In Andrea's dream she was all alone. Maybe there was someone there behind her, in the next room, just out of sight, but she couldn't tell for sure. All she knew was that she couldn't move. She looked down and saw her body, pale and naked - her legs dangling down off the chair in front of her. Her hands were draped at her sides, palms up. She tried to move them, but it was as if she was tied to the chair with rope. She wanted to cover her breasts, she felt too exposed.
Her kitchen light was on and as she lifted her head she saw the scuffed wood of the dinner table just in front of her. There was a box of something on the table and an empty plastic sleeve. The hairs on the back of her neck shot out like icicles on her skin. Someone was behind her. Her head wouldn't turn. She looked back down at her limp body as a man's thick hand slid around her right breast from under her armpit.
Just then she woke up. Her bedroom was dark and the sound of police sirens echoed outside in the distance. The kitchen light was off. She fumbled for her phone and checked the time - early, but not early enough to go back to sleep.
The mineral stench of fresh rain on filthy pavement tickled her nostrils. The streets were empty save the few huddled bodies scurrying through the fall, hoods up or newspapers over their heads. The slick sidewalk glowed neon fuzzy in her peripherals. She shuffled her patent heels across the damp concrete toward Club Layla.
The rain was unexpected. She stopped under a narrow restaurant awning and pulled her jacket over her head. It never rained this much back home, she thought.
Inside the air was humid and stunk of wet hair. She wove her way through the smoke and flashing lights and dancers and drunks to the back where she threw her coat to the bottom of a locker, the leather shedding little droplets into a pool at her feet. Vomit colored light flickered from a bare bulb in the ceiling. She drew her eyes on slowly. The room buzzed with the kick of each bass drum, the muffled melodies squeezing through the crack under the door. Eva was on her game tonight, she thought, the energy was there. She combed the mascara through her lashes as the band kicked into the bridge. Their set was closing, she was almost late. One last look in the mirror, her reflection etched in its graffiti, before heading back through the crowd.
“I want to thank all of you for coming down tonight! My name is Eva and these low-down dirty motherfuckers are the Flares! Give it up!”
The crowd erupted in cat calls and applause. Behind the bar, Andrea stooped to grab a round plastic tray and a little black apron with pockets of small bills and change stitched into the front. Cece was at the far end leaning over the bar chatting up a regular - some biker friend of hers - so Andrea decided not to interrupt her and hit the floor instead. A small crowd was still buzzing around the stage where Eva and the rest of her band were clearing their equipment. She pinned on her best smile and walked into the thick of it.
"Can I get anybody a drink?"
A flamboyant young partier wearing skin tight jeans and a gray pinstripe vest approached her with a hand full of bills. His eyes were glazed over and Andrea could see only the slightest hint of blue around his massive pupils.
"Can you make a mimosa?" he slurred, "I feel like celebrating, baby!"
Several of his friends echoed his sentiment and let out shouts of approval to no one in particular.
"One mimosa?"
"No!" he screamed, like a child on the verge of a tantrum, "Ten mimosas. Two for me and one for each of my divas here."
"Divas?" one of the men in the crowd shouted unexpectedly, "whose a diva, honey?"
"You're a diva, bitch!"
The group erupted in laughter as Andrea rolled her eyes and turned away. She had only been working at the club for three months and already she was getting sick of the clientele. All poppers or dezis strung out on whatever, all young and rude, all too broke or too self absorbed to tip. The only thing they cared about was booze, pills and parties. The only thing they were good for was taking up space. This was definitely not what she had in mind when she moved to the city.
"Ten mimosas," she shouted to Cece over the bar, "and make 'em extra light. Bunch of douchebag dezis."
Cece laughed as she spied the group with her peripherals.
"Your attitude is already rubbing off on her, I see," Cece's biker friend chuckled.
"She learned from the best," Cece winked as she popped the cork from the bar's cheapest champagne bottle.
"I'm Frantic, by the way," the friend said leaning on the bar with her hand outstretched to Andrea's.
"Sorry?"
"Frantic. It's what they call me," she smiled, "or Fran, I guess...if you'd rather."
"Oh," Andrea laughed, "sorry, I thought - nevermind. I'm Andrea. Nice to meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine, my dear."
Fran took her hand, lifted it to her lips and kissed it.
"Would you leave my waitresses alone, for fuck's sake! You've already scared two off this year," Cece busted in.
"Is it my fault you have such impeccable taste in servers?"
Andrea's cheeks began to turn pink.
"Keep your eye on this one, Andi," Cece warned, "she has a hard time keeping her pants on around pretty girls."
"You're one to talk, honey," Fran laughed.
"Isn't it time for you to go yet?"
Fran glanced at the clock behind the bar and hopped out of her seat.
"Shit, always tryin' to rain on my parade, aren't you? You ridin' with us over to Marley's tonight? Eight dollar Pabst!"
"I drink for free here, bitch!," Cece laughed, "Besides, I've got this thing tonight."
"Ooohhhhh," she teased, "anyone I know?"
"No, Fran, you wouldn't know them, they have penises."
"Ewww."
"Workin' on a big project with the boys. That's what Eva says anyway. Don't know the details yet."
"Well, suit yourself," Fran said before chugging down the last of her beer, "but if you change your mind, you know where to find me."
"Yea, I know...just follow the stink."
Fran spun around and gave Cece the finger and a grin before walking out the door.
"Close friend?" Andrea asked.
Cece finished topping off the tenth mimosa with a spritz of champagne.
"We ride together sometimes. She's a real pain in my ass, but she's good people."
Andrea began stacking the glasses on her tray, taking her time.
"Alright bitches, time to stop talking about me!" Eva shouted as she ran up from behind and strong-armed Cece into a bear hug.
"Oh, you're done playing then," Cece said, "I hadn't noticed."
"I'm so sure."
Eva's hair was all sweaty and matted to her face. The star design she painted over her left eye in make up was starting to blur and streak from the thick air.
"And how are you doin' tonight, Andi?" she asked, turning her back on Cece mockingly.
"I'm doing alright so far."
"I love this girl, you know," she smiled, "so sweet and innocent. She really classes this joint up--"
"Oh hell no, not you too," Cece pulled Eva by her shoulder and stuck a finger in her face. "You bitches keep your grubby little hands off my employees, alright? I've got a hard enough time keeping this girl here already, what with the shitty wages and all."
Eva's big smile shone bright against her mocha skin as she laughed and pulled the hair back out of her face.
"Just being friendly. No harm done, right Andi?"
"We're all friends here," Andrea said.
"Yea, yea...get those dezis their drinks before they start trying to lick the booze off my floor. I'm not payin' you to stand here and pick up pussy."
Andrea reluctantly made her way back through the crowd, disappearing into a sea of bobbing heads and shoulders.
"You're still coming by tonight, right?" Eva asked.
"You didn't make it seem optional," Cece answered.
"Of course it's optional, but I'll kick your fuckin' ass if you bail. This is big time shit we're talkin' here."
"Let's not talk about that right this second-"
"Like, we might really be able to take these Gladstone fuckers down for real--"
"I told you not to discuss that shit here, alright," Cece snapped, pulling away to the other end of the bar.
"Alright...Jesus... I guess I'll take my fuckin' leave then."
She followed Cece down the bar.
"Can I at least get my cut?" she asked, holding out her palm.
Cece grabbed a stack of bills from the register, counted them out and tossed them down on the bar. Eva picked up the cash and flipped through it. She thought about busting her balls about the amount, but thought better of it. She leaned over and reached for her helmet from the beat up old box behind the bar.
"Just remember, it's the new place over on O'Farrell, not the old joint in the Mission, alright?"
"Yea, I remember," Cece grumbled as she poured herself a shot of mezcal and downed it just as quickly.
Out of pure habit she watched Eva's ass twitch from side to side as she walked out the door. She could never pass up that opportunity, regardless of her mood. Across the room Andrea was flirting with a round, grubby looking man at a table. His button-down shirt and cheesy slacks made him look like a caricature of a capitalist pig amongst the throngs of torn-jean hipsters, bike dykes and dezis. She pictured the fat bastard butt-naked for a moment and nearly puked in her mouth. She dumped another shot of mezcal down her throat.
"I don't know how you do it," she said as Andrea approached the bar.
"Do what?"
"Put on in front of these cretins. I can barely keep my dinner down just lookin' at these assholes."
"You mean Charlie?" Andrea said, looking back at the fat man. "He's a sweatheart."
"Yea, when he's not burnin' holes through your blouse with those heat-seekers, I'm sure he's a real gentleman."
"I don't know, I kinda like him," she said innocently.
Cece laughed.
"We talkin' about the same guy here?"
"I don't mean I like him like that," Andrea giggled, "he's just a nice guy. He comes in a lot. I think he's a security guard somewhere around here."
"I feel safer already."
The front door swung open and two well-groomed, well-built men stepped into the bar's humid stink. Their long coats dripped rainwater onto the sticky beer-soaked floor and one of them squished up his nose at the smell. Cece made them for cops instantly and sent Andrea back to the floor with her next round of drinks.
"What can I do you fellas for?"
The tall one with the prettier face reached into his coat and she knew a badge was about to come out.
"My name is Detective Baker," he said, "this is my partner Rudy Hamilton."
"Two men of the star, eh?" Cece smiled plastically. "Not everyday that we entertain such clientele here at the Club Layla. What'll ya have? It's on the house."
"No thank you. We're working," Baker responded.
"No thank you. We're working," Baker responded.
"Fuck, you," Hamilton scoffed at his partner, "I'll take a shot of your best brandy."
Cece couldn't hide her smile.
"I'm afraid our best brandy is this piss-water whiskey, sir. Not exactly serving sophisticated palettes over here."
"Then piss-water it is, honey. I'm not even supposed to be here tonight," Hamilton said as he tossed the shot back. "And keep 'em comin'."
"I should tell you, when I said they was on the house, I didn't think you'd be accepting my offer. The rest are all you."
"That changes nothing, my dear."
He slammed his credit card on the bar and the surface lit up as it was scanned:
Name: Rutger B. Hamilton
Account: Current
Customer level: Gold
Restrictions: EXEMPT - SFPD
Current tab: $0.00
"But I'll tell you what," Cece continued, "since you're not even supposed to be here tonight, how's about $8 shots all night?"
"You single, sweetie?"
"Ha!" Cece laughed, "I'm just as single as you are straight, baby."
"I like this girl," he said to his partner as he lifted up his glass.
Detective Hamilton's face wrinkled into a smile. Up close, it was more freckles than it was bare skin.
"You mind if we get to business?" Baker asked his partner sarcastically.
"Yes, business...," Hamilton said, "my partner's dragged me down here hoping to find Cecilia Ocampo. You know her?"
"You're talkin' to her."
"Ms. Ocampo, we'd like to ask you a few questions, would you mind stepping outside with us? Or into your office, perhaps?" Baker asked.
"Right now?" she said, looking around the busy room. "What about?"
"It's about your father, m'am."
"Well I'll save you the time, I don't know anything about him - haven't spoken to my dad since I was thirteen."
"Still, there are some matters we'd like to clear up with you, would you mind?" Baker insisted politely while gesturing toward to the door. "There's been, uh...an accident."
