Vanishing Girls(59)

At the end of the hall is a door marked PRIVATE. The bouncer raps twice and, in response to a muffled command I again don’t hear, swings open the door. I’m surprised to see a woman sitting behind a desk, in an office cluttered with boxes full of plastic straws and bar napkins printed with the Beamer’s logo.

“Casey,” the bouncer says. “A girl for Andre.” After shepherding me inside, he immediately abandons us. The door seals out most of the noise from outside. Still, I can feel the pulsating bass rhythm, beating up through my feet.

“Sit down,” the woman—Casey—says, her eyes glued to a computer screen. “Give me a second. This f*cking system . . .” She works her keyboard like she’s trying to punch it to death, then abruptly shoves her computer aside. She’s probably forty, with brown hair streaked blond and a smudge of something—chocolate?—on her upper lip. She looks like a guidance counselor, except for her eyes, which are a vivid, unnatural shade of blue. “Okay,” she says. “What can I do for you? Let me guess.” Her eyes sweep over me, landing on my chest, like the bouncer’s did. “You’re looking for a job.”

I decide my best bet is to say nothing. I just nod.

“You eighteen?” she says. I nod again. “Good, good.” She looks relieved, as if I’ve passed a test. “Because it’s state law, you know. You have to be twenty-one to waitress, since we don’t serve food. But for the private parties, we get to bend the rules.” She’s speaking so fast, I’m having trouble keeping up. “You’ll have to fill out an application and a disclaimer, stating you’re telling us the truth about your age.”


She slides a piece of paper across the desk to me. Conspicuously, she doesn’t ask for my ID, and the “application” just asks for my name, phone number, and email address, and to sign a statement guaranteeing that I’m of age. When I started work at FanLand, I thought they might ask for a DNA swab.

I hunch over the paper and act like I’m puzzling over it, when really I’m buying time and trying to figure out my next angle. “I don’t have any waitressing experience,” I say apologetically, as if it’s just occurring to me. Behind Casey are a series of gray filing cabinets, some of them wedged open because their contents no longer fit. And I know that somewhere buried among all the files and invoices and cheesy Beamer’s desktop mouse pads is Dara’s application, the confident scrawl of her signature.

I’m now sure. She sat here, in this chair. Maybe she worked here, before the accident. And it’s no coincidence that on the night of her birthday, she vanished without taking her cell phone. It all leads back to this place, to this office and to Casey with her bright smile and cold, dazzling eyes. To Andre. To those pictures and his threats.

You think this is a f*cking joke?

I need to know.

Casey laughs. “If you can walk and chew gum at the same time, you’ll be fine. Like I said, we don’t ask our hostesses to serve. It’s against state law.” She leans back in her chair. “How did you hear about us, by the way?”

She keeps her voice light, but I can sense a sharp undercurrent running beneath the words. For a split second, my mind goes totally blank; I haven’t prepared a cover story, and I have no idea what, exactly, I’m supposed to know. I feel like I’m fumbling to grab something slick in cold water: all I get is a rough shape, blunt edges, no details at all.

I blurt, “I met Andre at a party. He mentioned it.”

“Ah.” She seems to relax fractionally. “Yeah, Andre’s our GM and recruiter. He’s in charge of our special events. I should warn you, though”—she leans forward again, crossing her hands on the desk, doing the concerned guidance counselor right before she drops the bomb, You’re failing chemistry, you didn’t get into college—“we don’t have any upcoming parties. I can’t say, in all honesty, when we’ll be up and running again.”

“Oh.” I do my best to look disappointed, even though I’m still not sure exactly what she means by parties. “Why not?”

She smiles thinly. But her expression stays guarded. “We’re ironing out some kinks,” she says. “Staffing problems.” She emphasizes the last word slightly, and I can’t help but think of the message Andre sent me, or sent Dara: u better keep ur mouth shut or else!!!

Is Dara one of his problems?

For a second, I imagine that Casey knows exactly who I am and what I’ve come for. Then, mercifully, she looks away, returning her attention to the computer. “I won’t bore you with the details,” she says. “If you want to go ahead and write down your phone number, we’ll give you a call when we need you.” She jerks her head toward the one-page application, which I have yet to fill out, and just like that, I know I’ve been dismissed.

But I can’t go yet—not when I’ve learned nothing.

“Is Andre here?” I say desperately, before I’ve made the decision to ask. “Can I talk to him?”

She has gone back to typing. Now she stiffens, her fingers hovering over the keys. “You can talk to him.” This time when she looks at me, she squints, as if seeing me from a far distance. I look away, blushing, hoping she won’t see the resemblance to Dara; now I regret making myself up like her. “But he’ll tell you the same thing I did.”