The Dreamachine by William Dickerson

Author:William Dickerson [Dickerson, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kettle of Letters Press
Published: 2018-05-21T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHT

PARIS LED Jasper past the closed up front of The Rotten Orange, a security gate stretched across its dilapidated façade, to a side entrance of the building. They slid through a half-opened gate and descended a small set of cobblestone steps. There was a light fixture above their heads, but it sure as hell wasn’t on. Paris squinted in the darkness and banged on the rusted door with her fist until the occupant on the other side was compelled to respond—

“Who is it? And why are you here so goddamn late?”

“I thought you never sleep, Chauncy,” Paris replied.

“Metaphor.” Chauncy said, as he slowly opened the door. “Hello, Paris.”

Paris and Jasper shuffled into his bedraggled abode, a small apartment adjacent to the club. Chauncy turned in the direction of Jasper as he wrapped a black velvet robe around himself, tying a paisley belt at the waist. “Who is it I smell next to you?”

“This is Jasper.” Paris said.

“Jasper. The rock. I was just sleeping like a rock. I was enjoying my third erection of the sleep cycle.”

“Sorry to disturb you.” Jasper said, not really all that apologetic.

“Chauncy, I need your help.” Paris spoke in a voice as taut as her muscles, a tone she reserved for only the most serious of matters. Chauncy could not help but pick up on it.

“What kind of help?”

She hesitated for a moment, as if her response was somehow inevitable, before she went ahead and answered him: “The room.”

Chauncy was immediately suspicious. Most late night visits, especially in Chauncy’s part of town, gave rise to similar levels of dubiousness. Be that as it may, the man complied.

Chauncy opened the door to a sizeable walk-in closet, one he thought might make Imelda Marcos proud. He shoved aside a rack of extravagant costumes, boas and such, along with a translucent case of what appeared to be fake mustaches of varying sizes and styles. Jasper, considering his secret life as a spy, smiled at the mustaches. Had one of these spy novel clichés adorned his upper lip in the past? If so, how severe was it? Had he worn a handlebar mustache, and when he opted—or was forced—to wear such disguises, how much say did he have in the style?

His smile quickly disappeared when Chauncy revealed the small door built into the wall of the closet. It was now Jasper’s turn to be suspicious. But before he could say or do anything, Paris brushed right past him, crouched down and opened the door.

“Come on.”

She stepped through it, rather casually, followed by Chauncy; his attempt was casual, but when you’re that old and physically compromised, moving around both looks and feels a lot harder than it used to be.

Jasper, the rock, didn’t move much himself—he bent down, trying to get a decent look through the door.

“You heard the lady,” Chauncy mumbled.

Jasper did as he was told. He hunched through the miniature hallway—the space was a glorified ventilation duct—and climbed down a ladder into a dank, dark, dead space. The sound was dead; there was virtually no reverberation.

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