Say the Word(98)

“Thanks, Si.” Our eyes caught in the mirror and I reached up to squeeze his hand.

“Anytime, baby girl.” He grinned at me. “Plus, a model totally wouldn’t have the boobs to fill out this top, let alone the booty needed to hold up that train.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“As you should.”

Careful not to wrinkle the dress, I turned to face him and wrapped my arms around his frame. “Love you.”

“As you should,” he repeated.

I laughed into the crook of his neck until he complained that I was messing up his new bow-tie and pushed me away.





***


When I got back to my apartment, still glowing happily from my visit to Simon’s, it was past ten but I knew I’d be up for quite a while. I changed into comfortable clothes, grabbed my laptop from my desk, and climbed into bed. First, I updated my blog. It had been over a week since my last Georgia on My Mind posting, and my followers were likely wondering if I’d fallen into a manhole or been hit by a train. After posting an apology for my absence, responding to a week’s worth of backlogged comments, and composing a brief anecdotal story about my first time in a citywide blackout, I logged off and pulled up a blank word document.

It was time to catch up on my typical Luster column for Jeanine. I had deadlines rapidly approaching and I’d been procrastinating, as was often the case when I was confronted with writing about a topic I had little interest in. This month, it was juice cleanses. I laughed to myself as I wrote about the latest, greatest cleanse that promised to keep you full for days, drinking only a unique blend of lemon juice, honey, and cayenne pepper. I wasn’t sure what women out there could possibly be satisfied by a diet of pure liquid, but I didn’t ever want to meet them. Personally, I got pretty damn grouchy if I didn’t eat every four hours — after a week, I’d be ready to commit double homicide for a doughnut.

Thankfully, I’d done all the research for the piece already, so it was written and ready for edits within two hours. I emailed it off to Jeanine for her inevitable critical feedback, pulled up a Google page, and typed “NYC Labyrinth” into the search bar.

Nothing. Not one credible result popped up.

There was a company out of Jersey called Labyrinth Fences, but their website boasted a poppy-red logo and pictures of a family-run, small-time business. There was a story about a prostitute who’d legally changed her name to “Labyrinth” after ten years working the streets. There were countless movie credits and photos from the set of Pan’s Labyrinth. But there was absolutely nothing that would help my investigation.

My eyes grew tired as I scrolled through page after page of Google results. I’d been searching for hours, growing more frustrated with each dead-end I clicked on, and was ready to call it quits for the night when something caught my eye. A single link to a forum of questions about New York City’s best-kept secrets. A conspiracy theorist’s paradise.

I clicked it and scanned the screen with raised brows.

There, at the bottom of the page, was a thread of comments from anonymous posters. My eyes devoured their words, and I felt my heartbeat begin to race.



StarGazer86: Anyone on here ever heard of Labyrinth? On weekends, I bartend at this bar on the Upper East Side. Over the past few years, I’ve heard some patrons whispering the name, but I’ve never been able to figure out what it is.

PinkySwear91: Supposedly, it’s a club. Caters to the elite, members-only. Lots of rumors about backdoor deals and political alliances being made there, but no one knows for sure. It’s all speculation.

StarGazer86: So… secret society or urban legend?

GoodGuy33: Urban legend. It doesn’t exist.

PinkySwear91: Agreed. Probably a myth made up by someone with an overactive imagination. Tourists love the idea of secret clubs and shit. Makes them excited about the city — excited tourists spend more money. Simple.

Stargazer86: Damn, too bad. I was hoping it would be something cool.

MadHatter666: It’s not a legend or a myth — Labyrinth is real enough. It’s on E. 65th between Madison and Park. Though I wouldn’t recommend walking through the front doors. Not unless you’ve got a death wish.

GoodGuy33: A name like MadHatter really makes you sound legit, bro. Go back to playing World of Warcraft and stop cluttering our threads with bullshit.



There were no more comments, and the thread had been inactive for more than four years.

I felt a chill race up my spine. So, it wasn’t the most credible lead. GoodGuy33 was probably right — MadHatter666 was likely insane.

But what if he wasn’t?

There was only one person I could think of who made knowing about the city’s most exclusive venues a priority. If there really were a secret society called Labyrinth, she’d have heard of it. I scrolled through my phone to her name and dialed, wincing when I saw it was past midnight. Fae was a big proponent of beauty sleep and, as such, had a strict no-calls-after-ten-unless-you-are-dying-or-pregnant policy on weeknights.

Oh well. The phone rang in my ear three times before it connected.

“I know you’re not preggers, so you better be dying,” she muttered into the receiver.

“Well, I mean, technically we’re all dying. Just at different paces,” I noted. “But am I bleeding out at this exact moment? No.”