Night Film

49

It was some kind of backroom storage area.

The overhead lights had been switched off, and it was freezing inside. We appeared to be alone. Stacked all around us were large wooden crates and boxes, a two-wheeled cart propped against the wall. I stepped over to the crates to read the labels. RÉMY MARTIN. DIVA VODKA. CHATEAU LAFITE. WRAY AND NEPHEW LTD. JAMAICAN RUM.

Not too shabby. Spanning the wall was a row of oversized steel refrigerators, and beyond that in an alcove, hanging from a line of hooks, black pants and shirts — some type of waiter’s uniform. There was a long wooden table at the center of the room cluttered with supplies, and I stepped over. Piled across it were cellophane-wrapped blocks of what had to be cocaine, each one about a kilo. There were at least a hundred, plus four padlocked cash boxes chained by a metal cable to the table legs.

“It’s an airport duty-free shop in Cartagena,” I muttered.

Hopper stepped beside me, raising his eyebrows. “Or some billionaire’s outfitted his bunker really nicely for the end of the world.” He grabbed one of the bricks of coke, tossed it into the air like it was a football, he a seasoned quarterback. He caught it and stuffed it into his coat pocket.

“Are you nuts?”

“What?”

“Put it back.”

He shrugged, wandering over to the refrigerators. “It’s market research.” He wrenched open one of the steel fridge doors, the shelves packed with foam cartons and trays.

“I’ve crashed parties like this before.” He rummaged through the containers. “It’s underwritten by a Saudi prince, maybe a Russian. All this shit for them is like Bud Light and pretzels to us. Would you give a shit if a couple bags of Fritos go missing?”

I picked up a box of Cuban cigars. Cohiba Behikes.

Hopper, scrutinizing a black glass jar, returned it to the shelf. “There’s more caviar here than the Black Sea.”

“Help yourself. I’m getting out of here before the Saudi prince needs a pick-me-up.” I stepped over to the door on the opposite side of the room. I could hear house music, throbbing like the gears of the Earth as it turned, shimmering, relentless.

I opened the door a crack and peered out. It took a moment of adjustment to understand what I was seeing.

It was a party. And yet the floor — black-and-white geometric inlaid tiles — rippled like a sea. It spanned an immense circular atrium, ringed with Corinthian pillars, yet there was no ceiling, just a bright blue cloud-filled sky. How the hell was it a perfect summer day in here? In the distance, beyond stone arches covered in ivy and dark doorways leading down dirt paths, there was a luscious bloom-filled garden where stone Greek statues reclined in the sun. An egret waded in a shining stream. Red-and-green parrots soared through the jungle, sunlight filtering divinely through the canopy.

As my eyes madly searched for some semblance of reality, my mind short-circuited, both entranced and trying to form some rational conclusion as to what the hell it was: a biosphere, a staged play, an adult Disney World, a portal to another planet. And then I caught a flaw in the tropical paradise: Along the floor, about a foot from where I stood, there was a light socket.

All of it was painted, a photorealist trompe l’oeil of such detail and beauty, in the dimmed amber light it was all somehow alive, thriving. At the sunken center of the room, seated on the leather couches, standing around the marble tables, was a dense crowd. They were real, I was certain. They were middle-aged men, most with the battered gargoyle faces of self-made tycoons (a few with the flabby demeanors of those who’d inherited their wealth), most of them Caucasian, a few Japanese. Women drifted among them, dripping in gowns and jewels, though due to the liquid floor, they seemed to float in a pool of water, snagging on a group of men like scraps of paper caught on a branch before spinning across the room on another mysterious current.

There was a strict dress code—which the person who’d answered my post on the Blackboards had failed to mention. The men were in suits and ties. Hopper and I were certainly going to stick out—not to mention the fact that I had chalky rings of saltwater on my pants.

Hopper moved behind me, and I stepped aside so he could take a look.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

“It’s got to be some kind of cult. Anyone offers you Kool-Aid or a hot shower, say no. And don’t forget the reason why we’re here. Find someone who saw Ashley.”

He turned to me and extended his hand. “See you on the other side.”

We shook hands, and I exited the storage room.