Palindrome (8 page)

Julius abandons his belly and leans back on the tile bench with a groan. “Okay
pooftas.
Here's what I know about the tape—­”

“Orange, um, any way you think we could talk about this in a less humid environment?” I feel close to passing out.

“Little much for you, eh?” Orange Julius's booming laugh echoes off the tiled walls of the steam room. He grunts and rises slowly from the bench, less standing than oozing upright. He reminds me of a flowering tea ball gradually diffusing in a pot of boiling water. “I suppose now that we're in business together again, I can accommodate that. I'll tell Monsieur Reneé we'll have to reschedule.”

“
T
HIS CAKE IS
a hundred years old?”

After rinsing off in Midtown Fitness's communal shower—­walls stained with rust, drains clogged with what looks like years of accumulated black hair—­the three of us retire to the lounge. The innocuous door marked Supplies in the corner of the gym opens into an impossibly unexpected space a world away from the locker room—­a palatial room even more lavish than I remembered.

Orange must have accumulated some more crap since we dropped off those forgers: A beautiful globe as tall as a man hangs from the raised ceiling, suspended between glimmering crystal chandeliers. Bookcases stretch to the ceiling, filled with ancient-­looking volumes that I doubt anyone here ever opens. Three young Asian waitresses in tight black leather attend to a ­couple of men gathered around the poker table, the girls' six-­inch heels sinking into the rich red carpet like quicksand.

Orange reclines on a chaise lounge; an enormous brown leather piece that looks custom made to accommodate his giant cheese ball of a body. He's draped in a fuzzy pink bathrobe big enough to pitch a tent under but still stopping short at his girthy upper thighs.

He holds the glass case up to the light of the chandelier to inspect the vanilla cake that was baked this morning. Courtney glued it to the base of the box then carefully painted it with green-­tinted frosting and egg whites to make it look ancient and brittle.

“Nearly,” Courtney says. “Imagine. The other pieces were eaten by Woodrow Wilson, Georges Clemenceau . . .”

“Mmm,” Orange grumbles. “Next time bring me something I can eat.” He hands the case off to a Chinese girl who can't be much bigger than Sadie. She carries it over to a bookcase and deposits it between some other antique curiosities, where it will surely remain untouched for years. Then she returns to his side, cuts a cigar for him, sticks it between his teeth, and lights it for him. She kisses him on the cheek, and as she retreats to the minibar to fetch us some drinks, Orange winks at us. I bite my tongue and force a smile. Beside me on the shiny black love seat, Courtney does a remarkable job of swallowing his disdain.

The waitress returns with a tray bearing three tumblers filled with ice and a bottle of fifteen-­year scotch. Pours one for Orange first, then sets up a folding table in front of Courtney and pours one for each of us. She avoids our gaze the whole time—­probably instructed to just stare at the floor. I grind my teeth and think about my Magnum sitting up at the front desk.

“Could I actually,” Courtney says to the waitress, “get an ice water?”

She nods obediently, still staring at the floor. I doubt her English extends beyond drink orders and sex commands.

I greedily suck on the smoky scotch, and it goes straight to my head. I must be badly dehydrated.

“I first heard of the tape maybe four years ago. There was a guy who showed up at the front desk out there,” Orange says, puffing on his cigar. “He was short, midforties. Prematurely grey. Bushy lumberjack beard. He had awful dark circles beneath his eyes—­every time I saw him he looked the same, like he'd just chugged three energy drinks and was going to vomit. I could tell he was a first-­timer.”

“First-­timer?” I ask.

“Never paid for a girl before.” Orange puts a fat finger to his lips. “They're easy to spot. They've usually been agonizing over the decision for weeks. They feel like they're crossing some threshold from which they can never return. The truth is much more benign, really. My father gave me my first girl when I was fourteen. Birthday present. Nothing changed.”

Courtney rolls his eyes. Orange pretends not to notice.

“So this client, I arranged for him to liaise with a cute little girl I found in K-­town. Don't worry, Courtney. She was nineteen. Usually first-­timers are nervous, come in under a minute. But she told me later that he was the complete opposite: lay down naked on the bed and just stared at the ceiling for an hour. Took her twenty minutes just to get him—­
ahem
—­primed. Then she rode him for a half hour, and let me tell you, this girl knows what she's doing—­but
nothing
. The guy lays there like a corpse. Never comes.”

Orange continues, swirling his tumbler, sucking pensively on his cigar, like he's waxing philosophic.

“Okay. That's weird, but I've heard weirder. But then, first thing in the morning, he's back again. I had to call a girl and wake her up to come in. He started showing up here
every day
. Sometimes twice a day. Hemorrhaging money, but he didn't seem to care. Each time I saw him he looked a little thinner—­not quite like you, Courtney, but still. It was clear that he was emptying his life savings. The only request he made was that it be a different girl every time, which started getting tricky. Had to make calls to some friends to get some fresh meat in here just for him. Had to charge him more, but he didn't blink. And every time I talked to the girls after, they told me the exact same thing: He just lay there, never said a word. Never came. After an hour, he zipped up and left. Then he'd be back, maybe that afternoon. He'd spend
hours
here sometimes waiting for another girl to show up. Would sit down right where you're sitting there. Never said a word, except asking to make sure he was getting a different girl. Once I accidentally gave him a girl he'd had before, maybe a month before. He took one look at her and said, ‘No. I want someone new.' And that was it.”

Courtney looks sick to his stomach. I go bottoms up on the scotch to hide my grimace. The waitress immediately materializes to give me a refill. She hands Courtney an ice water with lime and smiles an empty smile that makes my heart quiver.

“So.” I take a deep breath. “How long did this go on?”

“About seven or eight weeks, I think.”

“Then what?” I ask. Courtney is fiddling anxiously with a few long hairs that hang off his chin like a billy goat.

“I ran out of girls. Couldn't find a single new one in this whole fucking city. I called every contact I had, nobody had anyone new. I told him this, and he just stood up and left. Simple as that. Oh—­I forgot. He never wore protection. Not once.”

I grind my teeth. “That seems ill advised, so to speak.”

Orange looks hurt. “My girls are clean. I take care of them.”

I can feel Courtney struggling to suppress a retort. I put my hand on his boney knee and squeeze:
cool it
.

“Alright,” I say. “So what does this have to do with the tape?”

“Wait for it, Frankie.”

Orange signals for a refill, and when the waitress approaches he wraps a mammoth arm around her and pulls her in close for a slobbery kiss. Then he spanks her, and she runs off. I wonder if Orange has ever had sex with a woman he doesn't own.

“So when I tell him this, he just stands up and walks out of my gym. I didn't see him again for about a month, when he showed up here at four in the morning, clawing at that glass door, moaning. It's just me and my guy Gussy—­all the girls were asleep. We let him in, and he practically collapses on the floor. I couldn't tell if he was drunk or just miserable. Never seen anyone in a state like that. Screaming, moaning incoherently. I just stared at Gussy—­neither of us knew what to do with this sack of shit. I mean that—­he was a fucking sack of
shit
. Like, he was
empty
. A sack of skin with nothing inside. Then he stops sobbing and looks up at Gussy and goes, ‘Kill me. Shoot me in the head.' ”

Orange pauses and stares at his drink.

“You know, I've seen some very nasty things down here, but I've never seen anything like this. Never seen a person so far
gone
.”

“So you shot him?” Courtney asks, deadpan.

Orange looks appalled. “Of course not. I dragged him in here, sat him across from me at the poker table, and asked him to tell me what's going on.”

“How kind. You're like a philanthropist.”

Orange laughs deeply.

“Watch it, you fucking guido,” he growls. Then polishes off his second drink. “I can't claim it was totally magnanimous. Don't forget, he'd been one hell of a customer. He'd dropped fifteen grand here in two months. Since he'd left I'd gotten some more girls in. Figured maybe . . .”

“Jesus,” Courtney whispers. I tighten my grip on his kneecap. I'm not exactly charmed by Orange's attitude toward women either—­but just gotta keep it bottled up until we're out of here.

“So he calms down a little bit. Finally looks at me with these
empty
eyes. I say, ‘Why do you want me to kill you?' and he replies, ‘I know what's coming. I heard it on a tape.' ”

I raise an eyebrow. Courtney clears his throat; his curiosity just overtook his disgust.

“What else did he say?” Courtney asks.

“He kept repeating himself, that he'd heard what's coming. And that he heard it on a tape. I asked him what tape, you know. This guy was hardly even with me, you could see it in his face. He was here, sitting here, but his head was somewhere else, somewhere
far
away.”

Orange reaches toward the red carpet, and his massive hand finds a hidden drawer in his lounge. He removes a bag of what appears to be chocolate-­covered macadamia nuts, pops a few in his cavernous mouth. Doesn't offer us any.

“I ask him how he knew the tape was telling the truth, kind of indulging him, you know. And he freaks out a little, almost screams at me, ‘I heard it.
I saw it.
' ”

Orange chews another ­couple of nuts.

“Kept repeating that. That he knows what's coming, that he heard it, saw it. Finally he says one other thing. He says, ‘It's the same backwards as forwards.' I ask, ‘What, the tape?' and he nods really hard. I can tell I'm sort of losing him. He's losing the ability to really even convey himself through speech. He's stuttering, and when he can get words out, they're slurred. A few things he says are just plain gibberish. Then he shoots up out of the chair and starts motioning like this.” Orange pantomimes writing. “He wants a pen. So I get one, a pen and paper, and hand it to him. And he starts writing. It's like crazy person writing.”

“What did he write?” Courtney asks.

Orange hesitates. “We're in business, right? We have a deal? I get one listen, right?”

We both nod vigorously. Orange sits up slightly and licks his lips.

“Don't cross me on this,” he says.

“You have our word,” I say, unsure how much I believe myself. Courtney nods in enthusiastic affirmation.

Orange's nostrils flare. “Follow me.”

He grunts and sits up. Takes a moment to collect himself, then catches his breath, heaves himself to his feet, and motions for us to follow him. He leads us past the bar, past the poker tables. We follow him through a curtained doorway, brushing past a different girl heading back out with a few drinks on a tray. Orange gives her a halfhearted smack on the ass as she passes. We follow him up a narrow staircase; if he was any fatter, he wouldn't have been able to squeeze his way up. As it stands, his pink bathrobe scrapes against the whitewashed walls.

At the top is a locked door, which he opens with a combination, and then we're in what must be his office. Not particularly spacious, set up like a CEO's might be: polished mahogany desk, potted plants, more artwork. Packed wall to wall with glass display cases containing assorted trinkets. Notably missing are windows (since we're underground) and any pictures on the desk. No family photos. I'm surprised he doesn't keep portraits of his favorite whores.

Courtney and I sit down in two armchairs on the customer side of the desk while Orange digs through his desk drawers until he finds a key ring. He waddles to a lone green file cabinet in the corner of the room. Unlocks the bottom drawer—­exposing us to a voluminous, bathrobe-­garbed backside—­then returns to his seat holding a single laminated page, which he puts down in front of us.

“Did you show this to Greta?” I ask.

Orange shakes his head. “I haven't shown this to anyone until now. If I'd known she was after the
tape,
I wouldn't have let her in the front door.”

He wets his thick lips.

“I'd long since given up hope of finding the tape. More or less assumed it didn't exist. But now you two come in here and tell me someone else is after it . . . She must have heard that I was looking for it years ago and wanted to check if I had it in my collection.” Orange shakes his head. “And she was desperate . . . feverish. It wasn't just money she offered, you know. She told me if she found what she was looking for . . .”

“What?” I ask.

“She said if she found what she needed in my archives I would ‘have' her. You know. Fuck her.”

Courtney gives me a sidelong look, like
she said that to you, too, didn'
t she?
I try to hide my burning face from Court. Feel like an idiot for assuming I was the first to receive that particular term in our agreement. Should make me want it less. But it doesn't.

“But she didn't tell you what she was looking for? And then left empty-­handed?”