Angel Bay Underworld Part Three

Angel Bay Underworld

Kahn: What just occurred here?

Allan: I lost my season tickets to the Chicago Cubs, and 5 thousand dollars. She’s one hell of a player.

Kahn: Who is she?

Allan: Her name is Jane. She’s a monster in a room full of disillusioned monsters.

Kahn: What is this place? This convention?

Allan: Take the most prolific and powerful people who can have anything they want whenever they want it and put them in a room. That’s what this is. It is our way to flaunt our wealth, and our dirty habits once or twice a year in safety and privacy away from the judging public. We run the world, but it gets overwhelming, and no number of hookers or blow can suffice the beast. We need to push the envelope, find new ways to satiate our desires. Welcome to hell and Jane is the queen of this dark realm.

Kahn: Jane…does she have a last name.

Allan: She does, but it’s not for you. Whoever married her, that motherfucker must be a saint. She’s ruthless. Which is why this is place is a good fit for her. She’ll cut you, deep, just to prove a point.  

Kahn: How do I find her?

Allan: You don’t. She finds you. Cheers, love, how am I going to tell my kid that her 16th birthday present to her favorite baseball team is gone for this year? Fuck…

Kahn: You bought season tickets for your 16-year-old daughter? And you’re in this place with children at home?

Allan: It’s only money, honey, I’ll make more tomorrow. She loves the cubs. It cost me $30,000 dollars and I lost it all in 30 minutes. That’s the real crime here. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got business to attend to.

Kahn: Thanks for the drink.

I needed to find a way so Jane would find me. At least I had a name. It was time to ask around and this place was probably the best place to start. Throughout my time at the leather and lace convention, her name was mentioned frequently. Most people were talking about the striking woman in a red leather dress that was essentially untouchable. A simple conversation seemed to bring her up at every corner of the convention. Most people knew her or of her. Near the end of the third day, I was given another name that might be more useful in my efforts to track this elusive but elegant creature.

A beautiful waitress in a skimpy lace outfit approached me with a tray of cocktails. I took one and she slipped a card into the top of my dress. She leaned forward over my table and looked me dead in the eyes. Her face close to mine, I could smell her sweet sweat and perfume. She whispered in my ear and brushed a lock of my hair away from my face. She was sweet and kind, and just trying to make a living, but after being here for three days her living was probably better than mine. She winked and left my table. Her whispered words resonated in my head. “Apollo Stone.” I took the card from my cleavage; it was a phone number with a lipstick kiss mark. I wasn’t entirely sure if the number was for the name she whispered or if it was her number. Either way it warranted a call. I left the convention and went home in desperate need of a shower and some personal reflection time.

Two days later, I found my courage and called the number. It was early in the morning, but a sweet innocent sounding voice answered. It turned out to be the waitress. She gave me her number. I decided it would be worth my time if we met for coffee and she agreed. Her name has been changed to protect her identity.