“Party time,” I said. “What’s the dance of the week?”
“Felony lambada,” said Milo. “Sidle up against your partner and rifle through his/her pockets.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and slouched forward.
We began walking up the street. It dead-ended at a tall, windowless building. Pale-painted brick walls that a couple of red lights turned pink. Three stories — a trio of successively smaller cubes stacked atop one another. Flat roof, steel doors asymmetrically placed under a random assortment of shuttered windows. A tangle of fire-escape ladders hugged the facade like cast-iron ivy. As we got closer I saw huge, faded letters painted above the dock: BAKER FERTILIZER AND POTASH CO.
The music got louder. Heavy, slow, keyboard solo. Voices became audible in between notes. As we got closer, I saw a line of people S-curved in front of one of the doors — a fifty-foot ant-trail that dipped into the street and clogged it.
We began passing the line. Faces turned toward us sequentially, like animated dominoes. Black duds were the uniform, sullen pouts the mask. Boot chains, cigarettes — legal and otherwise — mumbles and shuffles and sneers, an amphetamine jerk here and there. Flashes of bare flesh, whiter than the moonlight. A rude comment harmonized with the organ and somebody laughed.
The age range was eighteen to twenty-five, skewed toward the lower end. I heard a cat snarl at my back, then more laughter. Prom from Hell.
The door that had drawn the crowd was a rust-colored sheet-metal rectangle blocked by a slide bolt. A big man wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck, green-flowered surfing shorts, and high-laced boots stood in front of it. He was in his early twenties, had clotted features, dreamy eyes, and skin that would have been florid even without the red bulb above his head. His black hair was trimmed to a buzz on top and engraved with lightning bolts of scalp on both sides. I noticed a couple of thin spots that hadn’t been barbered — downy patches, as if he was recovering from chemotherapy. But his body was huge and inflated. The hair at the back of his head was long and knotted in a tight, oiled queue that hung over one shoulder. The shoulder and its mate were graveled with acne. Steroid rash — that explained the hair loss.
The kids at the head of the line were talking to him. He wasn’t answering, didn’t notice our approach or chose to ignore it.
Milo walked up to him and said, “Evening, champ.”
The bouncer kept looking the other way.
Milo repeated himself. The bouncer jerked his head around and growled. If not for his size, it would have been comical. The people at the head of the line were impressed.
Someone said, “Yo, kung-fu.” The bouncer smiled, looked away again, cracked his knuckles and yawned.
Milo moved quickly, stepping up nose to nose with him while shoving his badge in the meaty face. I hadn’t seen him remove it from his pocket.
The bouncer growled again but the rest of him was acquiescent. I looked over my shoulder. A girl with hair the color of deoxygenated blood stuck her tongue out at me and wiggled it. The boy fondling her chest spit and flipped me the bird.
Milo moved his badge back and forth in front of the bouncer’s eyes. The bouncer followed it, as if hypnotized.
Milo held it still. The bouncer read laboriously.
Someone cursed. Someone else howled like a wolf. That caught on and soon the street sounded like something out of Jack London.
Milo said, “Open up, Spike, or we start checking IDs and health codes.”
The lupine chorus grew louder, almost blotting out the music. The bouncer crunched his brows, digesting. It looked painful. Finally he laughed and reached behind himself.
Milo grabbed his wrist, big fingers barely making it around the joint. “Easy.”
“Op’ning it, man,” said the bouncer. “Key.” His voice was unnaturally deep, like a tape played at slo-mo, but whiny nonetheless.
Milo backed away, gave him some space, and watched his hands. The bouncer pulled a key out of his surf-shorts, popped a lock on the bolt, and lifted the bar.
The door opened an inch. Heat and light and noise poured out through it. The wolf-pack charged.
The bouncer leaped forward, hands shaped into what he thought were karate blades, baring his teeth. The pack stopped, retreated, but a few protests sounded. The bouncer raised his hands high in the air and made pawing movements. The light from above turned his irises red. His armpits were shaven. Pimples there, too.
“The fuck back!” he bellowed.
The wolfies went still.
Milo said, “Impressive, Spike.”
The bouncer kept his eyes fixed on the line. His mouth hung open. He was panting and sweating. Sound kept pouring out of the door crack.
Milo put his hand on the bolt. It creaked and stole the bouncer’s attention. He faced Milo.
“Fuck him,” said a voice from behind us.
“We’re going in now, Spike,” said Milo. “Keep those assholes calm.”
The bouncer closed his mouth and breathed loudly through his nose. A bubble of snot filled one nostril.
“It’s not Spike,” he said. “It’s James.”
Milo smiled. “Okay. You do good work, James. Ever work at the Mayan Mortgage?”
The bouncer wiped his nose with his arm and said, “Huh?”
Working hard at processing.
“Forget it.”
The bouncer looked injured. “Whaddya say, man? Seriously.”
“I said you’ve got a bright future, James. This gig ever gets old, you can always run for Vice President.”
The room was big, harshly lit in a few spots, but mostly dark. The floors were cement; the walls that I could see, painted brick. A network of conduits, wheels, gears, and pipes adhered to the ceiling, ragged in places, as if ripped apart in a frenzy.
Off to the left was the bar — wooden doors on sawhorses fronting a metal rack full of bottles. Next to the rack were half a dozen white bowls filled with ice.
Shiny porcelain bowls. Raised lids.
Toilets.
Two men worked nonstop to service a thirsty throng of minors, filling and squirting and scooping cubes from the commodes. No faucets; the soda and water came from bottles.
The rest of the space was a dance floor. No boundary separated the bar crowd from pressure-packed bodies writhing and jerking like beached grunion. Up close, the music was even more formless. But loud enough to keep the Richter scale over at Cal Tech busy.
The geniuses creating it stood at the back, on a makeshift stage. Five hollow-cheeked, leotarded things who could have been junkies had they been healthier-looking. Marshall Stacks big as vacation cabins formed a black felt wall behind them. The bass drum bore the legend OFFAL.
High on the wall behind the amps was another BAKER FERTILIZER sign, partially blocked by a hand-lettered banner tacked diagonally.
WELCOME TO THE SHIT HOUSE.
The accompanying artwork was even more charming.
“Creative,” I said, loud enough to feel my palate vibrate, but inaudible.
Milo must have read my lips because he grinned and shook his head. Then he lowered it and charged through the dancers, toward the bar.
I dived in after him.
We arrived, battered but intact, at the front of the drinkers. Dishes of unshelled peanuts sat beside toilet paper squares improvising as napkins. The bartop needed wiping. The floor was carpeted with husks where it wasn’t wet and slick.
Milo managed to bull his way behind the bar. Both of the barkeeps were thin, dark, and bearded, wearing sleeveless gray undershirts and baggy white pajama bottoms. The one closer to Milo was bald. The other was Rapunzel in drag.