The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)

The Deal with Dorothy

Previously: "Dates That Don't" 

You hesitate.

"Um, yeah," you say. "I guess I could—"

But he waves you to silence.

"Never mind," he says, "I'll call an Uber. You'll never get out of here, and you might not get back in. I'm sorry I even asked."

"No, it's okay—"

"No it isn't, you don't even know me. Thanks for thinking about it, though."

Without another word he walks off in the direction of the street.

* * * * *

Back inside, you go looking for Dorothy. You can't really believe that what Brewer said is true; still less can you picture it actually unfolding. But your whole plan for today was to put yourself where something like it might be true. So you'd be a fool not to at least be standing near the spot where the lightning has a chance of striking.

She hasn't moved far from where you left her, and James is back with her. He only gives you the briefest glance as you rejoin them.

Dorothy is chatting a mile a minute with a girl in a leopard-skin top, who smiles brightly at you, returns to listening to Dorothy, then turns back toward you with a vague frown. Dorothy is still talking when the girl bursts out with, "Oh my God, I thought you were someone else!" She grins at you expectantly.

Her smile falters a little when no one answers. So she adds, "Doesn't he look like Eric?"

The silence from Dorothy and James is, if possible, even colder. Dorothy at least turns a curious glance on you. James doesn't even do that much before he says, "It's the way he's dressed."

"So who are you?" the girl asks. Her grin widens into a metallic grimace.

"Uh, Will. Will Prescott."

"This is Rebecca Sykes," James says. "She'll just assume you already know that and won't tell you."

"I will not!" Rebecca slaps James in the chest. "You're so awful!"

Dorothy is still looking at you, with an expression as though she's really only seen you for the first time now. Then she seems to shake herself from a daze and turns back to Rebecca, "So, I was saying—"

* * * * *

After awhile, you begin to feel like a racquetball, and James is the racquet and Dorothy is the wall he keeps bouncing you into and away from. Together, the three of you, plus Rebecca and two boyfriends of hers, find a table in the saloon. Then James suggests you take Rebecca onto the dance floor for a spin. You're no great dancer, but do your best, and Rebecca at least respects your efforts, for she doesn't edge off with another partner. While you're out there, though, James bumps into you, points to Dorothy (who is with him) and suggests you change partners. This you do, and when the band takes a break you take Dorothy back into the saloon. But then James takes her and one of Rebecca's boyfriends off to talk to someone else, leaving you alone with Rebecca and her other boyfriend.

"So doesn't he look like Eric?" she asks him when she's gotten tired of talking about some mutual acquaintance named Brad, who's lately been hitting on another girl they both know. "Jamie says it's 'cos of the way he's dressed, but I think it's more than that!"

"I can see it," her friend says. He's big guy with a billowing mane of frizzy hair, and the lazy but sunny smile of a guy who is either drunk or stoned.

"Eric's more spastic, I think," Rebecca says. "You're not spastic, are you?" she asks.

"I, uh, don't think so."

"Eric doesn't think he's spastic either, so I don't know why I'm asking you. But if he was here he'd be spastic. He always is." She looks around. "Is he here?" She pokes her friend when he doesn't answer her.

"I don't know."

"God, he's supposed to be here. He said he was gonna be here." She takes out her phone. "I'm gonna text Tim."

"Why're you texting him? Text Eric."

"'Cos if Eric's not here it's 'cos of— And Tim'll know if he's here or coming."

"Why do you want to know?"

"I just want to know."

While she's occupied with her phone, you ask her friend who "Tim" is.

"Tim Ryan. You know him? He's friends with Eric," he explains when you shake your head.

"I don't know who Eric is."

"Eric Murphy. You know him?"

"No. I don't know you either."

He laughs at that. "I'm Andrew. You really don't know me?"

"I met an Andrew earlier tonight. Are you him?"

"Maybe."

"The Andrew I met is gay."

He thinks that's hilarious. "Then that's not me." He leans over to kiss Rebecca on the side of her neck. She wriggles away, still concentrating on her phone, and shrieks, "Quit it!" "Do I look like him?" this Andrew asks you.

"The other Andrew? No, nothing like him. I just thought I'd ask if you were him."

"And you're not Eric Murphy?"

"No, I'm Will Prescott."

"I never heard of you," he laughs.

"Okay, I asked Tim where Eric is," Rebecca says. She twists her head all about, searching the saloon. "If he doesn't show up—"

"He'll show up," Andrew says.

She twists around to give him a look.

"If he doesn't show up, will you drive us home?"

Andrew blinks once, hard at that.

"If he doesn't show up, how can I drive him and you home?"

"I mean—!" She punches him in the chest. "Will you drive me and Dorothy home!"

"Yeah, sure. How long're we gonna wait for him to not show up?"

"Well, I hope he's here! If he's not—" She bites her lip, and looks around again. "If Tim says he's not coming, then we'll have to leave."

As she turns back around, her eye lands on you. She does a double take, and her glance briefly darkens.

* * * * *

You're beginning to put two and two together, and you're not liking the resulting sum. At the same time, you are not sure you are adding them up right. After a restless and indecisive quarter-hour, during which time Rebecca checks her phone a dozen times without results, you get up to go looking for Brewer.

He's in a corner talking to a couple of guys who, though they are not wearing red shirts, look like they should be bouncing rough-housers from the club. He nods at you, and asks where Dorothy is.

"I dunno. I kind of wanted to ask you about that." When he doesn't move, you pull him off to the side, so the others won't overhear you. "Who's Eric Murphy?"

"Guy Dorothy thinks she's gonna grind bones with tonight," he says. "'Cept he's not coming. He got another girl."

"And you didn't tell her?"

His lip curls.

"Dorothy needs to get burned," he says.

"What?" you gasp.

"Eric's like cocaine to a girl like her. She needs a bad trip so she won't go back to him."

"And what am I supposed to be?"

"I dunno. Like a placebo? She needs a fix tonight. You don't want to be it?"

Your jaw drops.

"You got enough to go upstairs?" Brewer asks.

"I— Uh—"

"How much do you need?"

Still you gape, and can only think to ask, "Well, what does it cost?"

"A hundred," he says, and looks surprised. "Condom is ten extra."

"Well, then I need a hundred and ten!"

He looks askance. Then his expression sours. He puts an arm around your shoulder to draw you away, pausing only long enough to tell his other friends that he'll be right back.

"Look," he says when he's got you in another corner of the bar. "If you've got a problem with what I'm telling you, that's fine. I'm just saying you can get a good fuck out of this if you want. And if you're thinking, you know, I can't do that to Dorothy, well don't worry about it. You'll be doing her a favor."

"How?"

"By giving her a fix," he says with the patience of a kindergarten teacher explaining things to a five-year-old. "You don't do this for her, she's just going to go back to Eric, even if she's mad at him. You do it for her, and then she'll know there's other guys out there than Eric."

She doesn't know this already? you wonder. And why aren't you the one doing it?

"Come find me if you really need the money," he says. "I mean, for the room. If you're just looking to paid for—" He snorts. "Well, forget it."

* * * * *

Of course you're staggered by this, by the brazenness of Brewer's offer and by the overwhelming feeling that you've fallen into someone else's melodrama. Does this kind of thing really go on at Westside, and you've just never noticed?

You're dying of thirst—it's hot and dry in the saloon, and getting hotter and drier, it feels like—but you've only enough cash now to get yourself a can of lukewarm soda. It doesn't quench your thirst, but only coats your mouth and gullet with an even more parching syrup.

"Hey, you okay there buddy?" A heavy hand claps you on the shoulder and spins you around. You blink into the face of one of the red-shirts. He has dark hair and an aquiline nose. In fact, for a moment you think it's James Lamont.

"Huh?" you blurt out. It slowly comes to you that you've standing by the wall in a preoccupied daze.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Uh— Two."

"You sure?"

"Yeah I'm sure! I'm not wasted, I'm just—"

"Well how about you go find a friend anyway." Firmly, but not roughly, he pushes you toward a table where half a dozen kids are sprawling with their phones out. "Look after this guy, okay?" he tells them as he shoves you into a chair.

They look at you with astonished expressions. Then they break out into grins and giggles.

You jump up, though, to go in search of Brewer. It turns out he's looking for you too.

"Okay," he says before you can speak, "Dottie just found out Eric's off with some skank by the river. D'ju hear her screaming? Just give her fifteen minutes outside with her friends, then go look for her. If that's what you want," he adds. "You need something to cover the cost?"

* To go with Dorothy: "Upstairs at the Warehouse" 
* To back off: "Your Doppelganger" 

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 5)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 5)"