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The same giant bouncer from before leaned by the Factory’s front door, his bald head tinted by the orange light of the club’s entrance. Maybe sullen from having been pushed around by Sarti’s boys, he stopped me as I tried to move passed him. I leveled a gaze of disbelief at him, layered with the slightest bit of menace. “You saw who I left here with? And you want to charge me again?”
Unhappy that he couldn’t double his fleecing, he stepped away from me, exuding disdain. As if I was the one who was trying to soak him. Rather than just letting this go, I took out the dead Russian’s passport and folded it in half, covering up most of the text with my hand so only the picture showed. I held it up for the bouncer and asked, “Have you seen this man?” As soon as the question left my mouth I groaned at how cop-like it sounded. I made a note to myself that if I wanted to increase my chances of getting answers I needed to phrase it differently.
This idea was given some credence when the bouncer barely glanced at the picture before replying, “Non.” All the restraint my situation had forced me to show recently boiled away and I gave him a quick wrap on his balls with my knuckles. A sharp exhalation of breath caused him to bend forward a little and I used that moment to grab him by the throat. I pulled him closer and showed him the photo again, making sure he got an eyeful. ‘Take a closer look. I’m asking for the gouverneur.” Certain that I had his attention I asked again, “Have you seen this man man?”
Unsurprisingly, he repeated the same answer. If he worked the door frequently he probably saw hundreds of party-goers every night. I let him go and he coughed, returning to his standing position. He glared at me, the hostility in his demeanor making it clear he was deciding if he wanted to make this a fight. I waited, staring back, half hoping he might. He chose discretion over valor, though, and went back to staring out into the night.
I went inside. The crowd in front of the stage was smaller, but more intense, frenetic in its motion. They didn’t move in any kind of synchronous dance, but each person to their own thing. Between the dark shadows and garish lights, the dancers agitated like some kind of monster that had been stapled together.
I’d rather take on Sarti and all of his men than deal with that. I headed back into the Abattoir, the Factory’s private section, hoping to catch the Corsican and his voyous, maybe to burn off some of the residuals left over from disappointing discussion with the bouncer.
None of them were there. Starting with the booth I had found them in I roamed between the cages, hands buried in pockets, increasingly bent forward with each successive disappointment. It must have been getting close to closing time – most people were gone or had left for the dance floor. Out of frustration I began asking the staff, which at that hour was only composed of a few scarlet-haired waitresses. One, so pale she might have been an actual redhead, surprised me by popping her gum and taking an earnest look at the photo, then replying with a, “Oui.”
I was so stunned by a useful and honest reply I only blurted out, “When?”
“Mardi.”
Tuesday. Shit, what day was it? Saturday? Before I could figure that I out I began to ask other questions. Who was he with? When did he arrive? When did he leave?
To the first question, she only gestured to the Abattoir. She listened to the rest, but only shrugged, then glided away as if she were on roller skates. I almost chased her down but my movement towards her caught the attention of several bouncers. The rising of that pack told me Sartre’s weight wouldn’t protect me if I kept harassing her.
I was suddenly exhausted. I found an emergency exit and stepped out into the pre-dawn light. I tucked the umbrella under an arm, shoved my hands in my pocket and pointed my feet home.
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