laughed and looked to the floor. “No ma’am, I’m happy as a casual visitor as things stand.”

“Verity’s a woman of means as it is.”

“Well isn’t that just a pity,” said Miss Jemima, her skirt quivering and shaking beneath her as though a separate being. “I’m very partial to a novelty
act.”