Temporary Monsters

9

I parked around the corner from the club, in an alley between a Thai restaurant and a convenience store. I opened the passenger door and helped Sandra out just as if we had pulled up in front of the Royal York. She looped her arm through mine and we walked around to the main entrance. There was a line-up, but Sandra walked briskly past it. She never waited in lines. 

The guy manning the door looked like the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. He was about seven feet tall, with a flat, impassive face and broad, rectangular shoulders. He was wearing a black T-shirt approximately three sizes too small for him, and the clipboard he was holding looked like a drink coaster in his big paw. 

Sandra detached herself from me, put her hand on her hip and stuck her elbow out jauntily. “It’s been forever, dahling. How come you never write?”

The big guy looked down at her, and a grin slowly spread across his face. It was like watching a fissure opening in some obdurate stone. “Sandy Clifton. Where you been keeping your fine self?”

“Married life hath crippled me,” she said, and slumped against his chest with a girlish swoon. 

“That’s too bad.” He sounded genuinely upset. 

“It’s okay,” Sandra said perkily. “I’m getting a divorce.” 

“Then come on in.” 

He stepped aside and Sandra took my arm once more. She drew me into a storm of multi-coloured strobe lights and pulsating sound that I supposed passed for music in some circles. To me it was like the auditory test they give you at the doctor’s office, or the sound of a computer having the electronic equivalent of a grand mal seizure – high-pitched whining and electronic beeps and boops that made me much too aware of my own thumping heartbeat. 

We moved along the edge of the dance floor, where insubstantial shapes gyrated to the rhythm of the cacophony. We went up a set of steep metal stairs to a landing where another man in a black tee took a single look at us – well, Sandra, actually – before letting us pass. 

This was Seventh Heaven. It didn’t look much different from the level we just left, except I recognized faces from various movies I had seen. I suddenly realized that I didn’t know what I was looking for.

“Why don’t you circulate?” I said to Sandra, pulling her close so she could hear me. “I’m going to look around, see if I can find someone who was here the night before last.” 

“Be careful, Felix. Don’t go asking too many questions. This is one of Cris Donovan’s clubs.”

“Cris Donovan? Donnie Drugs to the Stars? I didn’t know he was still around.”

“He’s more of a drug baron now.” Sandra looked over her shoulder – as if anyone could overhear us with the music pounding. “He’s gone Joe Hollywood. Only sells his stuff to the film types. He thinks it makes him more respectable. But that doesn’t mean he’s any less dangerous.”

“I’ll watch my back,” I promised.

“And try not to kill any more actors.” 

“Hardy-har.” 

She gave me a little wave, then promptly disappeared into the throng. I made my way back to the entrance. The bouncer eyed me suspiciously. 

“I hear you’re famous,” I told him. 

He stared at me silently. 

“The word is you were one of the last people to party with the late Jimmy Logan.”

The bouncer muttered, “I don’t remember,” and turned away. 

I took out a twenty and put it in front of his face. He made it disappear and turned back around.