David wandered into the club as if in a trance. He didn't understand the music, he didn't understand what he was seeing and he didn't know where he was. All he knew, was that he had to see this through.
The bouncer at the door had taken no convincing at all, which shocked and thrilled David. He was never the type to persuade bouncers with his walk or, even less, with a "don't you know who I am" look.
He sat down at the long, L-shaped glass bar and turned his back on the dance floor and the winding staircases that took you God knows where.
David took out the card and studied it quietly, moving it back and forth to the rhythm of the Kalkbrenner brothers. His throat itched in anticipation, a fizz ran through him, causing his senses to be on high alert.
The barman, an elderly-looking ex chain smoker, noticed him and grumpily dragged his feet to the other end where David was sitting. But when his eyes fell onto the elegant card in this common man's hands, something in his eyes changed. David didn't notice the fear. He was too preoccupied with himself and this mysterious invitation. It had turned into a promise he had made himself, to live a little. To do something he wouldn't normally do. A sudden flicker of life in his otherwise dull existence.
"Scotch, on the rocks", he bellowed as he finally looked up at the barman. He had never drunken Scotch before. Could it even be "on the rocks"?
"Coming right up." The other man hesitated. "The man you're looking for is not here yet. He-", he stopped dead in his tracks. Another man had slumped into one of the empty chairs next to David. He reeked of sweat, booze and an exotic stink that made David want to gag. The barman, feeling the rising pressure in his throat, mumbled something and practically jumped away to serve a group of conveniently placed girls at the other end of the bar. They all looked like pale and worthless imitations of a young Winona Ryder.
The man's eyes were bloodshot. His eyelids were betraying them and slowly closing, embracing them with forgiving darkness and calm. He cleared his throat and rubbed his nose, picking at it to make sure that there were no white reminders of the beginning of his night left. The only reminder that would stay with him was the money he no longer had, after paying that prostitute to do his dirty work. He took one look at David, what he was holding in his hand and sighed, murdering the air around him.
"The one you need is standing in the back area. He's the one dressed like a cunt."
David felt himself gag again. He nodded and jumped up, desperately searching for the toilet signs.
He found them near the entrance he had come through, in a short corridor below the ground floor.
David took three steps at once and reached the right door just in time.
Feeling a little better, he let the door close behind him. There were four other doors in the corridor and the largest one, presumably leading to another corridor, caught his attention. He could hear something coming from behind the not so heavy door. Something that wasn't the chatter or the ever-changing music.
There were noises, a few words and then more noises. Glass broke. He slowly pushed the door open, revealing a man holding a woman up against the wall, her arms and legs wrapped around him. Her closed eyes were heavy with black eyeliner and her parted lips were pink and puffy. The man's face was buried between the woman's pale neck and the tumbles of the woman's long, dark auburn hair. David never saw his face. They didn't notice him quietly slipping away, leaving them to themselves.
"The back area" had simply meant the more exclusive part of the warehouse-turned-club. The men gathered around there looked like they knew what a razor was and the women wore heels and lipstick. A shallow, plain indication of faint upper social standing. While the other people in the club, sweating on the dancefloor and getting elbowed in the ribs at the bar, had normal, perhaps even happy faces, the people here were the personification of gothic. There were no smiles, no direct eye-contact, only fast gestures and tension rising. David slowly walked over, taking everything in.
What did the exotic stink man say again? "He's the one dressed like a..."?
David shook his head. He took the card in his hands again and held it against his chest. Maybe someone would-
"ACHILLES! HE'S HERE!", a voice shouted in his ear, deafening him for several seconds. An arm of muscle that felt like iron steered David towards one of the better lit tables. A man had turned his head at the mention of the Greek hero's name. But this man was not Greek. Even David, who had never taken an interest in different European looks, could figure that out. The man, because above anything he was a man, was tall and sported the broadest shoulders David had ever seen. He didn't have a body builder physique and yet he carried himself with grace and presence, and above anything else, control. Yes, he looked like a man in control.
Achilles had been worried about the new arrival. The last one had been an almost immediate disappointment, flinching at every deep look Achilles had given him. That one would have shat himself at the sole mention of a Kalashnikov. But this one was better. He wasn't overly muscular, but he looked like he could hold his own. He didn't smile, but held out his hand instead.
David worried about having made the biggest mistake of his life. Who were these people? Why was he offering them his hand? They were going to cut it off, he knew it, they were going to break it into a thousand pieces and feed it to the-
Achilles' hand enclosed around David's. He almost crushed it, but David didn't bat an eyelid.
"Good", Achilles thought. "Better".
Out loud he said: "We've been expecting you. I'm Achilles. I assume Miroslav told you what you are needed for?"
David nodded curtly. "Miroslav". Who the hell was Miroslav? Then he changed his mind.
"He didn't say much, as usual".
The man with the iron arm sniggered.
Achilles half-smiled. David relaxed internally. Must have said something right.
"Typical", Achilles raised an eyebrow in contempt. He was offered a Cuban cigar by a cute girl with short blonde hair and an ample bosom. He took it without looking at her and lit it. Blowing out the smoke, he sized David up, man to man.
"You'll be reporting to me. But before we get to the business, let me introduce you."
He had a slight accent, but David couldn't place it. No one said "the business". It was just "business".
Achilles glanced at David, a small part of him interested in the new recruit.
"What do we call you?", he asked.
David's world collapsed and found itself again. He felt a push of fate drive him to make the next snap decision.
"Kip".
To be continued..
