THE PRIVATE PARTY

39

"Whoa! Hey!" yell the men. "Friend of yours? Special guy?" But no one seems in the mood to stop him. He moves with such assurance he could be an employee of the place, a manager. He gets you and Vania off the table.

"Ladies need a small break," he says.

"We're going to be right back, boys," you call.

The bouncers at the door aren't even watching this. They are on their phones, possibly giving reports of the graffiti in the passageways.

The Professor leads you through the small knot of men to a sofa where he sits and you straddle him, as if to give him a lapdance. Vania sits by his side.

"What the hell," you breathe in his ear. "How did you get in? Are you crazy?"

"I got in," he says, "the same way you will get out."

"Where is it?"

"You will find it," he says, "when you see murderers."

"Murderers? What murderers?"

"Uh oh," he says, "party's over." He nods towards the door, where two other skinheads in suits, with headsets, have entered. They are talking with the room's bouncer's and staring over at him. "I fear I will have to leave you now."

"Jesus. Are you carrying that gun? If they find it they will kill you. Literally."

He shakes his head. "The gun is in a safe place. For you."

"For me? What safe place?"

The Professor stands, and you slide off him, as the guards push their way through the room towards him. Their faces are hard.

"Where did you leave the gun?" you hiss.

"In the same place" says the Professor. "Where you see murderers. Gentlemen?"

"You," says the biggest guy. "We need to talk." They grab his arms and march him out the door.

A few heads turn to watch this procession; there is unease in the room now, and some of the men are staring at you and Vania again, in a different way. They do not look friendly now. You pull her up and walk straight towards the bouncers at the door.

"We need go now," you say, remembering your Russian accent. "These gentlemen not nice, we not feel safe."

"You are perfectly safe here with us, ladies."

"We need to find my sponsor, talking in VIP room."

"I have no instructions to take you there."

"My sponsor very important man. He fire you."

The bouncer smiles, but uneasily.

You go on, "I need to tell him, not good man, you just take away. Information. Very important."

He looks uncertainly at his colleague, who shrugs. "I'll take them," the other says. "I don't care. This way, ladies." He smiles darkly as he opens the door for you. He runs his hand over your buttocks as you pass.

Out on the dark metal catwalks there is no sign of the Professor. You don't even know in what direction he was taken. You walk slowly, trying to keep up with the bouncer in your heels, with Vania behind you, sometimes grasping at your shoulder or waist to make you slow down. You are both tripping on the perforations and the hoses that cross the path, the steps up and down. You come to the bridge across a great open space, with the tow low handrails on either side. There is a chemicak smell. On this bridge is where you saw the sign: "Look out for art", and now, written in red paint right on the walkway, is a new one: "Art will have its revenge." The bouncers stop short at this one, stooping to inspect it. They touch it: their fingers come away wet. They stare all about them, shine their flashlights into the darkness. The beams show rotting concrete walls, dangling pipes, rivets. The men are apprehensive, tense. They stand and walk to the end of the bridge, with you slowly followig, and as ou step off oto concrete agai one curses, shouts.