Read Online The Pull of Gravity by Brett Battles - Free Book Online
Authors: Brett Battles
Tags: Literary, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Mystery, tragedy, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Contemporary Fiction, philippines, bar girls
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they were mad at each other. When Carter spotted Dieter and me sitting there, he put a hand on Tom’s arm and said something, motioning in our direction. The two conferred for a few seconds, then Carter waved at us.
“You guys have a minute?” he called.
“Sure,” I said.
Dieter and I got up and walked over.
“What’s up?” Dieter asked.
“Not here,” Tom said.
Carter led us back into his office. It was a small room with a desk crammed into the corner, stacks of paper and files everywhere, and a couple of chairs for guests. Nobody sat.
“So?” I asked.
Tom looked at Carter before speaking. “There’s a dead girl at Las Palmas.” The Las Palmas Hotel was a favorite place to stay for the average Fields Avenue tourist, and only a couple blocks from The Pit Stop.
For a moment none of us moved or spoke. “Do they know who she is?” I asked.
“The only thing I heard was that she worked at The Lynx,” Tom said. “But I got that from one of the maids, so who knows.”
“What happened?” Dieter asked.
“Apparently the guest left her in his room and went out to party for a few hours. When he came back, she was dead. Couldn’t get much more. Anthony’s trying to keep a lid on it.” Anthony Staley was the owner and manager of the hotel.
“That won’t last long,” Carter said.
“Thanks for the tip,” I told Tom, meaning it.
There really wasn’t anything else to say, so Dieter and I headed back into the restaurant. We were barely through the door when Dieter stopped in his tracks.
“Aw, fuck,” he said.
I followed his gaze. Near the entrance several of the waitresses were gathered around another girl who looked like she’d just arrived. They all looked serious, and a couple were even beginning to cry. Out on the street, another girl ran by, headed for Jolly Jack’s. No one ever ran here. Not unless they had a really good reason.
The news was out, and within an hour, all of Fields would know. I don’t know how the girls did it, but they always had a way of finding out things they were better off not knowing. It was like a wildfire. We even had a name for it: The Bamboo Network.
That afternoon, it was in full swing.
• • •
While the network was great at spreading news quickly, it was lousy at reporting anything accurately. I heard all sorts of rumors and wild stories. At The Lounge that night, it was everything I could do to keep the girls calm. It got so bad I had the bartenders pass out two rounds of undiluted tequila shots just to take the edge off everyone.
One girl told me she heard that the dead girl had been murdered. “He hack her up, di ba ? Blood all over. My friend’s cousin is a receptionist there, so she knows. This guy crazy.”
Another said she heard it was two girls fighting over a guy. I also heard drug overdose, suicide, jealous Filipino boyfriend, slip in the shower and heart attack. One girl even said it was from too much boom-boom.
The same informal survey revealed it had happened in room 66, 68, 72, 45, 59, 17 and 23. The only thing that was common was that a girl was dead and it happened at the Las Palmas Hotel.
“I’ll never go there again,” Bell, one of my dancers, told me. “If a guy want to bar fine me and he staying at Las Palmas, I say no way.”
She wasn’t the only one to express this same thought. A few hours later, though, after several drinks, she said that maybe the Las Palmas was okay, but she’d never go to the room the girl died in. “Ghost, di ba ? Her spirit in there.”
This wasn’t the first time a bar girl had died in one of the hotels, and God knew it wouldn’t be the last. But every time the girls reacted as if it had never happened before, with panic, fear, vows to never set foot in such-and-such hotel again, vows to quit working the bars all together. Then a week later, maybe two, it was like nothing had happened. And within a month no one could even remember which hotel it had occurred in, let alone the
“You guys have a minute?” he called.
“Sure,” I said.
Dieter and I got up and walked over.
“What’s up?” Dieter asked.
“Not here,” Tom said.
Carter led us back into his office. It was a small room with a desk crammed into the corner, stacks of paper and files everywhere, and a couple of chairs for guests. Nobody sat.
“So?” I asked.
Tom looked at Carter before speaking. “There’s a dead girl at Las Palmas.” The Las Palmas Hotel was a favorite place to stay for the average Fields Avenue tourist, and only a couple blocks from The Pit Stop.
For a moment none of us moved or spoke. “Do they know who she is?” I asked.
“The only thing I heard was that she worked at The Lynx,” Tom said. “But I got that from one of the maids, so who knows.”
“What happened?” Dieter asked.
“Apparently the guest left her in his room and went out to party for a few hours. When he came back, she was dead. Couldn’t get much more. Anthony’s trying to keep a lid on it.” Anthony Staley was the owner and manager of the hotel.
“That won’t last long,” Carter said.
“Thanks for the tip,” I told Tom, meaning it.
There really wasn’t anything else to say, so Dieter and I headed back into the restaurant. We were barely through the door when Dieter stopped in his tracks.
“Aw, fuck,” he said.
I followed his gaze. Near the entrance several of the waitresses were gathered around another girl who looked like she’d just arrived. They all looked serious, and a couple were even beginning to cry. Out on the street, another girl ran by, headed for Jolly Jack’s. No one ever ran here. Not unless they had a really good reason.
The news was out, and within an hour, all of Fields would know. I don’t know how the girls did it, but they always had a way of finding out things they were better off not knowing. It was like a wildfire. We even had a name for it: The Bamboo Network.
That afternoon, it was in full swing.
• • •
While the network was great at spreading news quickly, it was lousy at reporting anything accurately. I heard all sorts of rumors and wild stories. At The Lounge that night, it was everything I could do to keep the girls calm. It got so bad I had the bartenders pass out two rounds of undiluted tequila shots just to take the edge off everyone.
One girl told me she heard that the dead girl had been murdered. “He hack her up, di ba ? Blood all over. My friend’s cousin is a receptionist there, so she knows. This guy crazy.”
Another said she heard it was two girls fighting over a guy. I also heard drug overdose, suicide, jealous Filipino boyfriend, slip in the shower and heart attack. One girl even said it was from too much boom-boom.
The same informal survey revealed it had happened in room 66, 68, 72, 45, 59, 17 and 23. The only thing that was common was that a girl was dead and it happened at the Las Palmas Hotel.
“I’ll never go there again,” Bell, one of my dancers, told me. “If a guy want to bar fine me and he staying at Las Palmas, I say no way.”
She wasn’t the only one to express this same thought. A few hours later, though, after several drinks, she said that maybe the Las Palmas was okay, but she’d never go to the room the girl died in. “Ghost, di ba ? Her spirit in there.”
This wasn’t the first time a bar girl had died in one of the hotels, and God knew it wouldn’t be the last. But every time the girls reacted as if it had never happened before, with panic, fear, vows to never set foot in such-and-such hotel again, vows to quit working the bars all together. Then a week later, maybe two, it was like nothing had happened. And within a month no one could even remember which hotel it had occurred in, let alone the
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