City of Corpses by John C. Wright
He nodded.
She said, “You must have heard rumors of recent… events.”
Had he said no and simply admitted he did not know what events she meant, the charade would have ended in disaster because Yumiko frankly was out of ideas.
But she gave him precisely that look of confidence men of any age like to get from pretty young women, so instead he said, “Rumors, and, ah… such. There is a Moth boy that everyone heard about who created that commotion in the Elfking’s hall underground during their Yuletide feast. Some of my uncles were there and saw it.”
Since she had no idea what any of this meant, she merely nodded sagely. When he looked at her as if he expected her to say something, she said, “And what about the… others.”
He sat up straight, as if struck by a shocking thought. “So there are others? Moths who have not sworn to the Elfking? The son of the Riddle-weaver is not the only one?”
Yumiko said, “Perhaps you have heard rumors that some of my cousins escaped this oath and also escaped punishment.”
It was clear from the look on his face that he had not heard any such rumor. He said, “Well, I like to keep my ear to the soil, you know.”
Yumiko did not know what to say, so she looked him in the eye and said, “I think you understand my situation.”
He nodded again. “You quarreled with your elders. You do not want to swear the oath when you turn twenty-one. You think life might be better among the Cobwebs than the Moths? Why not just go to your cousins, whoever they are, who also are avoiding the Elfking?”
She said, “Finding them would require detective work I don’t know how to do.”
“But you come to me. Even though our clans have been enemies ever since Titania died?”
Yumiko had no idea who Titania was, so she just nodded sagely once again. Yumiko said, “Where I am concerned, all oaths are void, and all vendettas forgotten!”
He pursed his lips. “Well, the world cannot be run without oaths and promises. There are rules and laws, you know, and the lower must bow to the higher.”
Yumiko said, “A friend of mine told me some Cobwebs dream of a different world. A better one.”
He looked at her very carefully. “A world without rules would be… anarchy.”
She said, “Would it? Some call that liberty.”
He said, “Tell me the name of your parents and when and why you quarreled. If your story checks out…”
Yumiko said, “The past is the past. I’ve already forgotten it. Are you afraid of me changing my mind, turning around, and going back home? That is not an option for me. And what would it prove? If I actually were a Mustardseed sent to spy on you, Dr. McGee could have had some actress play the role of my hateful stepmother or whoever. Listen: I need the job, and I have no other place to stay. You need a waitress and chorus girl.”
He nodded. “You’ve convinced me you are not a Mustardseed, at least. None of Dr. McGuire’s spies would forget her name.”
She nodded, looking calm and hoping that the heat she felt in her cheeks was not visible as a blush.
He said, “I am proud of my club. I think of it as sort of neutral ground. Even Moths are welcome if they behave. There was one, Rotwang’s boy, used to come here now and again. But I have clients and regular customers from the Day and from the Twilight, and even, from time to time, one of the Night folk, or an old warlock out for one last fling before his turn comes to pay the tithe. But no baptized Christian is welcome here unless he has committed grave sin since his last confession. Well?”
Yumiko silently counted the number of people per day she had killed so far. She said, “My conscience is not clean, if that is what you are asking.”
He said, “I don’t run this place for profit, but for a deeper cause. Your purpose here is to excite lust in the thoughts of men, so you dress provocatively, you walk provocatively, you talk provocatively, and you put the drink down on the table provocatively. But you also take the food orders quickly and without error because it also serves the cause to trick Day folk into thinking good service from servants is a right they can buy. Flattery makes them ungrateful, and ingratitude is pride. Taking any person for granted is good, but taking a person smaller and weaker than you for granted is better.”
“You’ve mentioned good and better. What is best?”
“If the smaller and weaker person a man demeans is an innocent and nubile young virgin he should be protecting from hurt and dishonor, that is best of all. Second best is for her to hate that protection, because that, again, is ingratitude.”
Yumiko felt a small tickling of her pride. “What if she can fend for herself?”
He waved his hand in the air as if shooing away a fly. “That makes ingratitude even easier. Hell loves a self-made man!”
“Now, then, the trick for any of my girls, in all of this, is for her to act like she is not being demeaned. That it is normal to show perfect strangers the intimate sights reserved for the bridegroom on the wedding night. It makes the greatest gift a girl can bestow no longer a treasure, see? No longer priceless.”
She nodded gravely.
He continued. “Moths are supposed to be friendly to mankind. Can you act like an elf girl and seduce a man who walks in here into committing adultery with you in his heart?”
She said, “Seduce? Adultery? You are not expecting me to… to…”
He was sincerely shocked. “Oh, no! Are you insane? I run a nightclub, not a cathouse! I am not a human! By cold iron, girl, what do you take me for?”
She said, “But you said…”
He was flustered. “I said adultery in his heart. By the rules, that counts just as bad. I didn’t make the rules! I just play by them.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means you make the lusty young men and the filthy old men think about it. Encourage them without encouraging them. You make them think it is no big deal for a gal to flaunt her goods and a guy to look and like looking. Make them think it is normal. Sex is secular, not sacred; it is a pastime, not a selfishness-destroying ecstasy. It is just a commodity.”
Yumiko remembered the billboards and clothing she had seen. “I am under the impression humans already think exactly that.”
“Makes your job easier then. You just help maintain the illusion. See? Deception, distraction, misdirection.” He spread his hands and smiled. “That is all we need to do, and the tithe will fall on someone else. Simple, no? Now, can you do that? I don’t want your Mothish sentimentality for Sons of Adam suddenly to crop up and spoil things. Can you do it?”
She thought a moment, seeking what to say. She remembered what Elfine had said about having a crooked reputation. It brought high-priced jobs and was good for business.
She said, “In a world free of rules, everyone is responsible for himself. Right? That means I can dress, talk, walk, and act how I like, and whatever happens in the hearts of men around me, well, that is their business, not mine.”
As soon as she said the words, Yumiko inwardly winced. She thought that no one could be so obtuse as to believe such obvious nonsense as what she had just said. She had tried to speak like what she imagined a wicked girl, a siren, a seductress, would sound like, but only an unconvincing caricature had come forth.
But to her surprise, Willy Cobweb merely nodded. It must have sounded normal to him.
He said, “You need a stage name. We cannot call you Kawasaki or whatever bogus name you gave Boggy. How about Kissy Cutie or Wang Me?”
“Sayori Yunomi.”
Willy looked puzzled, “Sorry you know me? Sounds like a threat.”
“Sayori is born of the night. Yunomi is teacup, but, when written, is evening-of-beauty. Surely a fitting name for a maidservant here.” She did not mention that it also referred to an archery bow, as did Yumiko’s real name. Having learned her true name so recently, she was unwilling to bury it under an alias, except at a shallow depth.
“Sorry Yunomi it is. Pretty name. Are you low on funds?”
“I have nothing.”
“You need a place to stay? Give me that key back then.” He took a notepad, wrote a note, and handed it to her, saying, “Okay, Sorry. Take that down to Boggy. She will introduce you to the stage manager and the maître-d’ and work you into the work and rehearsal schedule. Boggy will arrange to have you paid in cash and dock your pay for room rental upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
“The Captain owns the hotel occupying the top floors here, and some of the other chorus girls will be your roommates.”
“Captain…?”
Wilcolac narrowed his eyes. “Captain Cobweb is one of my uncles. He is the owner of record here. You did not know? Well, no matter.” His manner grew brusque. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Boggy will explain the rules about gentleman visitors and such. No crucifixes, candles, or bedtime prayers. Some of our guests and employees are from older families and have more elf in them.
“Don’t be late for anything by a second, or you’re fired. Don’t piss off the customers, or you’re fired. No drinking on duty, or you’re fired. If a customer buys you a drink, you drink from the marked bottles Boggy will show you. Customer gets too friendly, don’t argue and don’t fret; the bouncer will come. No blessing and no cursing, not aloud and not by runes. Don’t argue with the drunks, but wait for the bouncer, or you’re fired.”
He smiled an avuncular smile. “You look worried. Don’t be. This will be educational. Waiting tables is the one time you girls get to find out what it is like to be a guy: the customer has a right to change his mind, just like a woman does; the customer is always right, just like a woman is; the customer is fickle, the customer is bratty, the customer gets the last word; but in the end, you get what you want out of his pants, kick his hungover, sorry butt out the door, and forget his name. The only difference is that what you get out of his pants is his billfold.
“And welcome aboard. You are a Peach Cobbler Girl now. Strut with pride.”
Chapter Two: Night Life
1. Run Ragged
As “Sorry” (as she was now called), Yumiko found herself no more able to spy out the secrets of the club than a goldfish in a bowl.
During the first week, she had scant opportunity to take out her radio gear and check on the source of her tracer signals. She worried that the enemy would detect the signals, or find the devices, or the little things would run out of battery power. As each hour passed, the likelihood of one or more grew greater, but all her hours were occupied.
On the first day, Polednitsa Cobweb, the staff nurse, gave her a brief but unpleasant examination, drawing blood and gathering urine in a cup. Polednitsa’s little room was white walled, white floored, and windowless, smelled of disinfectant and alcohol, and was kept at a breathlessly warm temperature.
Nurse Polednitsa was a blonde who seemed too young to have passed medical school. Her eyes were so pale a blue as to look almost like the hottest part of a flame.
Her voice was sharp and dry, her accent lilting, Slavic, and aristocratic. “Listen closely. Checkups are once a month on the full of the moon. If you are found to be unclean, or pregnant, or marked with a chrism, that is grounds for immediate discharge. Use of recreational drugs, abuse of wine or spirits, or the discovery of blood not your own in your bloodstream is grounds for immediate discharge. Some of the girls here are allergic to cold-hammered iron, to flat stones with a hole rubbed in the middle, and to pomegranate seeds. None are permitted at any place on the grounds at any time. Also, some have peanut allergies, so, no peanuts. Do you have any allergies of this type?”
Yumiko could only say, “Not that I remember…”
Polednitsa handed her a questionnaire, saying, “Please write out your genealogy for five generations, back to your great-great-grandparents, with all your uncles, aunts, cousins, and second and third cousins.”
Yumiko balked. “Why?”
“In case there are any genetic markers for disease, or royal blood, or a family curse.”
Yumiko handed it back. “I do not know my relatives so far out. I do not even know my mother’s name.”
Polednitsa glared at her a moment with her hot blue eyes and then made a quick note on the paper. Yumiko casually glanced in the mirror behind Polednitsa and read over her shoulder: Not Twilight. Day. Restrict diet. Elf food forbidden.
There came a plethora of other questions, which Yumiko found bewildering, and which she eluded and evaded as best she could, smiling politely and bowing her head after every sentence. This seemed to exasperate the young, hot-eyed nurse.
She was then sent downstairs, where Leshenka the wardrobe mistress showed Yumiko the finer points of the Peach Cobbler Girl costume. Leshenka was a round-faced crone with wild, flyaway hair badly in need of combing, which, for some reason, she had dyed green.
Leshenka was also a full-time seamstress. She hand-stitched the front and back pieces of Yumiko’s suit until it fit like a glove. The built-in corset enforced a nice hourglass shape, emphasizing cleavage while narrowing her waist sharply. The high cut of the seat likewise emphasized the length of her legs and the curve of her hips. Slouching or slumping was impossible, and striking any pose that was indelicate or unlovely was difficult.
Leshenka instructed Yumiko on how to walk and talk, how to perch on the back of a chair or railing, and how to dip when lowering a drink to the table. The wardrobe mistress rarely spoke above a rustling whisper. It was like listening to autumn leaves talking.
Two identical suits were given to her. Leshenka said, “I have made the adjustments just for you. Each of my uniforms is unique for the woman’s body who wears it, so there is no swapping. You are not allowed to take the uniform off site. It takes two Cobbler Girls to put one on. Stockings on first. Bend at the hips, keeping your torso straight, suck in your stomach, and hold the suit thus and so while someone zips it for you. For bathroom breaks or emergencies, two Cobbler Girls have to be pulled from the floor.”
“The waist is very tight,” gasped Yumiko.
“The corset contains metal slats. Do not eat in the morning until after you don the suit. That way you know how many teaspoons you can swallow before you cannot breathe. You must stay within one pound of your current weight, plus or minus retaining water. Weigh-in is every morning. It is no harder than being on an Olympic wrestling team.”
Yumiko nodded at those words, which she found soothing. Holding herself to an iron discipline was something that felt familiar. Her body and spirit no doubt remembered whatever remorseless and savage training regime Winged Vengeance had imposed on her, even if her mind forgot. This gave her the courage to face the prospect of being a nightclub hostess.
Besides, wearing a suit with metal slats seemed familiar, too.
Leshenka showed her the wireless microphone built into the bow tie of the costume. A battery pack and transmitter fit into the cummerbund. The costume not only had no pockets, but there was no other place to hide anything.
“Some of our customers do not like it if the maidservants have to write things down to remember them. The mike picks up anything spoken to you. It is recorded in the kitchen. You play back the recording to get the order.”
Yumiko wondered what sort of customers objected to writing.
Leshenka continued in her dry, breathy voice, “With this system, we never get an order wrong. Also, the bouncers monitor conversations so that if the customer gets too fresh, one can ride to your rescue.”
“What is too fresh?”
“New customers cannot touch you, except to put an arm around your waist to take a picture with you. Lots of the guys want a picture with a Peach Cobbler Girl, especially on their birthday. A customer who drops more than a C-note, he can pat you on the fanny or tuck a tip into your cummerbund, but can’t steal a kiss or cop a feel. You never reject any advances; the bouncers reject for you. Your job is to make the creeps think they still have a chance if only they got you alone. And so you can never be alone. That is what the mike is for.”
Yumiko now had some hint of how Willy had overheard the conversation in Boggy’s office. Yumiko said, “How do I turn it off? Like for a private conversation or something?”
Leshenka smiled a wry smile. “No private conversations here. You’ll be too busy for that.”
Between rehearsals, training, waiting tables, performing in the chorus line on stage, and the half a hundred other tasks the New Girl was required to volunteer to do, this wry prediction turned out to be correct.
The sole time she was alone on the first day was in the lady’s locker room on the third floor between practice sets. The locker room, showers, sinks, and toilets were together in one area adjacent to the dance studio. Yumiko trapped a strand of hair inside the hinge of her locker before closing the door so that she would know, if the hair was disturbed, that someone else had opened the door.
Then, in the bathroom, with no eyes on her, Yumiko climbed the wall above the last stall on the left and hid the wide red sash of her Foxmaiden costume (with her magic ring and hidden gear tucked away in an impossible mermaid pouch within) beneath a tile of the drop ceiling.
She was no longer terrified that her hat would fall off but now was terrified that someone would find her trove.
Even when she was not on duty, she was not alone. Meals she ate in the kitchen with the other girls, with the cost deducted from her pay. After curfew, when the twenty other dancers left for home, Yumiko bunked with nine girls in three beds, two cots, and one couch in one suite of two rooms on the fourth floor.
As it turned out, Captain Cobweb, the unseen owner, also owned the health club one block away on 2nd Avenue, and Yumiko, as well as the other show girls, were required to attend an aerobics class and to spend an hour at the swimming pool.
Allegedly, this was to keep the show girls in athletic dancing trim, but Yumiko noticed many of the same men she saw watching her doing aerobic exercises or swimming laps at the health club were later at the nightclub, so she thought that health club visits were something of an advertising ploy.