Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

“Copying now.”

“When you’re done, stream it through. You know the drill. And give me a transcript.”

The ability to turn on a cell phone without the owner’s knowledge or consent was old technology. It had been used by the FBI to bring down members of the Genovese crime family more than a decade earlier. It was the reason heads of state do not carry cell phones and why they are often stripped from members of their entourage as well. It was a modern-day fact of life. If you carried a cell phone with a live battery, you were wired for sound, and anybody with the right hardware could listen in, not just to phone calls but to any face-to-face conversations as well. Anything within earshot of the phone could be recorded. Carrying a live cell phone was the electronic equivalent of wearing a bug.

The place is everything Herman described and more. I am seated at a table in the middle of the room up nearly to my waist in purple smoke. This comes from a machine that heats glycol mixed with water, producing a thick vapor. It is blown like a ground-hugging fog over the stage until it spills down and piles up on the floor like bilious clouds of melted purple marshmallow. This is occasionally pierced by laser lights that scatter in the fog like bullets, every color of the rainbow.

It is crowded. The pounding music vibrates off the walls, rattling the ice in my drink as I finger the tumbler on the table.

Men are piled up against the bar at the other side of the room trying to get more libation, many of them rowdy, half gassed and working toward a full tank.

So far I see no sign of the woman we know as Ben, Crystal to her friends here. Though with this mob it’s hard to tell. Every once in a while I glance at Herman, who is seated at one of the booths higher up against the back wall where he can get a more panoramic view while he keeps one eye on my table. He scans the room and shakes his head. He doesn’t see her either.

Across the room a bunch of young guys in an overly festive mood seem to be vying for top honors, most obnoxious group in the house. I am guessing it’s an office party.

One of them pulls his tie up around his head and wears it like a sweatband. Suddenly this becomes the craze. It is cloned among his followers until everyone has their tie draped down over their right ear like some new fraternal order. Who says people aren’t sheep?

They compete with each other, ordering drinks, making lewd gestures, shouting until it reaches a crescendo in the contest to see who can become Emperor Odious. You could float a boat on the drinks they spill. The place seems to have a flexible definition of the term gentlemen . They are shouting and screaming at the top of their lungs just to be heard over the sound system. By morning, if they keep it up, one of them will be naked and the others will be missing their voice boxes. It is what passes for a good time among the young and stupid.

I glance back at Herman. Still no sign.

A few of the more sober types wait in ambush as the young women filter out from behind a curtain at the other side of the room.

The sign above the curtain reads EMPLOYEES ONLY-out of bounds, sanctuary for the women if they fall into clutches and are able to make it that far.

New customers keep coming through the door. I am surprised by the number of people already here, and it’s still early. A quarter to five and the place is two-thirds full. If things continue like this, by ten o’clock it will be a human press.

A few of the men sitting at tables by themselves appear to be wallflowers. Though I suspect they might say the same thing about me. Herman clearly has more confidence in me than I do. In this scene, I exhibit the same shy reluctance I did in high school. It’s not my kind of place and I begin to wonder if I can pull it off, catch her interest long enough to get outside.

Others appear to be regulars who have already staked claims. The girls cuddle up to them in the booths. One of them takes a seat on a guy’s lap, wearing a short tight skirt that leaves little to the imagination, and with no preliminaries, she starts to move to the gyrations of the music.

There is a loud recorded drum roll from the PA system and a husky male voice announces: “Give a warm welcome to Carlotta, let’s hear it.” A few stuttering claps and a wolf whistle later, a girl with dark hair and a costume that is mostly a mirage from the designer’s memory enters the stage, leg first, through a slit in the curtain. She moves like a snake charmer, her feet and lower legs disappearing in the fog that spills from the stage. I wonder what the OSHA claim would look like if she sucks this crap into her lungs. Worse, I begin to wonder what my claim might be if I sit here much longer. That is when I see her.

She enters the room through the curtain on the other side of the raised stage. There is no missing her. Even in the dim light with the fog and the disorientation from the laser lights, Ben stands out. Slender, petite, and with all the feline curves that nature designed for a sexual lure, to any guy with good vision, her form alone would be enough to stun sound judgment and put his libido on steroids. Your average caveman would have her by the hair dragging her back to his den before you could say “beat my time.” Two of the more rowdy guys from the party try to corral her. She sidesteps them and keeps going. Apparently she’s not into head ties.

I stand up, wave my arms, and call the waiter over. He sees me but doesn’t move. I hold up some green, two crisp twenties to get his attention, and he skates toward me through the fog like a star in the Ice Capades. “That girl over there. I think her name is Crystal. I’d like to buy her a drink.”

“Oh, yes, sir. A lovely girl. Good choice.” He says it like I’m ordering vintage wine as he snatches the twenties from my fingers.

Before he can move, I see some guy on the other side of the stage grab her by the arm and start to hustle her off to his table. The only thing slowing him down is his staggering gait. I wonder if he’s with the wedding party. I look to the waiter. “It’s worth a hundred to you if you can get her away from him and over here,” I tell him.

“Yes, sir. Let me see what I can do, sir.”

“And open a tab for me.”

“I will do that immediately.”

“After you get the girl,” I tell him.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” He is gone in a servile flash.

I glance back at Herman. He gives me a shrug with one shoulder, then quickly nods toward the other side of the room. By the time I look back the waiter has arrived at her table. She is now seated as he whispers in her ear. Slowly she rises from her chair and looks my way. Before she can move, the drunk is up grabbing at her arm, haggling with the waiter. He reaches for his wallet. What started out as a well-laid plan is turning into a meat auction with the girl caught in the middle. The customer has hold of one of her arms, the waiter has the other, each of them pulling in a different direction as if she is a wishbone.

I swing around to look at Herman, who turns both palms up as if to say, “What can we do?”

The girl has a panicked look, embarrassed and at the same time scared. It’s a stalemate. She appears stuck in limbo. The waiter puts his free hand up against the customer’s chest and gently pushes until gravity takes hold. The drunk stumbles backward toward his chair, releasing her arm as he goes in order to protect himself as he falls. He lands in the chair. Before he can assemble his legs into a coherent force to rise once more, the waiter has his prey in tow and is headed back to my table. What a hundred bucks will do.

“Ms. Crystal, this gentleman would like to buy you a drink.”

I’m on my feet. “Please, join me. My name is Paul. Have a seat.” I pull the chair out for her and she settles gently onto it like a hummingbird on a perch. She is wearing a tight micro-mini dress that climbs precariously up her shapely thigh as she crosses one leg over the other.