Ribbons Read online

  Matt didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he let it out to answer. “Well, he’s a bounty hunter. Technically he’s a clone from—”

  Then Thug Guy peeled open the pack to get a closer look.

  Matt gave a high-pitched screech and almost tipped himself over. “That was mint!” He let out a sigh and hung his head in despair. “Fine, do that one. Worthless now.”

  Sandman issue one disappeared amid frantic whirring sounds and a poof of confetti.

  Matt lifted his head. His world didn’t make sense anymore. “But . . . but Neil Gaiman signed that. I had a fauxhawk back then. He said he liked it.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but this is torture.” Thug Guy spoke slowly like he was talking to a child. “I am torturing you.”

  The doorbell rang. Matt knew this must be a dream. Nobody actually got saved by the bell.

  Thug Guy stood up and then stopped to point a deadly looking finger at Matt. “Quiet please. Or I make another smoothie.”

  He continued toward the door. As he walked, he reached around to the small of his back and pulled out a knife that had been clipped to the inside of his belt. The knife was small, almost stubby, and it had a hook at the tip. He held it hidden behind the door as he pulled it open. He only opened the door a few inches, so Matt couldn’t see who was there, but the voice he heard was chipper and confident.

  “Good afternoon. I’m looking for Matt?”

  “Busy,” said Thug Guy.

  “I just need him to sign for this real quick.”

  “I can sign. Is no problem.” Thug Guy’s grip tightened on the knife.

  A hand reached out and touched Thug Guy’s shoulder. Thug Guy turned his head a fraction of an inch to look at it, and his whole body coiled. Matt was pretty sure that was going to be the end of that hand. Then Matt’s ears popped, and he couldn’t quite make out what the owner of the hand said next, but Thug Guy’s body relaxed almost at once. Thug Guy took a pen that was offered to him and signed something on a clipboard.

  “Make sure Matt gets that letter.” The voice sounded very serious, and Matt thought about screaming for help. Then Matt looked at the knife again.

  “I will.”

  “Okeydokey! Have a good day!”

  The door closed, and Thug Guy turned toward Matt. He looked a little confused as he stared at the envelope in his hand. He shook his head and blinked his eyes like he was trying to wake himself up. Matt noticed how blue his eyes were—too blue.

  “Registered mail. Must be urgent. I will read for you.” His voice sounded quieter than before. “It is from your Uncle Quentin.”

  “Really?” Matt’s hands were tingling. The zip ties were starting to cut into his arms.

  “Really.”

  Thug Guy took a seat next to Matt, knife still in hand. He slid the blade under the flap of the envelope and gave a gentle pull. The paper cut without a sound. He looked at the knife, blew on it, and put it away. Then he pulled a single folded piece of paper out of the envelope. Matt couldn’t quite read it, but he could tell it was printed or typed rather than handwritten.

  Thug Guy started to read slowly and carefully. “Matt . . . that is you,” Thug Guy clarified. “You know I am not one for . . . uh . . . verse? But read this and take it to heart. He who brings trouble on his family will inherit only wind, and the fool will be servant to the wise. That is quote. Proverbs, eleven twenty-nine.” Thug Guy looked up at Matt briefly and then back down at the letter. “Then he says, Come to my place in Las Vegas. We need to discuss your future. Our fate and fortune are . . . uh . . . intertwined.”

  Thug Guy set down the letter. It didn’t look like it was signed but he saw his uncle’s name and address at the bottom.

  Thug Guy pursed his lips. “What does this mean?”

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t talk like that.” Matt thought for a second. “I don’t think he does anyway. It’s been awhile.”

  Thug Guy peered into the envelope while he absently traced a finger over the skull on his cap. Empty.

  “In fact, I’m not sure how he even got this address.” Matt was speaking more to himself now.

  “Fortune?”

  Matt grinned. “Well I guess I’ll have to go find out.”

  Matt was starting to feel like himself again so he added, “Unless you want to pull out my salad shooter and play with that for a while?”

  “Ha-ha. Funny guy.” Thug Guy didn’t laugh, though. Instead, his fist shot out.

  Matt’s head snapped back, and a little arc of blood splattered onto the letter.

  4

  Foster adjusted his glasses and watched Candice work. The glasses always seemed to sit at an odd angle on his nose. He wasn’t sure if the nose pads needed adjusting or if his ears were just crooked. The glasses were the same ones they issued him in prison, and he was kind of embarrassed to go in to ask for an adjustment at the local Lens Hut. They might ask him where he’d gotten them.

  Candice looked like an angel. Meaning she was actually wearing angel wings. They were the kind you might find at a Halloween costume shop. She wasn’t wearing much else. Her white lace bra was puddled on the ground at the back of the stage, lost in the darkness now. She had shot it back there like a rubber band. Green bills had fluttered onto that stage like falling leaves. Now she was working up to her big finale. She turned her back to the audience and slowly bent over. Just as slowly, she pulled her thong over her hips, down her thighs, and around her ankles. Then she straightened and grabbed the pole, one arm low, one high. With a kick, she flipped herself upside down so that she faced the crowd. She paused, letting the crowd wonder what came next. Then her legs spread apart to match her wings.

  To Foster’s surprise, he wasn’t hard. Not even a little. He had seen the act many times before. He was more into watching the crowd. There was a rhythm to it, aside from the driving beat coming through the sound system. When Candice bent over, the crowd leaned in. When she kicked, they all leaned back. When she slid off the pole, hands flew out and more bills fluttered down. She was a conductor.

  The lights dimmed and Candice wrapped a white satin robe around herself. The next dancer was already heading to the stage. A couple of guys noticed Foster in his janitor’s jumpsuit. They were obviously drunk, but it probably didn’t matter. They were cruel and horny and needed some kind of release.

  One of them had a goatee that was dyed blond. “Oh man, look at this guy. I bet he has to polish the pole every night.”

  The second guy covered his mouth, but it didn’t do much to hide his snorting laugh. Between grunts, he managed to add, “All three inches of it.”

  It was the obvious joke to make. Foster pretended not to notice and pushed his cart forward. Stuff like that really bothered him. He knew it shouldn’t, but it always did. Trying not to think about it just made him think about it more. Sometimes, a rage built up in him out of nowhere. Sometimes he got so depressed that he took sleeping pills just to make the day end earlier. He was floundering between the two when Candice stopped in front of him.

  “Hey, Foster.” Her smile made him feel like he was part of something. Not much, but something.

  “Oh, hey, Candice. Nice show.” He meant it. He knew she practiced to get it right.

  She must have seen Mr. Goatee and Mr. Snort watching. They were in the back row, which meant they didn’t tip much. She touched Foster’s arm and leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. He supposed she meant well, but that only made him feel more uncomfortable. She slowly and deliberately gave the two in the back row the middle finger. Which probably only made them more excited. Then she turned to head backstage.

  As she left she added, “Watch out for the boss.”

  Foster pushed his cart forward again, but his eyes followed Candice as she disappeared behind the stage. Then a hand grabbed his cart.

  “Yeah, watch out for the boss!” It was the boss.

  Foster stopped short. His boss always looked overdressed for the Tail Spin. His suits we
re too formal, and the white at his temples made him look more distinguished than lecherous. He might look right at home dealing cards at a casino. He’d told his employees to call him Sam, but Foster always called him sir.

  “Sorry, sir!”

  Sam gave him an intent look, as though he was considering something. Then he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head with a smile. “Foster, I have an important task for you. It’s going to require all your limited concentration. I know you’ve been working on your mopping skills?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sam held out two hands and rotated them one after another like he was scrubbing something. “Wax on, wax off?”

  “Huh?” The reference was lost on Foster.

  “Somebody just waxed off all over one of the stalls in the bathroom.”

  “Men’s room?”

  “Nope, you’re in luck. Women’s room. But cum’s still cum.” Sam pulled Foster in close, as if he was about to trust him with a secret. “Don’t forget to check the ceiling.”

  While Foster was still processing that, Sam left him to his work and followed Candice to the dressing room.

  Foster didn’t love this job, but he did love not being in jail. Minimum security wasn’t really violent, but it was dehumanizing. When you were bad at fitting in in the real world, it was worse in prison. You never had any privacy. He couldn’t remember sleeping for more than two hours at a stretch during his two years, eight months, and five days of incarceration. And when he had finally gotten out, nobody had been waiting for him.

  Finding a job was crucial to his parole. It meant he could stay in his own apartment instead of the halfway house. That time alone let him right himself when he felt off-balance. He still didn’t get out much, and he didn’t have any friends. He remembered having friends at the orphanage, but he also remembered feeling like he was always losing them as they made their way through the system. Eventually, he stopped trying. By the time he’d turned eighteen he’d stopped caring.

  Foster propped the door to the women’s room open with his cart. It was empty. It usually was. The employees had their own bathroom next to the dressing room, and while some strip clubs in Vegas got their fair share of female customers, the Tail Spin was generally not one of them. He found the right stall on the first try. He’d had a fifty-fifty shot.

  Foster wondered if people carried Sharpies in their purses or pockets for the sole purpose of defiling bathroom stalls. Did it give them a thrill knowing that they had a pen ready to help express whatever twisted thought happened to wander through their minds while they popped a squat? It implied some kind of forethought. They would call it “premeditation” on one of those crime shows. The contributions on the stall door didn’t seem to support that theory, though.

  Instead, there was poetry:

  Twitter me this, Twitter me that,

  No Wi-Fi so here I shat.

  And there was religion:

  Jesus is Lord

  Which apparently struck a cord with another customer who added:

  of the Rings

  And another:

  Spoiler alert!

  At least it was bringing people together.

  The artistic mood had struck somebody who’d decided to draw a nice, calming beach scene. Two driftwood logs with a clamshell in the middle. Foster was disappointed when he realized those weren’t logs. And the thing in the middle wasn’t a shell. He became disturbed when he realized the thing that wasn’t a shell had teeth.

  Surrounded by such masterpieces, it was hard to tell how somebody had mustered up the willpower and imagination to keep an erection long enough to add his own, more biological contribution to the walls. And yes, the ceiling.

  Foster went to work, thick rubber gloves pulled tight over his hands like industrial strength condoms. He dipped his sponge into his bucket. He didn’t squeeze it to wring out the excess water. He figured he needed all the help he could get. He held his breath and pressed the sponge against one of the metal walls. It was more of a reflex than a precaution. Like holding your breath right before you rip off a Band-Aid. Soapy water reluctantly bubbled out of the sponge and sloshed down the wall toward the snot-like streaks. That’s when Candice came in.

  Foster was startled and pressed the sponge a bit harder than he intended. A wave of soapy water cascaded down the wall and splattered on the ground. Well, not just water. Foster did a little hop backward and ran into the toilet. He was going to have to mop the whole floor now.

  Candice didn’t seem to notice. In fact, she stared straight ahead, looking at herself in the mirror above the sink. Her eyes were wide, and she didn’t blink. Foster had never noticed how blue they were. They almost looked unnatural. She muttered something that Foster couldn’t quite make out. He was just about to ask her if she was all right when she turned on him with a snarl.

  “What are you doing in there, you little perv?” It was like she’d just suddenly remembered that she hated him. Which was strange, because she had always been so nice to him before.

  He didn’t know what to say. Maybe she thought he was a customer hiding in the stall to spy on her. He tried to explain. “Candice, it’s just me. Foster.”

  She took two steps over to the stall door. It had started to close a bit on its own. She pushed it back open. Foster still hadn’t seen her blink.

  “I know who it is.” Her eyes scanned the walls, then the floor, and then Foster’s crotch. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

  Foster looked down at his own crotch. He was the exact opposite of horny.

  “I don’t—” he started.

  “Is this what you do when nobody’s looking? Hide in here and stroke that pathetic cock?”

  “No, the boss said—”

  She leaned in close to his face. She had a doll’s eyes, unfocused and too wide. “Did you run in here right after I touched you, to do your nasty little business?”

  Foster cringed and tried to step back, but he was right up against the toilet. He lost his balance and had to sit down. Candice continued.

  “Fuckin’ sad. I bet I remind you of your sister, or your mom or something.”

  She paused to cross her arms and sneer. Foster took a breath and tried to rally. He was cut off by somebody else this time.

  “What the fuck’s going on in here?” It was Sam.

  Foster remembered having nightmares where he knew he was going to be grabbed at any moment by the thing in the dark without eyes. The thing that would tickle his ribs with savage jabs while sniffing him with its tongue. All he had to do was scream. To cry out for help. In his dream he would open his mouth, but all that came out was a breathy squeak. He felt like that now. It was a good thing he was already sitting down. And it was probably a good thing that he was sitting on a toilet.

  “I found this little prick jerking off to me!” Candice said.

  Candice backed up as Sam came to stand in the stall doorway. Sam’s foot made a little splash and then slid on something in the water. He put out a hand to steady himself, but his hand slipped on something too. He didn’t fall, though. He saved himself by grabbing Foster’s shoulder. The sudden jolt shook something loose in Foster. That something was gas.

  “That’s it, Foster. Get the fuck out!” Sam hooked a thumb toward the bathroom door behind him. “You’re done here.”

  Foster finally found his voice. He had to work to push the words out, one deep breath for each syllable or two. “You. Said. To clean. This. Up.”

  “Yeah, clean it up. Not make more,” said Sam.

  Foster felt the jabbing at his ribs. “No,” he pleaded. “No. This is all I got.”

  “Take it up with your parole officer.”

  Foster looked past Sam to Candice. She finally blinked. She couldn’t stop blinking now. She also kept turning her head from side to side, like she was trying to figure something out. She didn’t look angry anymore. In fact, she didn’t seem to notice Foster at all.

  Sam put a hand on Foster’s shoulder. He spoke as he helped Fo
ster to his feet. It seemed like he was saying a lot more, but all Foster could make out was the last part.

  “Go home, Foster.”

  5

  Matt loosened his tie. Then he tightened it again. He hadn’t planned on wearing a tie at all, but he was glad he had. Apparently there was a party going on or something. A couple passed him on the sidewalk and climbed the steps up to the large double doors. The man wore a black suit. The woman on his arm was half his age and wore about half as much clothing. Matt chalked that up to being in Las Vegas, but this place wasn’t really near the Strip.

  The Victorian looked out of place, like a forgotten Hollywood set. It contrasted nicely with the barren landscape off in the distance behind it. The double doors were open, and Matt could hear the droning chatter of party guests, punctuated occasionally with bursts of laughter. He started to pull off his sunglasses as he climbed up to the entry, but when his hand brushed his cheek, he winced and remembered the bruise still decorating his eye. Better to leave the glasses in place, but he did make the snap decision to pull the bandage off his nose. The swelling was mostly gone now, and there was hardly any blood when he sneezed.

  There was a kid at the door. He wore a suit, too, and was currently holding up his jacket pocket to get a closer look. He tried to poke a finger inside but frowned when he could only get about half his fingertip in.

  Matt saw the problem. “They sew them closed,” he explained.

  The kid replied without looking up. “Why would they do that?”

  “To keep them looking nice, I guess.”

  “Why bother adding pockets if you can’t use them?”

  “Beats me. They make up for it by adding a secret pocket inside.” Matt patted his chest to show him where.

  “Oh.” The kid looked inside his jacket with renewed interest. “Cool.”

  “Yeah, perfect for your smokes.” Matt winked but forgot he was wearing sunglasses.