InkStains January by John Urbancik Page A

solo, unaccompanied by
other musicians, one last moment of shine and glitter.
    With an audible thud, the spotlight shuts
down. She goes down with it, exhausted and spent, and dies with
simple, undramatic quiet on the empty stage of a desolate theatre.
The applause ceases, and the ghosts take their star.
    In the morning, the theatre’s new owner
strides down the center aisle toward a stage littered by a carpet
of dried flowers. His assistant follows dutifully.
    The owner reaches the stage and scans the
flowers. He, perhaps, hears an echo of that final aria. He takes a
breath. He sees a possibility he hadn’t seen before. “Cancel the
wrecking ball,” he tells his assistant. “I have a better idea.”

26 January
     
    It’s not much of a neighborhood, but you
don’t exactly come here to see the sights. Killers walk these
streets, and madmen, addicts that will stick you before they even
know you’re there. Keep your eyes open on a street like this.
    It’s loud, music pouring out of every briefly
opened door, the sounds of pleading, the ticking of an imaginary
time bomb tied directly to your heart. I’m not happy to be here,
but these are my streets, I haven’t got a choice, and like anybody
else I’ve got my needs.
    There’s no needs this street can’t
fulfill.
    Cassie greets me at the door. She calls me
Joe. She might think it’s my name. I’ve never seen any reason to
correct her.
    “ Looking for some fun
tonight, Joe, honey?”
    I’m always looking for something. She’s never
really happy with my answer. She likes me, she really does, but
she’ll still take a twenty for ten minutes in one of those things
upstairs they call a room. “Later,” I promise, I’m always
promising. One day, I’ll take her up on her offer. But not
tonight.
    It’s a typical club, in that it’s too dark to
describe with any accuracy. The clientele range from heavy hitters
to college kids looking for a little something to fuel their
ravenous cravings. They don’t have to dance well, they just throw
themselves wantonly into it and pray they survive till dawn.
    The music’s gothic and industrial and blood
metal red. Dave’s the DJ. He carts in five crates of vinyl every
night. Guess he thinks it’s safe enough to risk the streets, but
not worth the risk of leaving them overnight.
    There’s a fight in one of the backrooms.
There’s always a fight. There’s a cage and no rules. Three minute
rounds until someone’s laid out. No one submits. Maybe that’s a
rule. Far as I know, no one dies – not in the ring. Out back, I
wouldn’t be so sure.
    There’s a fight now, two guys I don’t know,
already bloodied, the crowd jeering them. Money’s always on the
line.
    Through the backroom is another. Bald guy
named Derek lets me in. Knows me on sight. You might call him an
insurance policy. Nothing ever goes wrong in this backroom. It’s
all fair – or at least above board – or at least, you know what
you’re here for. If the business was meant to go dirty, it wouldn’t
be done here.
    Guy behind the desk calls himself Boss. He
answers to someone. I don’t ask those kinds of questions. I pull an
envelope from my jacket pocket and drop it on the desk. It’s filled
with cash. Boss won’t ask where I got it and I won’t tell him. It’s
not a game – it’s that kind of business.
    “ Joe,” Boss says, opening
up his hands in a mock embrace, using them to talk as if he’s
Mafia. Far as I know, he’s not, but I don’t care.
    “ Three grand,” I tell
him.
    “ Yes, of course. Exactly as
expected. But you’re late.”
    “ Couldn’t be
helped.”
    He smiles. It’s big of him, that’s what he’s
telling me. “What do I care, ain’t that right, Joey?” He laughs.
“I’m having a scotch. You want one.”
    I’m anxious to get what I came for, but I
take the drink. Only the best for the Boss and his guests. It’s
tough to get the good stuff anymore. It’s expensive. It survived
the shipping lanes. It’s also