Late Saturday night, Swithin sat, dressed and readied, on the edge of his bed, gazing across the room at the ticket Amy had given him three day’s before.  Its laminated surface reflected an unsteady flicker—a flicker Swithin toyed with by tilting his head from side to side.  Swithin stood up, walked over to the ticket and picked it up.  “Admit one,” he said to himself as he held it in his hands, and then set it back down.  He pulled back the cuff of his shirt and looked at his wristwatch—it was 10:35 pm.  He paused for a moment. “Fuck it,” he said as he picked up the ticket again and slid it into his pocket. 

Seconds later, Swithin grabbed his coat and keys and left the guesthouse.

By the time Swithin drove up to Studio Eleven, The Collective fundraiser was in full swing, the building was reverberating with music and there was a long line of people waiting to get in.  The prime parking spots had all been taken, so he had to search hard to find one for himself.  When he finally did, it was five blocks from the club.

As Swithin walked past the entrance to the club, on his way to the back of the line, he heard Marcus call out.

“Saint Swithin!” Marcus exclaimed.  “Over here!”

Swithin turned and saw Marcus sitting behind a small table next to a girl who was checking a list against another girl’s ID.  The table was just inside the club, beyond two bouncers.  One was frisking people as they approached and the other was checking IDs beside him.

Swithin glanced over at the two bouncers and then back at Marcus. 

Marcus got up, walked over to the bouncer checking IDs and gestured toward Swithin.  “He’s with us.”

The bouncer looked at Swithin.  “Hold out your arms.”

Swithin held out his arms.

The bouncer frisked Swithin, and then asked to see his ID. 

Again, he complied.

The bouncer waved him in.

“Good to see you!” Marcus said, as he reached out to shake Swithin’s hand.

“You too,” Swithin replied with a smile. 

Marcus walked back over to his seat behind the table and sat down.  “I’m working will-call.  Are you listed?”

“I not sure,” Swithin said as he reached into his pocket, pulled out his ticket and showed it to Marcus.  “Either way, I’ve got a ticket.” 

“Great,” Marcus said as he opened a red stamp pad on the table in from of him and rolled a stamp onto it.  “Show me your right inside wrist.”

Swithin pulled back his right cuff and exposed his inside wrist—Marcus rolled the stamp.  Swithin looked down and saw the word:

APPRECIATION

“Welcome,” Marcus said as he gestured into the club.

“Do you need my ticket?” Swithin questioned.

Marcus winked.  “Keep it as a memento.”

Swithin smiled. “Thanks.”

Upon entering the club, a thin guy with an intense stare immediately walked up to Swithin.  He was wearing a tight yellow t-shirt and holding a handful of necklaces with red plastic blinking hearts hanging off them. “Hi!” he said enthusiastically as he placed a necklace around Swithin’s neck.

Swithin looked uneasy by the offering, but went with it nevertheless.  “What’s this for?”

“It’s a token of our appreciation.”

“You’re a member of The Collective?”

“I am,” the guy replied with a smile as he turned and pointed out others around him handing out necklaces.  “We’re greeters.”

“Awesome,” Swithin commented in a flat voice as he walked past the guy and continued on deeper into the club.

After pausing for a moment to soak in the lights, music and people of a dance area just beyond the greeters, Swithin walked out onto the first floor deck that wrapped around the back of the club.  On the deck he saw Gary standing alone.  He was bobbing his head along to the music and watching people as they passed by.  Swithin called out his name.

Gary looked over, saw Swithin and immediately pulled out his cell phone. 

Swithin watched on from a distance as Gary started to talk to someone, occasionally glancing back at him with an uncomfortable look.  As Swithin started toward Gary, Johnson appeared in front of him.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Swithin stepped back.  “What kind of question is that?” Swithin scanned around him.  “If you haven’t noticed there’s a party going on.”

Johnson stepped in toward Swithin.  “You shouldn’t be here,” he said in a lowered voice.

“Why not?” Swithin snapped back.

Johnson gestured toward the rail of the back deck.  “Could you step aside with me for a moment?”

“Sure,” Swithin replied as he walked over to the rail with Johnson and stood next to him.

Johnson looked off across the Bay. “A few days after our deal at the park, Gifford started tripping.”

“About what?” Swithin questioned as he too looked across the Bay.

“You.”

Swithin turned and looked at Johnson.  “Why?”

“He wouldn’t tell me,” Johnson replied, maintaining his eyes forward.  “He just kept cursing your name more and more everyday that passed.”

“Could you try and talk to him again?” Swithin asked nervously.  “Find out why he’s upset?” 

Johnson turned and looked at Swithin.  “I don’t work for him anymore—I quit a week ago.  Gary’s working for him now.”

Swithin reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.

Johnson leaned in toward Swithin.  “Gifford’s coming here to hurt you tonight.  You got that?”

Swithin took a breath.  “You think I should leave?”

Johnson stepped back.  “I think that’d be a good idea.”

As Swithin turned away from Johnson and started toward an exit he bumped into Gary. 

“Whoa there, Saint Swithin,” Gary said.  “What’s your hurry?”

Swithin glanced back toward where Johnson had been standing.  He was gone.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Gary said, as he turned and wrapped an arm around Swithin’s shoulder.

Swithin peeled it off, turned and faced Gary.  “Get the fuck away form me!”

Gary’s eyes fluttered.  “Get the fuck away from me?  I just want to buy you a drink.  Is there a problem with that?”

“I can buy my own drinks, thanks,” Swithin said as he started to walk and then run away form Gary.

After cutting and weaving through the crowd of first floor partygoers for nearly a minute, Swithin slowed down.  Having successfully eluded Gary, he started once again toward an exit.

Swithin suddenly felt two hands slip under his armpits and lift him off the ground.  As the crowd split in front of him, he looked back over his shoulders and saw the faces of the two bouncers from out front.  They brought him to a closed door.

“What’s going on?” Swithin asked as they set him back down onto the floor. 

“Oscar wants to talk to you,” one of the bouncers said as he unlocked the door and gestured for Swithin to enter.

On the other side of the door Swithin saw Oscar standing outside on a narrow walkway smoking a cigarette.  One of the bouncers pushed Swithin forward and slammed the door shut behind him. 

Oscar took a puff of his cigarette.  “One of my men overheard a conversation you just had on the back deck.”

“Yeah?” Swithin replied as he straightened his coat.

“Yeah,” Oscar snapped back as he flicked his cigarette at Swithin’s feet.

Swithin jumped up awkwardly.

“He heard something about drugs and someone who’s looking to kick your ass tonight.”

Swithin wiped his hands over his face.  “I can explain…”

“I don’t want you to explain!” Oscar interrupted.  “Just tell me if it’s true.”

Swithin looked down.  “It’s true...”

Oscar shook his head. “Hijo de puta!”

Swithin looked up. “I don’t speak Spanish?”

“It means, son of a bitch, Culo.“  Oscar paused.  “Were you selling drugs when I first met you?”

“No,” Swithin replied in a quiet voice.

“But you are now?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

Oscar huffed.  “I had a feeling you’d get into trouble.  You had that poser-player look about you.  Like a fuck-up waiting to happen.”

“Are you gonna call the police?”

“No.”

“Then, what?”

“I’m gonna kick your ass to the street, is what!”

Swithin heard a rapid succession of high-pitched beeps.

Oscar reached behind him, unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt and held it up to his mouth.  “What is it?”

A male voice spoke.  “It’s starting to rain, so the promoters want to stretch a tarp over the back deck.”

Oscar looked up and held his palm open; a drop of rain fell onto it.  “That’s fine.”

“They need roof access to do it.”

“Hold on.” Oscar looked at Swithin  “At the end of this walkway is a gate that leads to the front of the club.  Use it, and get the fuck out of here.”

Swithin took a breath and started walking toward the gate.

“One more thing,” Oscar called out to Swithin.

Swithin stopped walking and turned around, “Yeah?”

“I never want to see you here again.  Understand?”

“I do,” Swithin replied.  He turned back to the gate, unlatched it and walked out.

Once Swithin was in front of the club, the rain stepped up.  He started to jog down the street in the hopes of making it back to his car before he got too wet.  Two blocks from the club and three blocks from his car, he ducked underneath an illuminated office awning.  The rain was falling hard, so he figured he’d wait to see if it passed or lessened before moving on.  As he stood, marching in place to stay warm with his hands stuffed into his pockets, his cell phone rang.  He checked the number—it was Carlton.

“Swithin!”  Carlton exclaimed into the phone.

“What is it?” Swithin asked.

“I just got off the phone with Crazy Jason.  He found out we sold the sheets.”

“So?”  Swithin questioned.

“He asked me how many we sold, and I told him all five, ‘cuz we did.”

“Yeah… So?” Swithin questioned apprehensively.

“So then he starts to laugh.  I mean really laugh.”

“…I don’t understand.”

“Swithin…  Only the top two sheets Crazy Jason gave us were treated.  The third, forth and fifth sheets were bunk—they weren’t treated at all.  He put them in the envelope to fuck with us.”

Swithin gulped.  “Are you telling me the sheets I sold Gifford were bunk?”

“All three of ‘em, “Carlton replied unsteadily.

Swithin took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I still have my money,” Carlton added.  “I can get it to you tonight.  We can pay him back.”

Swithin looked as if he might get sick.  “I can’t talk right now,” he said as he bent over.  “I’ll call you back later.”  He flipped his phone shut and started to throw up.     

From out in the darkness and rain before him, Swithin heard Gifford’s voice call out.  “Saint Swithin!  We need to talk!”

Chapter 32 - The Learning Curve >>