Whitechapel

After a brief flirtation with independence, Samir had returned to the constant surveillance of being paired to someone via Magenta Mate. Except this time it was a girl named Lydia, and his consent was rather coerced by a terrifying man named Hector. He felt as if San Francisco had swallowed him whole. His best friend, who was also his employer, had put him out on the street. Virginia, his erstwhile wife, had broken off all contact.

But through the clouds that darkened his life a single sunbeam broke through: Gemma Thomson. She was alive, she existed, and Sam could find her. Hilariously, he’d been given the opportunity through his would-be captor. And now she would be his escape. He’d join her in the UK, reunited at long last. Away from all this, and back where he belonged. Back where he should’ve been this entire time. If only he hadn’t allowed Virginia to intervene, to chain him here to the crumbling ruins of California, and to his so-called career.

Thoughts of that summer in London tumbled around his mind as he unfurled cables and taped them to the floor. Another terrible excuse for a live band would come through Maelzel’s tonight, flapping and flailing in desperate mimicry, the furthest cry yet from the delicate, emotion-laden sound that he preferred. There was no artistry now. Homespun, human-crafted music performances were beyond parody. The art had been lost to time, at least in this dead husk of a city. But it was through this grim charade that he hoped to lure the one person left who might be able to help him.

The afternoon slid by with a merciful quiet. His relationship with Sebastian had reduced to grunts and points as they put the finishing touches on the club. A handful of regulars began to trickle in, including Hector, who ignored Samir and played his role as barfly and music enjoyer, less so of minder or prison guard. Sam at least appreciated the work-life balance this afforded, though assumed if he attempted to step out of line, it would be dealt with. While Lydia had been rather upbeat and encouraging about Samir’s involuntary involvement, Hector had made clear he wouldn’t enjoy finding out if Samir tried to leave San Francisco.

The band took the stage around 7 p.m. and had drawn what might have been the bar’s worst crowd of the summer: a half-dozen forty-sevens focused more on their drink than the music, a few friends of the band who refused to buy anything, and a group of nervous tourists up from the South who wore identical jackets and moved as if they were tied together.

Boom. Boom. Boom. The backing track of the performance, such as it was, seemed to be a recording of a microphone being banged hard against a countertop. The singer paced a groove in the stage and stared at their feet, reciting what sounded like her grocery list. A guitarist stood at the far back, but their contribution was mostly just running their fingers up and down the strings. It produced a wavering metallic brraaannngggg.

From his perch behind the bar, Sam could see the life slowly leaving Sebastian as he rode the levels on the antique mixing board. Loud feedback pierced the air as the singer strayed past the speaker stack, remembered they were not meant to do that, went the other way, and strayed past the other stack. Though it was a free show, Sam still braced himself for the inevitable refund requests. He poured himself a shot of Sambuca, the only liquor he was allowed to sneak for free. Down it went in one gulp, just as the guitarist tripped over her own cable. It was horrifying. His innards burned, his stomach threatened mutiny were he to do it again, and a hint of bile rose up in his throat—a promise of more to come. Shaking it off, he gave the crowd another quick scan: his invited mystery guest, the longest of long shots, had not come through. It was a hollow, familiar feeling, not of surprise but of disappointment.

The last song of the night showed promise. The guitarist laid on their back across the front of the stage and began playing quite a mournful chord progression. The singer stood above her and leaned down, screaming and crying into her face. The lyrics were either nonsensical or in a language Sam didn’t understand. The third Sambuca shot seemed to lock him into place, and a great deal of his energy went into convincing his lunch to stay where it was. A tear rolled down his cheek as the singer collapsed onto their bandmate, closing the set with a loud pop and jangle of chaotic guitar. Seb applauded in relief from behind the mixing desk. A couple of the forty-sevens joined in. The tourists huddled together in hushed whisper, their backs facing out to the room. A single tear rolled down Sam’s cheek.

“Powerful.” A voice came from almost directly behind Sam. He recognised it before he even turned to look. Calm, charismatic, cultivated into an American’s ideal of an Englishman. He spun round as soon as he could, the Sambuca still scorching his throat. There stood one of the last remaining legends of the old industry, backlit by the stage lights in a dramatic reveal befitting his status. There stood Eamon Whitechapel.

“Eam!” Sam stopped short of a hug or a handshake, instead choosing to spread his arms and stare.

“Samir, you’ve kept well. Considering.” Eamon gave a wry smile. “And I see Sebastian’s managed to make the club even worse. Well done to that lad. He’s always been excellent at cultivating a smell.”

“The hell are you doing here, man?” Seb leapt onto the bar in front of Eamon. “Holy shit.”

“Blame this one, I suppose.” He pointed at Sam. “First time hearing from him in around six years, and I get a message.”

“Message,” Seb added as he dragged the rest of himself over the bar top. “What message?”

“Believe I can paraphrase it,” Eamon said with a clear of his throat. “7 p.m. tomorrow, Maelzel’s on Mission, shittest most god-awful band you’ve ever heard in your life.”

They found a corner of the bar and put Eamon at the centre, to catch up with their old friend while avoiding each other. The feud, after all, was still fresh. Eamon lived up in wine country now, having retired from the music industry rather unintentionally after the label was acquired. Content to stay out of the future’s way, with little love for the Republic but no desire to learn what life was like on the other side of the wall.

“I don’t understand,” Sam piped up. He’d been a quiet observer as Seb grilled Eamon for the past hour. “Why stay here? Why not go back to England?”

“Can’t bloody get there,” Eamon answered with an eye roll. “Not sure who’s really to blame, this country or that. But I’ve been trying to get a travel visa for six bloody months. And that’s before you deal with trying to get a ticket on a flight.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously, and it’s unbelievable. It’s unbelievable. I got word my mother’s quite ill, and as it happens I don’t mind her, and wouldn’t mind seeing her again before she goes. But navigating those interminable layers of automated bloody bureaucracy. It had the nerve to tell me I’d qualify more easily for a bereavement visa.”

“A bereavement visa… so, if she’s…”

“Yes, I can see her if I just wait for her to die first.”

“That’s so fucked,” Seb added. He was scrabbling around on the floor, looking through the cabinet for another bottle of Sambuca.

“So, there’s a process to follow.” Sam tented his fingers. He was determined to come across as inquisitive. Curious, yes. He was curious. Taking an interest in his friend Eamon’s life. “How did you start that?”

“Christ almighty.” Seb made his frustration known. “Not this. Is this why you made this poor man drive all the way down from Sonoma?”

“Can’t say I follow,” Eamon said. He eyed the fresh bottle of Sambuca on the counter.

“He wants to go to England,” Seb said. “To see Satan herself.”

“Priti Patel?” Eamon laughed at his own joke.

“No, no, I don’t want to go to England,” Sam stammered. “It’s really just a curiosity,” His eyes drifted to the far end of the bar, where Hector sat nursing a pint of Modelo. The pairing of Sam’s Ring to Lydia’s let her see where he was and talk to his dop, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. He assumed that’s what Hector was for.

“He wants to see Gemma Thomson,” Seb declared far too loudly.

Eamon took the shot as soon as it was laid in front of him. “Dead, surely.” With a sharp exhale through his nose he slammed the glass upside down on the bar. “Only thing animating her was cocaine and hatred. Surely both dried up once she lost her job.”

“What if I told you she was alive? And I had proof?”

“I’d say it was a damn shame. And regrettably, then I’d wonder how you had the proof in the first place. Because I never know when to leave well enough alone.”

“Don’t indulge this,” Seb shouted. “He can’t go to England, man! He has to go to LA to be with his wife. And Gemma is a fucking nightmare, anyway.”

“Guys,” Sam pleaded. He noticed Hector had taken an interest in the conversation. “Please. Obviously I can’t go to England. I’m just asking questions. I can’t stay long tonight anyway.”

“He’s off to go meet up with his new child girlfriend. And I need to go tidy up the back before we close.” Seb gave Eamon a pat on the shoulder as he passed and disappeared into the back.

“Who’s this, then?” Eamon poured himself another shot. Sam covered the top of his glass and waited to see if Sambuca poured all over his hand.

“Just a girl I’m seeing.” He glanced up to check on Hector, who had mercifully shifted focus back to his beer.

“Samir, I will do something I’m loath to, which is to agree with a club owner. You shouldn’t get involved with Gemma Thomson again. She’d gotten a might unstable toward the end there.”

“I’d just be curious to stay in touch in case you find a way across, that’s all.”

“I can tell you what I do know, in the hopes you don’t use it for what I think you’ll use it.” Eamon leaned in and whispered, his arm clasped around Sam. It was a familiar posture for the two of them, one that dated back to Sam’s earliest days as an intern. The nostalgia of the moment gave way to reality: this was Eamon’s way of letting him down gently. “You need deep pockets. Deeper than yours I suspect. The visa fees, the flights, most of which are private. The exit fees owed to our precious Republic of California will nearly match them. And you need a corporate sponsor just to get permission to enter Britain. The only thing greasing the wheels of bureaucracy in Home Office is corporate interest.”

“That sounds impossible.”

“Well, lad.” Eamon’s tone took a turn upward. “You could always get a job as a pilot.”

“Right.” Sam laughed and his shoulders fell. “No problem.”

“Right, so you’ve got a plan then.” The familiar slap on Sam’s back signalled the end of Eamon’s pep talk. “Now I’ve kept you away from work too long, I believe you’ve a customer waiting just there.”

“Hmm?” Sam glanced up and was hit with a rush of adrenaline. Sebastian’s wife Melanie filled the doorway.

“Mel, uh, hi.” It was effort for Sam to get air to his lungs, and the corners of his vision darkened. He could make out individual specks of dust passing through the spotlight that cut across the space between himself and Melanie. Time slowed as he took in her figure, green baby tee stretched over muscle and girth, baggy jeans, and black boots that tipped her from imposing to towering. He saw a thousand scenarios in his mind’s eye, most of which involved her ripping his head open like a beer bottle. “I’ve n-never seen you here.”

“I’ve never been here.” She’d closed the distance between them so fast. Why had the bar fallen silent? Had everyone slipped away, or were they girding themselves to watch a live execution?

“Sebastian’s in the…”

“I’m not here for him.” She tossed her head to one side, and Sam scanned the tattoos on her neck. Are those from prison? “I’m here for you, Sam.”

“M-me?” He could hear Eamon chuckling just behind him, and what sounded like another Sambuca getting poured. The man will drink Seb dry.

“Yes, you.” She rolled her shoulders, and thunderous cracks rang out from her bones. “I wanted to…” Her eyes had drifted past him. “Is that Hector Padilla?”

“It might be. His first name is Hector.”

Mel nodded. “That’s Padilla. He’s union, like me. We were at the port together during the transition.” She seemed to get lost in the memory. “There were hundreds of us back then.”

“You’re both forty-sevens?”

She rolled her eyes. “Pero no me digas ‘forty-seven’... ¡qué pinche coraje me da esa chingadera!”

“I, …” Sam felt the missing earpiece acutely.

“Éramos el Sindicato de Estibadores, ¿oíste? Teníamos un nombre, una lucha. Y esos cabrones nos lo quitaron todo y nos dieron un puto número. Quieren borrar nuestra historia.”

“Melanie, I don’t…”

“He fought harder than any of us, lamb. So he fell the hardest. They made an example of him.” She’d softened and quieted, her tone far less sharp when she spoke English. “He here much?”

“Yeah, most nights. Sometimes complains about Magenta. Sometimes makes a rude joke about me. He never misses the live music.” Sam chose to omit the part where Hector, from time to time, physically threatened him into joining a conspiracy.

“Interesting.”

“Alright.” Sam coughed, which bought him time to contemplate whether to tell Mel what was going on. But he hadn’t cultivated the relationship. He couldn’t predict how she’d react, and further, she seemed rather close with Hector. He tore a bit of skin off of his lip and let the thought pass. “You said you were here for me.”

Mel let out a long sigh, her eyes cast up to the ceiling. She put her hand on Sam’s arm and nudged him toward a table. He felt compelled to sit, partly because she seemed to want him to, and partly because she gave him a light shove down toward the chair. She collapsed onto the chair opposite and stared at the table. “How do we order?” She leaned her face toward the table. “Two Modelos.”

Sam popped back up and headed for the bar.

“Where you off to, lamb?” Mel’s face contorted in confusion.

“Just getting the Modelos.”

“Dios mío, you actually do work here. Hurry back, we need to talk.”

While he poured the drinks he couldn’t help but observe Mel from afar. He’d never seen her by herself and out of her element like this. Considering she knew him, knew Seb, and knew Hector, she seemed content to avoid them all. Instead she traced her fingers along the table, followed the grooves in the reclaimed wood, and often checked around to ensure she hadn’t been crept up on. As the beer spilt over the top of the first glass, he saw her hands tremble, which she styled out into a full-body fidget. Was she angry, or nervous?

He returned to the table with the drinks, and caught a shoulder slug for his trouble. “Not polite to stare.” Sam grimaced as Mel slugged back a quarter of the pint in one go.

“Sorry.”

“I didn’t think you actually worked here. Assumed it was some kind of scam Sebastian was running, keeping you on payroll so you wouldn’t get kicked out of the city.”

Sam’s mouth slanted. “It might be that. He isn’t exactly paying me.”

“No puede ser,” she muttered. “He claimed he was. Dios mío.”

“Well, he pays my Magenta Plus bill.”

“Little lamb, how much does Seb talk to you about the business of this little hobby of his?”

“Not really at all, I guess.” Sam wanted to bristle at the nickname, but it was fair enough. “He complains sometimes about people not buying enough drinks. Or people not coming to see shows.”

“Mano, he’s broke. Even with his salary. He can’t come close to making the rent next month. He hasn’t told you?”

“No… not a word. Wait, are you serious? How is that possible, I thought he owned this place.” He avoided Mel’s intense hazel-eyed stare, and instead found Hector, who had taken notice of them. “I, uh. I was sure he owned it.”

“He did, until the pendejos gave it to Magenta.”

“What?!” Sam leaned away from her and his chair scraped noisily along the ground. “When? Which, uh… pen… de…”

Mel shook her head. “Not for you, mano. But it was the pendejos that run this godforsaken city. It’s blocking progress, they say. The whole block was taken through eminent domain. For more of their pinches casas. Concrete nightmares stacked sky high with compartments to store Magenta fucks and lazy fucking legacies.”

Sam’s head had fallen to the table, his vision filled with darkness and vague outlines of gnarled wood. He banged it a few times, enough so he could feel the pain on his forehead. It was always Magenta, wasn’t it? They had ripped his life apart, limb from limb, and it hadn’t been enough. Now they had to feast on his insides, the sinews, every last stringy morsel. He’d lose his job here, then he’d lose his papers, and then he’d be sent out of the city. It would only deepen his unholy pact with Lydia, to God knows what end.

“Oye, ¿que tal? What the fuck is this?” Mel’s finger thudded into his back. “Pull it together, mano.”

“Sorry.” He lifted his head, and the clamp lights on the ceiling seared his eyes.

“Oh.” She reached out and brushed his cheek. “I’m sorry, lamb.”

Sam wiped his face off. Why am I crying? “That’s so fucking embarrassing, I’m sorry.”

Mel pushed her chair back and loomed over him. “Get up, come on.” Sam’s head dipped back down toward the table, but it was futile, as Mel’s vise-like grip was soon around the back of his neck. She gave him some involuntary assistance to his feet, then pulled him close against her. With an exhale, all of his muscles relaxed and he surrendered to the hug, which enveloped him more than he would’ve expected even given her size. “It’s okay, shh, shhhh.” He convulsed as his tears flowed, and he pressed his face into her chest with a full-on sob.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shh, no talking, okay?” She pulled her arms even tighter around him. “You get through this so we can talk about what happens next.”

“What happens next…” Sam trailed off expectantly, and kept his eyes locked shut. Butterflies swarmed his stomach.

The comfort was brief. She broke the hug, gripping him by the shoulders, her eye contact intense and unavoidable. “¡Qué baboso! What happens next with the club, you pest.”

“The club.” He nodded. Of course, right. “What about it?”

“You have to convince him to shut it down.”

“But…” The word had only just escaped his lips. He was in Mel’s thrall.

“He can’t afford it, lamb. Okay?” She cupped the back of his neck with her hand. The skin of her palm was coarse against his skin and sent tingles down his body. “But he’s worried. He says if it closes you’ll get deported.” She sighed. “He’s got this awful plan to save it.”

“What?”

“Something about your visa. Lamb, I don’t know how they work. I just know this plan of his is going to kill him. It’s against everything he stands for. So the club’s got to go, okay? Dios mío, I wish this place didn’t exist.”

“What, is…”

“Stop saying what! You hear me. This fucking club is ruining my life. I’m sorry, lamb, I don’t want anything bad to happen to you, but…”

“No, I…” Samir was stunned. Once again he felt trapped between Sebastian and Melanie. “What is this plan?”

“Hey!” She squeezed his neck, and his eyes closed as he prepared for the end. “No plan. Okay? It can’t come to that. Don’t be selfish, mano.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll talk to him?”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Good boy.” She gave his shoulders a final squeeze, then straightened up. “Come through for me on this, please. I don’t want to have to take care of this myself, but I will.” The threat was clear. Sam tried to catch her eyes once more, but she’d already looked past him. “I’ll say hello to Hector. Be good, lamb.”

She retrieved Hector, and after a terse exchange in Spanish the two of them stormed out of Maelzel’s. Only Eamon was left sat at the bar. His head rested next to the empty bottle of Sambuca, and he looked at peace.