Ribbons Read online

  Foster left the tape deck playing on the shelf. He took the book over to the beanbag chair a flopped down into it. The chair gave a hiss as it settled under his weight, and a couple of squeaks as he shifted around to get comfortable. Then he opened the book on his lap.

  “Once upon a time, in a forest that time had forgotten, there lived a beautiful woman who tended a garden. Hoo hoo-hoo.”

  The illustrations were interesting. They looked pre-Disney. Realistic depictions of a fantastic world. No gigantic eyes, no gigantic breasts. Foster fumbled around in his pocket. The way the beanbag chair folded him up, it was impossible to get his hand all the way in. He arched his back so that he could straighten his legs and finally managed to grab what he’d been looking for. Then he relaxed and had to make himself comfortable all over again.

  “The woman planted her garden in a nice, quiet clearing by a stream and an old oak tree. Hoo hoo-hoo.”

  He held the box cutter up in from of his face and slid the blade open with his thumb. It was new, gleaming and sharp. The blade had a wet looking sheen to it from the light coat of machine oil keeping it rust free.

  “In the oak tree perched Mr. Owl who helped her look over the garden to make sure none of the creatures of the forest defiled it. Hoo hoo-hoo.”

  Foster’s eyes filled with tears. He stifled a sob as the blade slid across his wrist. It burned a bit, but he barely noticed the pain once he was done. He sniffed back his tears and held the book up in front of him. It turned out to be a pop-up book, and that made him smile.

  “One day a scaly old snake slithered into the garden, whispering lies and secrets. Hoo hoo-hoo.”

  Beads of blood started to trace a line down his forearm to his elbow. From there, they dripped a steady rhythm onto the floor next to his music box.

  “The snake said a man was coming to help tend the garden and to give the woman a child. Hoo hoo-hoo.”

  Foster thought he should be trying to think of something important. Trying to answer some last question he had, or maybe relive a good memory. Nothing came to him, though, and he was happy to let the storybook fill his mind with images.

  “Mr. Owl said, ‘This snake tells nothing but lies. This man doesn’t come for you. He’ll ruin the garden.’ Hoo hoo-hoo.”

  Foster tried to pull the tab to make the owl’s wings flap, but his hands were starting to get very cold. His eyelids drooped, and he thought he heard a distant buzzing sound. He wanted to look and see what was making the sound, but his eyes weren’t cooperating.

  “The woman said, ‘Now, now, Mr. Owl. We mustn’t judge somebody we haven’t met yet. Besides, I’ve never met a man before. Tell me, Mr. Snake, what is this man’s name?” Hoo hoo-hoo.”

  Foster couldn’t turn the page. He was missing the story.

  Turn the page when you hear the owl say, “Hoo hoo-hoo.”

  The buzzing sounded closer.

  Foster, turn the page.

  Buzz.

  Turn the fucking page.

  Foster’s eyes snapped open.

  The buzzing had stopped and was now replaced by a pounding in his head. He lifted a hand to rub his forehead and the pain in his wrist made him suck in his breath. His mouth was dry, and the room smelled like pennies. The storybook that Foster had been reading was on the floor next to his music box. Both were stained red by the small pool of blood forming around the beanbag chair. The book was on the ground, but the Woman in the Garden stood in front of him.

  She stood in her garden, but that garden was now in the TV room. The oak tree looked real. Its roots dug into the cracked linoleum, and its branches pushed up into the ceiling. As Foster tried to take this in, a leaf fell off one of the branches and fluttered lazily to the ground. Something shifted in the branches, and Foster saw an owl rotate its head from the Woman in the Garden to him and back again. The bird looked flat and empty, like a poster of an owl tacked up in the tree. Except that it moved and hoo’ed.

  There were plants in the room, as well. Foster recognized some but not many. Vines or maybe some kind of ivy looked like it had been painted on the wall. Where the wall ended, the vines leaped out and started creeping along the ceiling. Bushes hid the bookshelves. Some leaves looked vivid and waxy, some looked dull and spotty, as though they had been hastily colored in with crayon. As he watched, a rose unfolded from the ground, like origami being formed by invisible hands.

  The woman stood under the tree. Her white sundress was modestly cut, but there was nothing else about her that suggested innocence. Certainly not the long green snake coiled around her arm. It probed and flicked with its tongue, starting at her shoulder, then moving to her exposed neck. She didn’t seem to notice. Her long dark hair was pulled back and tied with a ribbon. Her arched eyebrows were severe and seemed to be asking an unspoken question that Foster didn’t know the answer to. In fact, he had a hard time looking at anything other than her eyes. They held him in place, and he couldn’t decide if she was beautiful or terrifying.

  He realized he was holding his breath.

  Then the Woman in the Garden spoke. “I was just getting to the good part.”

  7

  “A whorehouse?” Matt might have said that a little too loudly.

  “The legal term is brothel.” This guy had introduced himself as Mr. Fitch. He was the lawyer who’d been hired to read Uncle Quent’s last will and testament. “It’s called the Golden Delicious. I hope you don’t mind me pointing out the irony that it used to be a funeral home. In fact, Mr. James wanted me to point out the irony.”

  They were in the office upstairs, and the lawyer had taken over Uncle Quent’s desk. That had seemed fair when he’d started pulling out all the forms and documents that had come with him. Several stacks of paper now covered the desk, each with its own rainbow of colored sticky tabs pointing out things that needed to be signed or initialed. Dying seemed to involve a lot of paperwork.

  Matt sat in one of the two cushy chairs in front of the desk. Christy sat next to him in the other, Adam on her lap. Several other employees were in the room, too, either standing or sitting in the old beat-up couch against one of the walls. The woman with the skull tattoo sat on the low windowsill next to the desk, staring at Matt and generally making him feel uncomfortable. He had heard somebody call her Erica. They had all been asked to come up after the memorial was winding down and guests were either starting to leave or passing out.

  “He left me a brothel? Can he do that?” Before the lawyer had a chance to answer, Matt added, “Are you a real lawyer?”

  Mr. Fitch was mostly hidden behind a piece of paper he had held up to read. Matt could see his eyes though and the angle of his eyebrows suggested strongly that he was not amused. Adam apparently thought it was funny though, and snorted a half laugh before he caught himself.

  “He left you the property.” Mr. Fitch sounded out each syllable of the word to emphasize the point. “While a brothel is a legal establishment in some counties in Nevada, this is not one of them. But I’m not here to enforce any municipal codes or laws. I’m just here to read the will.” He squinted at the paper he was holding up in front of him. He hmmm’ed. Then he shuffled back and forth among the papers in one of his stacks, checking pages with colored tabs. He hmmm’ed some more.

  Christy leaned around Adam and started to ask the lawyer a question. “Does it say anything about—”

  Mr. Fitch cut her off. “Seems the will was updated the day he died. He must have known he’d be leaving us soon.” He set down his papers and looked at Matt. “Probably wanted to reach out to a family member at the end.”

  Matt turned to Adam and whispered, “Yeah, like at the end of a zombie movie when a hand reaches out from a grave.”

  This time Adam couldn’t hold it in and let out a loud “Ha!”

  “Mr. James!” The lawyer apparently didn’t have a sense of humor at all, which Matt found strange considering who had hired him.

  Matt was getting a lot of glares now from all over the room, so he went on t
he defensive. “Well, it’s a bit of a shock, especially if you knew the rest of the family.”

  Christy leaned the other way around Adam to have a clear shot at staring down Matt. “We were his family! Believe me, we’re just as shocked as you are.”

  Matt held his hands up in front of him. “Okay, okay, I agree. It’s probably a mistake.” Then he put down his hands and reached inside his jacket pocket. “But he did send me this the day he . . . you know.”

  Matt held up the letter that had saved him from torture a few days before. Erica slid off her perch and snatched it from him.

  “Let me see that,” she snapped. “Who writes a letter anymore?”

  “Lost art really,” Matt said.

  All eyes were on Erica as she read to herself. Finally, she looked up from the letter. She seemed confused.

  Matt shrugged. “He wanted me here for some reason.”

  Erica passed the letter over to the lawyer and returned to the sill. The lawyer read it, too, and took notes, even snapped a picture of the letter with his phone.

  Matt asked a question to nobody in particular. “The real question is, how did he find me? I never told him where I was living. And I’m pretty good at losing myself in a crowd.”

  Erica narrowed her eyes at him. “We’d be happy to help you get lost again.”

  Matt turned to face all the Golden Delicious employees. None of them looked very friendly. “Look, we’ll figure something out.”

  Christy stood and led Adam toward the door. She stopped and spun around to glare at Matt. “We work here. For some of us, it’s also our home. Don’t just figure something out.” She walked out of the room. The other women followed suit.

  Erica was the last to leave. She stopped next to the desk, and Matt prepared himself for a parting blow, verbal or physical—he wasn’t ruling out either. Instead, she reached down and picked up a small picture frame. He couldn’t see the picture itself, but whatever it was, it made her glare relax for a second. Then it returned and she quickly left, taking the picture with her.

  After that, Matt filled out most of the paperwork in awkward silence with Mr. Fitch. The lawyer told him to return the following afternoon. Once the papers were filed, he would deliver the keys and deed to Matt. That was Matt’s cue to leave.

  As he walked down the hall toward the stairs, he passed by a closed door. There was a faint sobbing coming from the other side. There had been tears at the memorial, but it had seemed like more of a bittersweet celebration—tears mixed with laughter. Now there was nobody to laugh with, so that just left the tears. Matt hurried out.

  It was late by the time his cab dropped him off at his motel. He thought briefly about going out, but he wasn’t sure where exactly to go. He was in Las Vegas, so it seemed like he should go check out the Strip. That’s what people did here, right? Matt had been in Nevada for a while, but for most of that time—okay, the whole time—he had been broke and trying to keep a low profile. The Strip didn’t seem like it would help with either of those things. Tomorrow he would be less broke, though, at least on paper.

  Maybe he’d go out tomorrow night.

  * * *

  The next morning, Matt had waffles for breakfast, but by the time he’d eaten them, they’d actually been lunch. He didn’t have a car so his dining choices were limited to what he could see from the parking lot of the motel. He hadn’t felt like tacos.

  The rest of the day dragged by. Matt was too cheap to pay for another night at the motel and the lawyer wasn’t going to meet him until four, so he packed his things and started walking. He felt like he was on the run again, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, wandering from coffee shop to bar to coffee shop. Being on the run wasn’t as fun as it sounded, especially if you were doing it right. There was no adrenaline rush, just a nagging voice telling him, You really should be moving on, and No, you shouldn’t have that third beer.

  When four o’clock finally rolled around, Matt had already walked all the way back to Uncle Quent’s place and had been waiting outside for half an hour. The lawyer was another half an hour late. Matt felt too uncomfortable to knock on the door to see if anybody would let him in. And if anybody inside had seen him waiting, they hadn’t offered on their own.

  Then Matt’s life changed in the matter of minutes. The lawyer finally pulled up to the curb out front. When Matt went to the car to meet him, Mr. Fitch got out and greeted him with a nod and a snort.

  “Sign here,” was all the lawyer said as he held out an official-looking document.

  Matt signed, and the lawyer handed him a manila envelope. Matt unfolded the metal brad and tipped the contents into his hand. Two keys slid out—one big, one small.

  “What’s this—” Matt started to say, but the lawyer was already closing the door to his car.

  Matt turned to look at his new . . . house? Business? The keys were still in his hand as he knocked on the door. He waited. No answer. He knocked again. Nothing.

  He’d slid the big key halfway into the lock when the door opened. It was Christy.

  She looked at the key with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms. “It’s unlocked.”

  Matt put the key in his pocket. “I figured I’d knock first.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Eventually. I was upstairs.” She pointed to the wall beside the door. “We also have a doorbell. Which is way easier to hear, especially when you’re in the bathroom upstairs.”

  “I’ll use that next time,” Matt said.

  Christy just stared at him. “Why? You have a key.”

  “This isn’t going well,” he said.

  Matt could see that Christy was about to snap at him, but she caught herself. Her voice changed, and she uncrossed her arms.

  “Look, why don’t you tell me what you want?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. A tour, I guess.” He shrugged.

  Christy took a step back to let him inside. “Welcome to the Golden Delicious.” She didn’t sound very enthusiastic, but she didn’t sound too bitter, either.

  Matt stepped into the foyer. A vase of fresh flowers was the only remnant of last night’s wake. It sat on a small ornamental table by the stairs. The staircase was blocked off by a short, red velvet rope, suggesting anything upstairs was off-limits, or at least exclusive. It looked like more of a reminder than a barrier. The podium the preacher had used last night was now set up a few paces from the door. It had a sign attached to its front. The brothel’s name circled the silhouette of a golden apple with a big bite taken out of it.

  Christy saw him looking at the podium and explained, “That’s where the hostess greats guests. The door stays unlocked during business hours.”

  “Aren’t you worried about . . . I don’t know, weirdos walking in off the street?” Matt asked.

  “That’s never happened. At least not while I’ve been here. Uncle Quent didn’t seem too concerned about it. And he always took care of anybody who got . . . out of hand. Anyway, we don’t get a lot of foot traffic. Most of our guests are either return customers or part of organized parties.”

  She led him across the foyer to the same doorway Adam had shown him to the night before. The room looked entirely different. It seemed like it should be called a parlor or something. The stage was clear, and the coffin was gone. Now that it was empty, Matt could see that it wasn’t really much of a stage. There was a step up to a raised wooden floor that was maybe a dozen feet wide and just deep enough to hold, well, a coffin. It was backed with red velvet curtains, but Matt didn’t think there was anything behind them.

  Matching curtains covered the windows, as well, and recessed lighting was dimmed down to a seductive level. Bright enough to see but dark enough to hide any flaws. The rows of folding chairs were gone, replaced by a few clusters of plush sofas, love seats, and chairs. They all went nicely with the red curtains. The bar was cleaned up and ready for business, though there was no bartender in sight.

  “Let me guess. This is the Red Room or wait, no, the Crimson Cove!” Matt was pro
ud of himself.

  “We’re not pirates,” Christy clarified. “It’s the parlor.”

  Matt was a little disappointed.

  “After guests check in, they take a seat here and wait for the lineup.” Christy spoke over her shoulder as she reached down to pick up a crumpled napkin hiding under a chair. “Maybe have a drink.”

  “Lineup?” Matt was thinking it must be a sports analogy, but he wasn’t very good with those.

  “Yeah,” Christy said. “The girls who are available line up onstage.”

  “And?”

  “And you pick one you like.”

  She started to leave the room, but Matt was still looking at the stage.

  “That’s not offensive?” he asked. Then he realized he was getting left behind and had to do a little jog to catch up. “That seems like it should be offensive.”

  Christy kept walking. “Would you rather draw a name out of a hat?”

  “I was thinking more like a big wheel that you could spin.” He had his smart-ass grin on, but Christy couldn’t see it. “Like on Wheel of Fortune.”

  She stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “Sure. That’s way less offensive.”

  He had to stop short to avoid running into her. By the time he’d recovered, she was already walking again. This time down a hallway off the foyer. He caught up again. “Equal opportunity, though.”

  Instead of replying, she pointed through an open door. “The kitchen and break room are through there.”

  Matt glanced in and saw a room that seemed out of place. Not that it was messy or crappy looking or anything. In fact, it was nice. Not elegant, not fancy, but simple and . . . lived in, Matt supposed. It had small dining nook to one side, just big enough for a breakfast table and four chairs. On the other side was a worn couch facing a tiny TV. Beyond that was a small kitchen with a sit-in counter. It all seemed very homey.

  “Moving right along.” Christy had stopped halfway down the hall to wait for him. Behind her was a vintage portrait of a fan dancer. They both looked at Matt expectantly as he caught up again.