Book of Night(20)

She tossed an auburn one into her backpack, along with a tube of distractingly red lipstick, a sparkly yet stretchy dress, and a pair of flats she could run in. Then she changed for work—a black t-shirt, skirt over bike shorts, and her trusty, ugly Crocs.

So long as her Corolla could get her to Springfield and back, she might be able to have something she never thought she would—the satisfaction of taking something away from Lionel Salt. Maybe she’d destroy it and send him the twisted melted metal remains.

After she got the book, she’d dob in Adam to Doreen and let her figure out how to get him home.



* * *



Charlie’s body was on autopilot as she stirred bitters into old-fashioneds, pulled drafts, and doctored abominable Smirnoff Ices with half shots of Chambord. Up on the stage, a drag trio in sinister yet glittery Elvira-esque attire belted out songs from the nineties. Mixing drinks, she found herself glad of something to do with her hands, some distraction from the churn of her thoughts.

In the hours before a job, adrenaline kicked in. She was alert, focused. As though she only truly came awake when there was a puzzle to solve, a potential triumph outside the grinding pattern of days. Something other than getting up, eating, going to work, eating again, and then having a few hours before bed with which you could work out or do your laundry or have sex or clean the kitchen or watch a movie or get drunk.

That grinding pattern was life, though. You weren’t supposed to yearn for something else.

She’d done a couple of credits at the local community college before screwing that up too. Criminals, her ancient and slightly doddering professor declared, have no self-control. There was a test, where a marshmallow was placed in front of a child. The child was told that if they can wait for the researcher to return, they will be given two marshmallows. The one-marshmallow kids were the ones who were most likely to turn into criminals, who were reckless, who sought pleasure and excitement over all else, stole when they thought they could get away with it, lied when it benefited them. Who chose the temporary thrill over the permanent gain.

Charlie poured three shots of Chartreuse that glowed the bright green of poison. Shook up a dirty martini, dropped extra olives into the cloudy brine of the drink.

Her mind went over all the things that could go wrong, and she thought of the receipts in Odette’s office, one of them revealing the name of the dead guy who wanted to fence those pages from the Liber Noctem. If he was the one holding the rest of the book, with Adam in charge of moving it, she was screwed. It wouldn’t be at the hotel. But if she knew the dead guy’s name, she could hit his place next.

Maybe she hadn’t changed much after all.

If someone had put a marshmallow in front of her as a child, she would have eaten it straightaway, because adults couldn’t be trusted to keep their promises.

At ten, Charlie got a half-hour dinner break. It was her chance to pee and scarf something down before she was back on until one, with just one more fifteen-minute break between. Usually, she went a few blocks over to Daikaiju for ramen, but tonight she walked to the convenience store on the corner and got microwavable mac ’n’ cheese, a container of sad-looking grapes, and a coconut water.

She drank the coconut water on the way back, tossing the container in the garbage before she passed through the large black double doors of Rapture. She headed straight to the break room. Although technically part of the backstage, it had a microwave and a place to sit.

Since the performers were on stage, there was no one to object to her being there. She made her way to a satiny pink sofa that looked only slightly moth-eaten. Makeup cluttered a long mirrored counter. Shimmery stage outfits hung on a garment rack that bowed in the middle as though about to collapse beneath their weight. A hook on the wall held a few abandoned garments, including a deep red satin pantsuit that Charlie coveted, waiting for their owners to come and retrieve them. A small side table next to the sofa held a dirty cream landline phone.

The main area of Rapture, including the bar and the stage, wasn’t all that large. You could get perhaps a hundred people in, packed tightly together—although if you counted Balthazar’s basement shadow parlor, you could probably cram in thirty more. Only one hall ran into the back, leading to the dressing room where Charlie’s mac ’n’ cheese spun on the glass microwave plate. Directly across from it was the large metal door that led to Odette’s office.

Just one quick peek at the receipt, she told herself. His name wasn’t a secret. Charlie had run his card through the machine. She’d given him the paper to sign and the pen to sign with. If she’d been paying more attention, she’d already know.

Crossing the hall, Charlie knocked. When no one answered, she let herself inside.

Wallpaper with a pattern of gleaming golden knives covered the room. A powder-coated neon purple steel desk rested in the center, a brass lamp glowing atop it. An art deco–style bookshelf ran along the back wall, piled with stacks of papers. Beside it was a second steel door. This one was ajar, revealing Odette’s dungeon.

From where Charlie was standing, it appeared to be small and well organized, with a dog cage in one corner and a Saint Andrew’s cross dominating the rest of the space.

Charlie liked Odette. She liked working at Rapture. Odette let her order in dry ice, infuse vodka with Meyer lemons or ginger or peppercorns in big glass vats they kept in a cool spot beneath the stage. Charlie got paid and got decent tips, and if someone gave her a hard time, they got removed.