Tales of Slack: Chapter 12 (part 4)

"Matthew's Hubcap Trick"

Scully's Bar. The Tenderloin, San Francisco. 1996

Matthew and I were sitting in front of Scully's bar. There was some crappy plastic lawn furniture chained to a pole. This was before Mr. Phillips had the deck built off to the side. Anyways, Frankie Styles and Andie pulled up and parked illegally right in front of us. He was still driving that black station wagon that he thought looked like a hearse. It kind of did look like a hearse in the same way a pony kind of looks like a horse.

"Dan. Ork." He said as he walked up. He always called Matthew, "Ork," but I can't remember why. I think Frankie once said he used to play Dungeons & Dragons and Matthew reminded him of a juvenile Ork. That sounds faintly familiar so let’s go with that. After Andie got her stuff together, she got out of the passenger side and waved as she flashed us a smile.

"What's going on?" Andie said still smiling. She looked like she could be Tori Amos’ younger sister. Brownish red hair, wide mouth with exaggerated lips, and twinkling blue eyes. Which, I might add, always seemed to linger when we made eye contact.

"Go on in, Andie. Let me have a word with the Brothers Slack." Frankie said.

"Sure, see you guys inside." Andie said walking in.

Frankie smiled down on us like a proud father. "Do you fellas see something missing from the bone wagon?"

"You call your station wagon the "bone wagon?"" Matthew said with a chuckle.

"Do you see something missing?" He persisted.

"Yeah, your hubcap." I said.

"Right! Your powers of perception never cease to amaze me. Here's ten bucks, Orc. See if you can find me a match." He held the ten dollar bill and motioned to the garage/body shop next to Scully's with its over filled parking lot of projects and wrecks spilling into Scully's parking lot.

"Sure, Frankie, sure. . .I gotcha covered." Matthew said taking the ten.

Frankie grinned and made a clicking sound in his cheek as he pointed at us both, his fingers simulating two pistols. "I'll catch you two later." And he went into Scully's.

"Can he see us?" Matthew asked thumbing towards the bar’s window behind us.

I looked and could see Frankie talking to Andy Boy as Andie Girl moved behind the bar. "Nope. He’s talking to Andy Boy."

Matthew took out a clunky Swiss Army Knife and pulled out the little screwdriver and ducked around to the rear of the driver's side of Frankie's car. A squeaking metal sound preceded Matthew returning with Frankie's hubcap. He walked around and popped Frankie's rear left hubcap on the vacant front right hubcap.

"There we go." He grinned and sat back down in the plastic chair with a look of immense satisfaction. “Perfect match.”

Andie had apparently put some money in the jukebox before getting behind the bar because someone had just turned on the outside speakers and the music playing was her favorite bar tune, “El Paso” by Marty Robbins. We could hear the few patrons in the bar singing along with the parts they knew.

Matthew softly sang too, “And at last here I am on the hill overlooking El Paso; I can see Rosa's cantina below.” Then looked up and said, “Wanna go to the taqueria and get a burrito?”

My mind immediately pictured a watermelon sized burrito filled with rice, beans, and cheese. “Yeah, that sounds good. The one around the corner?”

“Yeah”

At the same time we were planning on spending the $10, Frankie left Scully’s and after noticing the “new” hubcap said, “Pretty fast, Ork." He walked around to the front of his car as Matthew gave him the thumbs up. Matthew laughed as he drove away, oblivious.

Tales of Slack: Chapter 3

"I highly doubt Keven fell down."
The Flying Saucer Draught Emporium, Downtown Memphis, Tennessee. Years later. . .1998


The bar was not full. Just patrons on the fringes, kind of like moss on a brick wall, you know, creeping in on the edges. The problem was I knew it should be full by now and that worried me. I saw Rob in position near the pay phone, but couldn’t see where Kamal was. Had he slipped in while my back was turned? I'm pretty sure I had been vigilant.

A group of women practically burst in laughing, disrupting the piped in unknown alternative music. The waitress said, “Sit where ever you want, ladies.” The women proceeded to the center of the bar. The tiaras and pink feathered boa’s spelled out what they were: a bachelorette party. The glittery sequins on their belts, purses, and shirts, when combined with their make-up gave me the distinct impression that they were tropical fish. You know, the colorful kind in salt water aquariums, and well, the ocean.

I looked over at Rob and made eye contact and then looked down at my watch, as if to say, “Where the hell is he?” Rob shrugged and shook his head.

Out of the window, I glimpsed a puff of smoke coming from behind the brick wall just out of view. Near the edge of the window I also saw the wind blow long blond hair into view. Making eye contact again with Rob, I motioned for him to stay in position. I left the bar stool and my half-full pint glass as my place holder. Notice I didn't say "Half-empty?" I'm trying to be more optimistic these days.

“Leaving already?” The waitress asked.

Hey, she sounds genuinely disappointed, I thought as I said, “Nope, be right back.”

Outside, I turned left and saw Kamal leaning against the brick wall talking to a blond woman and to her right her just as blond, but clearly ready to go, friend.

“Hey, Kamal.” I said staying near the bar entrance several feet away from the trio.

“Lieutenant Dan!” Kamal smiled, “Come meet my new friends.”

I sighed and went to join the threesome, “Hey, nice to meet you." Then lower I added, "Can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure, man, we got plenty of time, right?”

“No. No we do not have plenty of time unless we are going by Samhouri time which we are not.”

Turning to the women and with as much charm as possible, Kamal said “Sorry ladies, but unfortunately I must leave you.” Then added with a smile, “Call me.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t come in with the bachelorette party.” I said steering Kamal into the door.

“Eh? Bachelorettes?”

As we entered a different waitress said, “Back already, guys?”

I looked over at Rob’s location to now find it vacant. This is like herding cats! I thought. Was there some dark force keeping only two of us in the bar at once time? Too bad Jake was out of town, I'd like to see what ever was at work here keep four of us at bay.

“Hey Leah,” I said to the waitress, “Did you see Rob leave?"

"Who?" She asked.

"A tall, blond guy in a blue jean jacket. . .did anyone like that leave in the last 2 minutes?”

“No, I don’t think anyone has left.” Leah answered. Was starting to wonder if this was some kind of guessing game and I was just not asking the right questions.

“Wait around here, Kamal, watch the door.” I said in a low voice and headed deeper into the bar. I still saw no sign of Rob. The bachelorette party cackled as their first round of drinks arrived on a massive tray carried by a tiny waitress.

Walking into the bathroom, I immediately saw a pair of feet, as well as the legs connected to them, sprawled across the floor. Kevin’s small frame was splayed out with his head resting ever so gently against the wall. Rob was standing over him holding a small black case the size of a pack of post-it notes. “Got it.” He smiled.

“What happened to Kevin?” I said pointing at the unconscious punk, who, I had just noticed had dyed his hair a fluorescent orange. The brightly colored hair did not improve his normally greasy appearance . . . neither did lying on the floor in a bar's restroom, for that matter.

Rob shrugged as he handed me the black plastic case, “He fell down. . .sorta.”

Tales of Slack: Chapter 3 continuted

"Vampires, Lesbians, and Militant Vegetarians."

Memphis. At the Red Square, 1993.

As I crossed Madison Avenue, I could tell it was a good crowd at the Red Square because not only was the little parking lot next to it overflowing, but the music was thumping. It was an alternative/grunge club that only survived briefly in a city that only had room for one such club (6-1-6, or "6-1-Sucks" as it was later known). I was hoping to see Libby, since she had told me that she was planning on going to the Red Square to dance. I usually only saw her outside of class with her nose in a book, so it was going to be worth it to see her cutting loose.

I paid the cover at the door and I think it was only $3. The doorman was a large, 6'4" black guy named, Darin. He was a professional midtown bouncer/street samurai and always dressed in black. He was wearing silver rings on each finger with a definite animal motif going on, with one or two skulls thrown into the mix. He also had those fake vampire teeth caps on, you know, the kind that the dentist has to glue on. Despite never seeing him in the light of day, I know he was a fake vampire, because years later I heard at Neil's that he died of pancreatic cancer.

I asked Darin if he had seen Libby, and he replied in a grumbly voice, "She's dancin'."

Immediately inside was the bar part of Red Square, and it had booths around an island bar that were covered in a garish red vinyl. As I passed through, I saw a woman who used to be a Madonna-wannabee back in the 80s and I used to see her on campus dressed like Madonna from Desperately Seeking Susan. But now she had blond dreadlocks and as I passed I noticed she had a "vegan" patch on the ass of her jeans. Her name was Emily or Eileen, definitely a name that started with an "E." No, I think it was actually, Martha.

Past the bar was the actual dance floor. It wasn't all that big, and had a slight stage area on the far side. It did have high ceilings and on those high walls, the club had paid some artist to paint several sickle and hammers as well as a Soviet looking dominatrix. Which years later when it was renovated, my ex-girlfriend, Dana, actually got the contractors to let her have that piece of art featuring the dominatrix. I've got a photo of it placed in her apartment in a shoebox somewhere.

On the dance floor, there just happened to be a lot of dancing going on. The DJ was playing an old song from the 80's by Shriekback,

"Priests and cannibals, prehistoric animals
Everybody happy as the dead come home
Big Black Nemesis, parthenogenesis
No one move a muscle as the dead come home"

I walked on the periphery of the dance floor scanning for Libby. The crowd's focus seemed to be on two women dancing like lesbians. I say "like" because every since Basic Instinct came out a couple years before, there always seemed to be a couple of girls emulating Sharon Stone's dance with her friend from the movie. Plus, one of the girls had a very distinctive feline appearance and I saw her years later pregnant with a boyfriend.

I saw Libby dancing with a friend of hers and I was stunned to see her having a good time. After watching her dance I realized there was something different about Libby, she had breasts! I had no idea because she always wore loose sweatshirts and baggy clothes, but here she was dancing in a form fitting shirt and I was taken back. For this night out, all her usual clothes were all gone, save her dark rimmed glasses and her Chuck Taylor hightops, which had "Fight the power" written on one of the white toes in black Sharpee. She was missing her red Marlboro baseball cap and loose baggy clothes. And she looked beautiful. She had short reddish hair and looked like Kate Moss, BUT only like Kate Moss from a very specific Calvin Klein ad that had Kate lying nude on a black sofa looking back at the camera. I would see that ad years later and ask, "Who is that?" whoever I was with, I think Julie, told me Kate Moss.

When Libby stepped off the dance floor, she saw me walking towards her, and waved for me to hurry to her table.

"Hey! Got a drink?" She asked after hugging me. She was smiling uncharacteristically and it warmed my heart that she was glad to see me.

"No, not yet. I have to go find Kamal soon."

"You can have one of mine." She indicated a bunch of full beer bottles on a small table. "It's my birthday!" She said cheerfully and was meant to explain her pile of beers.

"Really? It's your birthday?"

"Yep, I'm 24."

Libby raised an eyebrow at a nearby girl who somehow knew that Libby meant "give me your cigarette, I'm empty and its my birthday," and gave her the cigarette. Libby took a drag on and took a swig from a Miller-lite beer bottle all in one fluid motion. That's back when Miller and Budweiser were the only beers in town, back when Coors seemed exotic.

"How did you get to be so damn cool?" I asked, laughing.

Libby didn't hear me over the music. She blew smoke off to the side, "Come and dance with me."

"I can't, I gotta go find Kamal."

"Come and dance, it's my birthday" She said with an impish smile holding a beer bottle in one hand and the commandeered cigarette in the other.

So we danced. On into the night, we danced. . .

Somewhere in my memories we still dance. But it's not at Red Square. Instead, I like to picture the scene as a old fashion wind up music box built by some toymaker with an urban fetish. It's a black box, that after it has been properly wound, you release a catch on the side, and it opens and spreads out to make a miniature Red Square. Complete with spinning characters: an obsidian doorman, a vegan with dirty blonde dreadlocks, two undulating female figures, and in the center, me and Libby dancing.

Tales of Slack: Chapter 12

"Trapped with Pantera" AKA "Neil's PETA Caper"

San Francisco, 1996. Pine Street across from the First Republic Bank

We were in a van that used to be white, until someone had left on the street in a wrong part of town, and was now covered with graffiti. My brother Matt was driving, and I was riding shotgun, which was ironic, because the chick in the back kneeling and holding on to our seats (because there were no seats in the back) was actually carrying guns.

We met her only a half an hour earlier. Wait, let me back up.

In the Tenderloin of San Francisco where I lived, I had befriended a guy named Neil who was a bartender for banquets at the convention center. He was also a petty crook and hustler. Anyways, Neil had planned a crazy heist that I was an integral component. A friend of mine's roommate worked at PETA. My initial job was to find out where PETA kept the furs and steal the roommate's keys. What furs? PETA takes fur donations and then uses them in publicity stunts and protests. Neil wanted to steal them and sell them. Actually, it would be more accurate to say Neil wanted me to steal them and he would sell them. Due to his mannerisms and behavior, a lot of people thought that Neil was mentally retarded, or at least had some kind of learning disability, but it was all an act. It's hard to explain how he acted, you'd have to see him in action to know what I'm talking about. I think it may have come from some coping mechanism to avoid being teased when he was a kid. My brother thought he was brain damaged because Neil used to be an amateur boxer, but I still think it was all an act. Mainly because when it was just me and him, he seemed pretty sharp.

I easily got my friend's roommate to disclose the location of the furs (some lockers in the basement of their office building), and stealing her keys while we are all at dinner was not hard either. Convincing my brother to "find" a truck was the hard part, primarily because he was really into some video game at the time (Mortal Kombat, maybe).

A not so close but very sleazy friend of Neil's named Frankie was supplying the muscle, encase something went wrong. None of us were very tough and none of us wanted to get caught with guns or weapons while doing one of Neil's "capers," so Frankie supplied the person who would take the fall if it all went bad while at the same time covering our asses. We were waiting at the bar under my apartment, called Deco, when Frankie walked in with his arm around a petite Hispanic girl who looked no older than 19.

"This is Pantera. She'll be carrying the weapons."

Matt chuckled. "Pantera?"

"Pantera."

"I call bullshit."

"Damn it, Matt. It's an alias. A codename." Frankie was using a tone that was usually reserved to explaining things to small children.

"How come we don't get codenames?

"I thought your names were aliases! My real name is sure the hell not "Frankie.""

"Yeah, ours are aliases, too." I lied. "Just not cool ones like Pantera and Frankie."

"Pantera" was wearing black jeans, a black tank top, and a red and white leather motorcycle jacket and looked like she might weigh 100 pounds if that included the jacket. . . as well as her clunky boots. She was attractive, but I couldn't help but think that if she smiled she would probably be very attractive.

"She's the muscle. . .this Pantera?" Matt asked.

Frankie stood behind her, a good 2 feet taller and had both his hands on her shoulders. "Yeah, don't be deceived by her small stature, boys. Pantera here was a MP in the marines for 4 years."

Matt's expression said "No way." But that was the last he questioned her qualifications.

By the way she had a blank expression while the three of us talked about her as if she wasn't there, I was starting to think she couldn't speak English. But then she said, "Let's go. I got things to do tonight."

"Ok, good luck." Frankie turned her around and kissed her forehead, "You guys meet me in Daly City." And he left.

So, the three of us were sitting in the van outside PETA's San Francisco offices around 11PM. Despite what you may think, San Francisco is NOT one of those cities that never sleeps. It shuts down by 11PM, I think because of all the commuters, so Pine Street was deserted. Matt dropped us off and was drove around to the back of the 15 story tall building to the loading docks in the alley.

We walked into the building's dark foyer after I fumbled with the key ring trying to find the right key. Luckily, there were only 5 possible keys and I got it right with Key 3. There were no security cameras that I could tell. There were two elevators, so we pressed down and got into one. The doors closed with a little ding, and I had three likely buttons to choose from (2-15 were obviously not the basement). L was the lobby, so it had to B1 or B2. One of the B's was probably a parking garage so I randomly picked B1. We felt the elevator lurch a bit and then it stopped. A small light came on next to little sign that said "Call Elevator Service" and listed a number.

"Oh shit." I said, my mind scrambling for options.

"It's stuck?!?" Pantera asked while simultaneously stating the obvious.

"Yeah, but it has a service number available. And this big red "Alarm" button, too."

"We can't do that! Either of those."

"Right." I looked up at the impossibly high elevator ceiling for the infamous "emergency trap door" and after seeing its outline, I doubted a loaf of bread would fit through it. "So, what kind of gun are you carrying?" I was thinking, I do not want to be caught in this elevator with a woman with a gun.

She turned a round and lifted her jacket exposing two beefy automatic pistols criss-crossed in the small of her back in black canvas holsters. She also revealed a tattoo on her lower back of what appeared to be a hand flipping me off while holding a fist full of money.

"Two guns? Why do you carry two guns?"

She turned back around. "They're automatics. They might jam. So one's a back up."

"Why not use a revolver? They don't jam."

"Cause it only holds 6 shots."

"You could aim, that way you don't need all those bullets. Are you a bad shot or something?"

"Can you quit with the questions and fix this elevator?"

"Well. . .I'm not actually a skilled type of thief. This is the only tool I have" I opened my jacket revealing the bolt cutters I brought for the lockers' pad locks.

If I had a cell phone back then I would have called Matt to come in and see what he could do, but I just got my first cell phone in 2006. But what could he do? Knowing him he would laugh and say "just your luck!"

"Stand back, lady, let me try something." I couldn't get the nerve up to actually call her Pantera. She was chewing on her right thumbnail.

I got my fingertips into the crack of the elevator doors and pulled it open. I was hoping that we were halfway to B1 and could just drop down the rest of the way, but all we saw was a concrete wall. Someone had written "K19" in chalk about eye level.

"Crap." I said and let the doors shut. However, as soon as they shut the elevator lurched and the service light went off. And the doors opened a second later with us staring at an empty parking garage.

"Did you do that on purpose?" She asked, apparently thinking the whole incident was a practical joke.

"Nope. Let's take the stairs to B2."

We found the stairs, the key that fit the door at the bottom of the stairs, and eventually the storage room that another key opened. We also found the lockers, and emptied them of all their furs and transported the furs to the loading dock where Matt was waiting. I looked at my watch and it was only 11:22.

My cut of the furs was $2500 and paid for three months rent.

I never saw Pantera again.

Tales of Slack: Chapter 15

"San Francisco's Calling"

63b Clerkenwell Rd Islington, London, 2006.



It was after midnight, and me, Christine and Anna were walking from a pub to a club called Turnmills, where some of Christine's San Francisco DJs were having a show called "San Francisco Calling" and we are on the guest list. She has an awesome network of San Franciscan bartenders and DJs. I'm not sure if its a coincidence that we were in London during the DJ event. Either way, we skipped to the head of the line and made our way into the club. The ground floor was a normal looking bar and was deserted, but the thumping below us let us know which way to proceed.

"You look like a cop." Anna told me as we walked in the poorly lit passage way.

"Really? I'm not wearing a uniform." I was wearing a rumpled black suit and tie.

"Like a burned-out detective. . .who may have just gotten divorced or fired or both." She clarified.

"Oh." I said, slightly deflated.

The hallway lead to a stairwell and as we walked down the noise level of the music increased dramatically wih each step. I noticed on the wall to the left a sign as we went down the stairs. I saw the word "WARNING" in giant letters and I turn to read more, I feel my foot step off into nothing. Apparently the sign was warning me about the stairs turning at an abrupt angle and to be careful. They could have placed the sign sooner, I thought as I fell in slow motion to my certain death. I landed on my side at the bottom of the stairs and the odd thing was the only thing I broke was my belt. I felt it snap on my side as the leather split in half. This was unfortunate since I needed the belt to hold my pants up, but fortunate in that my belt somehow took the brunt of the fall and no bones were broken. Laughing, Christine and Anna appeared to be saying something about the fall, but the music was too loud for me to understand them. With my hands in my pockets to keep my pants up, we followed the music deeper into the bowels of the club.

The Turnmills was dark and multi-leveled with multiple rooms. Each room had its own DJ, men and women with serious expressions as they plied their craft. There were 100s of people down there dancing to different styles of music from room to room. From talking to or overhearing them, its obvious that all the security and bartenders were Eastern European. This was a trend of most of my London experience. After being briefly separated, I found Anna and Christine at a side bar talking with the bartender. His name was Tomas, and he was a friendly Czech. Somehow, the girls convinced him to have a shot of Sambuka with us. He looked left and right theatrically and then ducks under the bar to drink it. The only other drinks he had were Corona in little miniature bottles and Red Stripe in skinny cans. Very foreign and very familiar at the same time.

Later, I somehow get landed with a drunken Irishman named Stephen. His friend was interested in Anna and asked me to watch him while they danced. Stephen was wobbly but congenial, so I propped him up against a bar and chatted with him.

"I have a fantastic idea for a karaoke bar." He told me proudly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. . .it's a karaoke bar that serves crepes. You sing a song, you get a crepe. And its called. . .this is the best part. . .its called Crepaoke." He smiled.

"Ahh. I see." I nod as I wonder if he's talking about those thin little pancakes or something Irish that sounds like "crepes."

On the way out at 7AM there is still a line to get in. Where have these people been all night?? I thought as I looked at their tired faces. We turn back and see that Anna was no longer with us and must still be inside. Christine went to the security guy at the entrance and said, "Hey, we lost our friend can we go back inside to get her?"

The guy shook his head, "Sorry, we have no lost and found."

"What? No, we got separated from our friend. She is still inside."

"Sorry." He looked at her blankly. "No lost and found."

With a confused look on her face Christine turned to me and said, "Anna is on her own." She squinted from the rising sun. "Let's go find breakfast."

Tales of Slack: Chapter 22

"The Shadow Hotel San Wa"
Naha City, Okinawa, Japan. July 2002.





“I can’t figure out these damn AC controls.” It looked like a little pocket electronic game bolted to the wall. I eventually gave up and slumped on the bed. The pillows were stuffed with plastic beads like a buckwheat pillow. A synthetic buckwheat pillow that apparently was designed for robots to sleep on.

Yurimi was sitting in the raised doorway of the closet-like bathroom. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah. . .at least it’s stuck on cold.”

Outside the window, the approaching typhoon had the skies asphalt gray and the tangle of power lines swinging. The roof tops of Naha City’s black market district made a jumbled skyline. I looked at my watch for the 100th time in 15 minutes.

“When’s Ackley getting here?”

“He said he was on his way.”

Still looking at my watch, I tried to do the math to figure out what time it was in the States. The phone rang. Yurimi answered it. “Hey. . .Are you here?” A confused look went across her face as she apparently listened to who ever was on the other end. “What? No way. Check and see if there’s another! Ok.” And she hung up.

“What?” I asked.

“He said he was here at the Hotel San Wa.”

“Yeah. But?”

“But he said he was down by the big fountain in the lobby.”

“But. . .but there isn’t a fountain in the lobby. . .I wouldn't even call that a lobby!”

“Yeah, yeah I know. Apparently there is two Hotel San Was in Naha City.”

“What’s the chances?” I shook my head. “How much time we have before the typhoon hits?”

“Who knows. I think the typhoon is the red spikey thing.” Yurimi said thumbing towards the TV with its sound turned off showing the weather in Japanese.

“Let’s go out and wait for Ackley on the street.” She said standing up.

“Yeah, let’s.” I felt the front pocket of my shorts to see if I still had the wad of 35,000 Japanese Yen. I did. It was only about $350, but we were going to need it.

As we left the hotel room, I noticed that the outside of the door was completely coated in condensation from the cold room inside the humid hallway. A pool of water was at the base of the door soaking the thin carpet. “Man, it’s freaking humid.” I said sliding the door shut and locking it. I could feel sweat immediately starting to build on my back and forehead. I stuck the room key in my Hawaiian-style shirt that had green bamboo on it. Years later I almost didn't throw the shirt away because it reminded me of Naha City, but I never wore it anymore, so I chucked it.

We walked down the steep steps of the stairway and out the "micro lobby" of the hotel. The air in the tight alley was motionless as the sky above swirled with angry gray clouds. The outdoor black market appeared to be collectively deciding to shut down for the typhoon, albeit reluctantly. Stall keepers were moving in slow motion, looking about, just in case a last minute customer were to show up. The two of us walked along the edge of the entrance of the vast black market of Naha City, and turned out towards the main roads. An alley cat with a crooked tail ambled beside us in the gutter. As we waited on the corner, the cat continued to amble on into the street and was smacked by a passing scooter. It rolled nonchalantly, got back up, and continued its journey into another alley.

“Did you see that!” I said watching the gray cat disappear in the afternoon shadows.

“No, what?” She pointed down the street, “Hey, there’s Ackley.”

Ackley pulled up to the curb and rolled down the window, “Hey, what’s up?” He glanced back and forth and then conspiratorially asked, “Did you know you’re staying in the shadow Hotel San Wa?”

“Is it Yakuza?” Yurimi asked narrowing her eyes.

Ackley shook his head, “No, something worse. . .Get in.”

Tales of Slack: Chapter 22 (continued)

"The Shadow Hotel San Wa"
Naha City, Okinawa, Japan. July 2002.



“What’s worse than the Yakuza?”

“This is a black market district; the Yakuza are the good guys.”

“Oh. . .yeah. . .that makes sense.” I said slumping into the van’s back seat.

“How much time before the typhoon hits?” Yurimi asked Ackley.

“It’s practically here. Can't you feel the wind hitting the van?”

The sky was darker and it looked like it was 7 at night instead of 3 in the afternoon. Ackley wove in and out of traffic avoiding scooters and stopped taxi cabs. He pulled out of the small alley-like streets onto the 222 headed towards Shuri Castle. Construction cranes jutted up across the landscape as more concrete bunker looking buildings were erected crowding out the tiled roves of the traditional Okinawan houses.

“I’m still waiting, patiently I might add, to hear why it’s called the Shadow Hotel San Wa and why it’s so bad.” Yurimi said.

“Besides the obvious.” I chimed in.

“It doesn’t exist.”

“What do you mean 'it doesn't exist?' Like on paper for tax purposes?”

“No, I mean it is not there. No such place in this world.”

“We just left our luggage somewhere. Yurimi’s mom gave someone our credit card information when she made the reservations. So it’s real.”

“Look. . .when I left the real Hotel San Wa I called Fujiwari and he said that the Shadow Hotel San Wa used to be a house that burned down years ago.” Ackley’s voice seemed to switch into campfire story mode. “The dude that lived there died in, of all places, the shower. He was burned alive while being in water.”

“Get out.” Yurimi said looking intently at Ackley as he drove faster on the 222.

“It gets weirder. When people walked by the ruins at night they could still hear sounds of a shower running.”

“A sewer drain most likely.” Even though I always considered myself a man of science, I winced inside because as soon as I said that I felt like Scully from the X-files. I was not a fan of Scully’s eternal skepticism.

“Maybe, but after a few years they built a new building over the ruins. They even did a Shinto purification ceremony on it and everything, but no one would go near it. No customers showed up and no one would work there. So it’s been unoccupied all this time.”

“That’s just a ghost story, man. It’s a real hotel. I have the hotel room key in my pocket.” I moved my hand to my pocket only to find it empty.

Yurimi was turned around in the front passenger seat of the van staring back at me expectantly. My heart was racing and could practically feel the dark forces aligning against us. I turned and looked up yet again at the swirling dark clouds over Okinawa.

“. . .Typical. . .” I sighed and shook my head slowly in defeat. “I really hate your mother, Yurimi.”