THE PRIVATE PARTY

36

"What do we do here?"

The Owner looks very serious. "You must entertain the other gentlemen here. That is your role. Play it."

"Jesus."

Two of the shaved head bouncers are moving towards your table. The Owner taps your thigh, telling you to slide off. He stands. "I will send word for you," he says.

The two men escort him out and you look around for Vania. She is listening and nodding as the police chief leans towards her, talking. You see him place a meaty hand on her knee. She does not flinch, staring him in the eye.

It occurs to you that it is strange that the chief of police or whoever he is does not recognize Vania from the television news. A man like that must have to watch it. But he would never make the connection to the real person he sees n the screen, even staring her straight in the face here. She needs that context to exist as a person for him. The police chief expects only a certain kind of woman in here, and so that is what he sees. He sees her outfit.

He is talking eagerly, demonstrating the size of something with two hands. He is trying to impress her. He looks exactly like a boy in a high-school cafeteria telling a girl about the awesome air he just got on his skateboard. And Vania is smiling and you can tell from her eyes that she is far, far away. She catches your gaze for a second, looks back at her man, nodding. She is telling you she needs rescuing.

You slink over to her, swinging your hips, and fall backwards onto the sofa beside her with a little squeal – you are playing drunk party girl – and you spill her drink and you make all the uniformed men say, "Whoa, whoa there."

You squeeze in beside Vania and she puts her arm around you and kisses your cheek. One of the men says, "Hot damn." Another says, "Now it's a party."

You are aware of your bare legs beside Vania's on the sofa, and how deep the sofa is, and how your little skirts keep climbing up and how you have to keep tugging yours down. All the men's eyes are on that set of four knees, all hungry to see what is revealed in the shadow where you cross your legs. You feel a hot hand on the back of your neck. It belongs to the army officer to one side of you. He hasn't even looked over at you; he has just placed it there as he chats to a guy with a heavy Russian accent on his other side. He is stroking you as you would stroke a cat that just climbed into your lap.

Well, you did basically climb into his lap.

Vania gives you a questioning look. You whisper to her ear, "The Owner is making contact. Then we follow him in."

"You sure that's going to work?"
"No, I'm not at all sure."

"We have to put the recorder together," says Vania.

"We tell them we have to go to the washroom together."

"Because we need to talk about boys."

"And cheerleading."

"Share with the class, ladies," says the police chief, "share with the class!"

"Private," you tell him, leaning to give him a view into your cleavage. "Girls need some secrets."

"Speaking of which," says Vania, "we need the powder room."

The policeman waves at a bouncer, who takes his time coming over. "These ladies need the little girls' room. You absolutely need to go together I'm guessing. I knew it. What they do in there together is the basic mystery of life, eh Darin? You need to go with me next time, Darin? All right ladies. Follow this gentleman. Don't do anything Darin and I wouldn't do."

As you extricate yourselves and move off you feel a slap on your ass. Not a very light one, either, one that stings a little. You hold Vania's hand and you follow the bouncer onto another metal catwalk and down another concrete corridor. There is a man in a suit leaning against a wall in the darkness, almost too drunk to stand, and the bouncer speaks sharply to him. He shuffles off.

The bouncer opens the washroom door for you. "I wait here," he says. "Not too long."

You are about to ask him who the hell he thinks he is, but Vania pulls you inside and the door closes.

You both go into a stall and lock it. Vania has already hiked up her skirt and is grimacing as she fishes with her fingers between her legs. "Owie," she says, and she pulls out the condom-wrapped back tube, now very slightly shiny. She picks apart the knot.

You hike your skirt and pull out your package with a little discomfort.

"I really do have to pee," says Vania.

As she sits on the toilet you extract the two parts of the voice recorder from their condoms.You fit the pieces together. "Now it's going to have to go in your bra," you say, "right in the centre of your cleavage, and it's going to look like a pen or something hanging there."

"Can't I carry it in my purse?"

"I'm scared it won't pick up the sound clearly. If anyone asks you what it is you say it's an e-cigarette and you're trying to quit and you ask them if they have ever tried to quit and they'll forget all about it. Most of them are getting drunk by now anyway."