Page 31 - WTP Vol.X#1

two guys. I saw him jerk his neck back at me a couple times while the guys listened. They looked me over, and finally one of then came over and held out his hand to me.
I shook it, and he didn’t let go, but tugged me gently, the way you’d unplug old electronics. I followed him, and he led me past the crowd at the front and into the club. Slava scrambled after and stood on his toes to slap the guy on his shoulder before he left the two of us in the hallway that led into the club.
“Awesome work,” Slava said, and rubbed his hands together. “You want something to drink?”
“We don’t have to pay the cover?” I asked. The hall- way opened up to an immense, writhing dance floor.
“Inever swung my Americanness around
like it was something people should recognize, though I knew folks who did, who never did their own laundry or waited in line at the market.”
It was dark, except for the solid lines of color, lasers from my childhood dreams of the future, slicing up people harmlessly.
“We’ll pay later,” Slava said and shrugged. “I’m going to get a pineapple screwdriver. Can I get you one?”
“Make it a normal screwdriver, please,” I said. I couldn’t deal with the super-sweet stuff people drank here. Slava cleared a path through the dance- floor to the bar at the far side, and I stepped inside to look around. The wall on the other side of the hall- way was a great narrow fish tank, from the floor to the ceiling, and it gave that part of the dance floor an eerie blue glow. The fish floated without moving, like they were stunned into submission by the pounding bassline. I sympathized, and was barely able to turn my head to take in the whole scene by the time Slava came back with two drinks. I took my drink and real- ized the guy from the door was with him.
“They want to talk to us,” Slava said, grinning ear to ear, so it must be all right. We followed the man’s giant back as he hugged the fish tank glass and tried to avoid contact with the dancers, but Slava kept his hand out and patted bodies as we passed. We walked down the hallway that led to the bathrooms and then past them, past a couple more unmarked doors till we finally stood in front of one that was painted red.
“It looks like my apartment door,” I said to Slava.
“Aw right, here we go,” he smirked and clicked his heels together, and then to took a sip from his drink. The heavy rapped out a polyrhythm on the door and then walked through, leaving us to follow in his wake. I don’t know if I expected a beat-up desk and some chairs leaking stuffing or a Bond villain’s lair, but we walked into a room that looked like the lounge at an upscale men’s clothier. There was a light rig hanging from the ceiling that made it look like daytime, and some spindly-seeming tables. A mirror with scal- loped edges hung on the far wall, and all around the room, on small hooks, hung scarves and hats, feathers and framed documents. It was a lot. Standing just off center in the room and sticking one hip out was a tall, slender fellow wearing grass-green pants and a tan vest over a cream-colored shirt with puffy sleeves.
His hair was styled into a sweeping silver crest on his head, like an exotic rooster.
“Ello, ello, ello,” Slava said, reverting to the cockney accent he’d had when he returned from Poland, and stepped forward to take the man’s hand in two of his.
“Smashing,” the slender fellow replied, without en- thusiasm. He raised an eyebrow.
“We ‘ave a common friend, ” Slava sniffed. “Wot?” the narrow fellow said.
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