Portland Noir - Kevin Sampsell [91]
“No, I want to talk to her. What’s her name?”
“Tammi. I can go back there, but she ain’t comin’ out unless it’s for a private dance.”
“I want a dance.”
“It’ll be thirty.”
“Sure, fine. Just get her.”
The bartender heaved away from the bar, wishing he’d told her it cost more and split the difference with Tam. Intentionally talked to every person on his way there—anecdote to the bouncer, nudge and wink to the waitress serving chicken tenders to a guy wearing sunglasses on the other side of the stage.
Kara’s hands were shaking so badly it took three tries to light one cigarette off the other. Finally, Kaya strolled out and gave Kara a disinterested once-over, looked through her. “Follow me.”
She led Kara, who stared at the way Kaya’s green and yellow butterfly tattoo near her shoulder blade moved as she walked, to the furthest corner of the club. Did Kara’s skin sting thousands of miles away at the same moment the needle was put to Kaya’s flesh? So many questions and Kara couldn’t think of any that were important. Kaya peeled back a sheer black curtain with gold thread, revealing a small plastic and mirror booth with a black pleather bench.
She sat Kara down, adjusted the wig in the mirror behind the bench. “Thirty.”
Instead of grabbing Kaya and telling her who she was, Kara reached into her wallet and peeled off two fives and a twenty. She had to do this right, only as much information as Kaya’d be able to handle at once, couldn’t scare her off. Maybe when Kaya started to dance, she would give Kara more than a glance, and see.
Kaya shuffled as little as possible, chest hovering six or seven inches over Kara’s face as she swayed her hips and looked at herself in the mirror, yawning. Every movement was perfect and Kara was complete.
“I bet you don’t even know how beautiful you are.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you have chicken pox when you were seven too?”
“Huh?”
“Forget that.” Kara couldn’t restrain, put her hand on Kaya’s wrist. “Stop.”
Kaya broke her bored façade and glared. “No touching.”
“I’m sorry. Please, I need to talk to you.”
Kaya still didn’t recognize her (light in the booth was terrible), instead shrugged and sat down, picked at her cuticles. “Can I bum a smoke?”
“Yeah, sure.” Kara handed them over. She even lit her cigarette the same way, protecting the flame when it wasn’t necessary. “Don’t you see a resemblance?”
“To what?”
“To me.”
Kaya really looked at her then, but not with the expression Kara was hoping for. Instead, confusion with disgust at the edges. “You think we’re related, a cousin or something?”
So many years imagining the reunion, but never pictured this. Kara played different scenarios in her mind before she went to bed until it was the only thing that could lull her to sleep. In all, Kaya recognized her instantly. She was some executive who Kara found through a magazine feature on exceptional women in business. Or homeless … or possibly a suburban housewife settled into some homogenous berg that Kara passed through when she took a wrong turn on the highway.
“You’re my twin, don’t you see it? You were kidnapped when we were young, but now things are okay because we’re together now. We can leave, you never have to work here again.”
Kaya ground her cigarette into the burnt carpet with the heel of her stiletto. “I don’t know who you are, or what kind of sick fantasy you have, but we’re not twins and I was never kidnapped.”
No. Kara grabbed her sister’s forearm; Kaya pulled away with force.
“Just answer me this, what do you remember before you were four?”
“I fucking told you not to touch me. You’re nuts.” Kaya stormed out, wadding up the money and throwing it at Kara’s chest.
Stereotypical bouncer, big neck and small head, came tanking through the club, eyes on fire as he grabbed Kara roughly on the arm and pulled her up. “Time for you to go.”
She knew better than to argue and stood. His grip didn’t loosen when he realized Kara wasn’t going to fight back, shoved her to the double doors.
“Don’t come back.”
In the