Adam's story
The nightclub was smoky and dark, and half the girls Gordon found himself looking at couldn’t have been more than seventeen – not legal to be drinking the alcohol in the red plastic cups they held in pale thin hands, and certainly not legal to be smoking the marijuana he smelled in the air. The clothes were short, tight, revealing or any combination of these, and looking around he saw Versace, Roberto Cavalli, Valentino and other notable designers he couldn’t name offhand mixed up with leather, PVC and torn fishnets.
They all looked the same – black, white, Hispanic or Asian, they were all bored rich kids trying to get away with whatever they could. A group of bleached-blond girls in pink miniskirts that revealed spindly legs huddled together in one corner while grungy-looking boys wearing ties and eyeliner watched them furtively from across the room. Joints passed around freely, and Gordon’s sharp eyes saw track marks on the forearms of some of the kids.
He cleared a path fairly easily through the partygoers, most of them ignoring him completely, and made his way over to the knot of blond girls. “Hi,” he said, and held up the sketch of Alistair Dawson. “Any of you seen him?” The girls looked at one another uncomfortably. Their faces were all alike, right down to the hollow cheeks, vacant blue eyes and fashionably sparse eyebrows. “It’s none of my business what you’re drinking,” he added, nodding to the cups, “and I don’t care what you’re doing here on a Monday night or how old you are. I just want to know if you know him.”
“Sorta.” The girl who spoke was an anorexic-looking wreck of matchstick limbs. Gordon found it remarkable her collarbones hadn’t actually pierced her skin. “Albert or Alfred or something. I think he was here on Thursday.”
“Was that the last time you saw him?” he asked her, and she nodded. He looked at the others. “Any of you see him since?”
“I saw him on Saturday,” came a voice from somewhere behind the group.
The girl who had spoken rolled her eyes. “Oh please, like you would know anything about a boy.” She turned to Gordon, one hand on her bony hip, elbow jutting out like a dangerous weapon. “She’s just a dyke, she doesn’t know anything. If he was here on Saturday, I would have seen him.”
“He was here.” Another girl stepped out from behind the group. She was taller than them, dressed in slouchy, comfortable-looking jeans and a green turtleneck, with dark hair and brown eyes. “His name is Alistair,” she said, looking directly at Gordon. “He was here on Saturday.”
“Liar,” the first girl hissed. “He wouldn’t have come within thirty feet of you.”
“Shut up, Heather,” the dark-haired girl snapped. “He was here, you were just too stoned to notice.”
Gordon cleared his throat. “Did you see him leave with anyone?”
“He wasn’t here!” Heather had her skinny arms folded across her chest. “Don’t listen to her. He was here on Thursday and nobody’s seen him since.”
The dark-haired girl looked like she was ready to retort, but Gordon took her by the upper arm and steered her away from Heather and her minions and onto the dancefloor. “Do you want to dance?” he asked. The song had just changed to something slow and dreamy, and all around them teenagers were using it as an excuse to make out.
She shrugged and moved into his arms. Gordon himself was light on his feet, and he loved to dance. Besides, on the dancefloor, nobody could hear them. “He was here on Saturday,” she said. “I danced with him, that’s how I know.”
“What did he do?” he queried.
She shook her hair back from her face. She wore no makeup, and she had a light tan. Under the bright lights of the dancefloor, he could see sun-streaked highlights in her hair. She was, he thought, beautiful. “He came over, bought me a drink, asked me to dance. We danced, he came onto me, I got pissed off and left.” There was an edge in her voice. “He seemed disappointed I wasn’t cheap and easy like most of the sluts that hang out here.”
She was a good dancer too; Gordon was pleasantly surprised. “Why were you here in the first place if this isn’t your crowd?”
“My brother Fritz is the bartender. I don’t get to see him much, and his phone got stolen a couple weeks ago. When I want to talk to him, I have to come down here.” She glanced over at the bar, where a lithe young man in an open white shirt with spiky blond hair was performing acrobatic feats with glass bottles. “My name’s Max. Maxine.”
“I’m Detective Adam Gordon.” He shook the hand already clasped in his. “Pleased to meet you. How well did you know Alistair?”
She hesitated, and her eyes darkened. “A little too well,” she said. “After I left, he followed me outside to the alley. He showed me a knife, a big one – a switchblade – put it against my throat. Said if I made a scene he’d cut my head off.”
“He raped you?” Gordon asked softly.
In answer, she removed her hand from his and pulled down the neck of her sweater. The light golden skin of her throat was marred by a long, shallow cut. “That was my warning. I didn’t fight him after that.”
Gordon was suddenly acutely aware of how close he was to a recent rape victim. He drifted back from her a little, tried to keep some distance between them. “Did you make a report?”
“Didn’t need to.” Maxine’s eyes met his, and flashed. “Whatever happened to him, Detective, wherever he is – I’m not sorry it happened. He deserved it.”
And Gordon knew. He exhaled, looking over her head at the slowly swaying crowd around them. Across the room, a girl whose back was against the wall had a boy’s hand up under her skirt. Her eyes were closed. Maxine’s body moved back against his, and this time he didn’t try to create distance between them again.
“Any idea where we should look?” he asked her. “He might have been a scumbag of the highest order, but he had a family. They want closure. They deserve closure.”
“You could check the storm drains,” she suggested, “but somehow I think you’d have more luck searching the dumpsters. Maybe in the meatpacking district. Garbage belongs with garbage, don’t you think?” She smiled ever so slightly, and stepped back from him as the song ended. Her dark eyes glittered in the light. “Thank you for the dance. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Gordon watched as she slipped through the crowd and disappeared up the stairs into whatever lay out in the night. He waited five minutes, and then he too made his exit, pulling out his phone to place a call to whichever officer had the unhappy luck to be patrolling the meatpacking district at this hour. Sometimes, justice had a way of sorting itself out.
They all looked the same – black, white, Hispanic or Asian, they were all bored rich kids trying to get away with whatever they could. A group of bleached-blond girls in pink miniskirts that revealed spindly legs huddled together in one corner while grungy-looking boys wearing ties and eyeliner watched them furtively from across the room. Joints passed around freely, and Gordon’s sharp eyes saw track marks on the forearms of some of the kids.
He cleared a path fairly easily through the partygoers, most of them ignoring him completely, and made his way over to the knot of blond girls. “Hi,” he said, and held up the sketch of Alistair Dawson. “Any of you seen him?” The girls looked at one another uncomfortably. Their faces were all alike, right down to the hollow cheeks, vacant blue eyes and fashionably sparse eyebrows. “It’s none of my business what you’re drinking,” he added, nodding to the cups, “and I don’t care what you’re doing here on a Monday night or how old you are. I just want to know if you know him.”
“Sorta.” The girl who spoke was an anorexic-looking wreck of matchstick limbs. Gordon found it remarkable her collarbones hadn’t actually pierced her skin. “Albert or Alfred or something. I think he was here on Thursday.”
“Was that the last time you saw him?” he asked her, and she nodded. He looked at the others. “Any of you see him since?”
“I saw him on Saturday,” came a voice from somewhere behind the group.
The girl who had spoken rolled her eyes. “Oh please, like you would know anything about a boy.” She turned to Gordon, one hand on her bony hip, elbow jutting out like a dangerous weapon. “She’s just a dyke, she doesn’t know anything. If he was here on Saturday, I would have seen him.”
“He was here.” Another girl stepped out from behind the group. She was taller than them, dressed in slouchy, comfortable-looking jeans and a green turtleneck, with dark hair and brown eyes. “His name is Alistair,” she said, looking directly at Gordon. “He was here on Saturday.”
“Liar,” the first girl hissed. “He wouldn’t have come within thirty feet of you.”
“Shut up, Heather,” the dark-haired girl snapped. “He was here, you were just too stoned to notice.”
Gordon cleared his throat. “Did you see him leave with anyone?”
“He wasn’t here!” Heather had her skinny arms folded across her chest. “Don’t listen to her. He was here on Thursday and nobody’s seen him since.”
The dark-haired girl looked like she was ready to retort, but Gordon took her by the upper arm and steered her away from Heather and her minions and onto the dancefloor. “Do you want to dance?” he asked. The song had just changed to something slow and dreamy, and all around them teenagers were using it as an excuse to make out.
She shrugged and moved into his arms. Gordon himself was light on his feet, and he loved to dance. Besides, on the dancefloor, nobody could hear them. “He was here on Saturday,” she said. “I danced with him, that’s how I know.”
“What did he do?” he queried.
She shook her hair back from her face. She wore no makeup, and she had a light tan. Under the bright lights of the dancefloor, he could see sun-streaked highlights in her hair. She was, he thought, beautiful. “He came over, bought me a drink, asked me to dance. We danced, he came onto me, I got pissed off and left.” There was an edge in her voice. “He seemed disappointed I wasn’t cheap and easy like most of the sluts that hang out here.”
She was a good dancer too; Gordon was pleasantly surprised. “Why were you here in the first place if this isn’t your crowd?”
“My brother Fritz is the bartender. I don’t get to see him much, and his phone got stolen a couple weeks ago. When I want to talk to him, I have to come down here.” She glanced over at the bar, where a lithe young man in an open white shirt with spiky blond hair was performing acrobatic feats with glass bottles. “My name’s Max. Maxine.”
“I’m Detective Adam Gordon.” He shook the hand already clasped in his. “Pleased to meet you. How well did you know Alistair?”
She hesitated, and her eyes darkened. “A little too well,” she said. “After I left, he followed me outside to the alley. He showed me a knife, a big one – a switchblade – put it against my throat. Said if I made a scene he’d cut my head off.”
“He raped you?” Gordon asked softly.
In answer, she removed her hand from his and pulled down the neck of her sweater. The light golden skin of her throat was marred by a long, shallow cut. “That was my warning. I didn’t fight him after that.”
Gordon was suddenly acutely aware of how close he was to a recent rape victim. He drifted back from her a little, tried to keep some distance between them. “Did you make a report?”
“Didn’t need to.” Maxine’s eyes met his, and flashed. “Whatever happened to him, Detective, wherever he is – I’m not sorry it happened. He deserved it.”
And Gordon knew. He exhaled, looking over her head at the slowly swaying crowd around them. Across the room, a girl whose back was against the wall had a boy’s hand up under her skirt. Her eyes were closed. Maxine’s body moved back against his, and this time he didn’t try to create distance between them again.
“Any idea where we should look?” he asked her. “He might have been a scumbag of the highest order, but he had a family. They want closure. They deserve closure.”
“You could check the storm drains,” she suggested, “but somehow I think you’d have more luck searching the dumpsters. Maybe in the meatpacking district. Garbage belongs with garbage, don’t you think?” She smiled ever so slightly, and stepped back from him as the song ended. Her dark eyes glittered in the light. “Thank you for the dance. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Gordon watched as she slipped through the crowd and disappeared up the stairs into whatever lay out in the night. He waited five minutes, and then he too made his exit, pulling out his phone to place a call to whichever officer had the unhappy luck to be patrolling the meatpacking district at this hour. Sometimes, justice had a way of sorting itself out.
posted by Ariana at 5:00 PM
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