Denise nodded. In the flickering light from the streetlamps, many of them looked only just old enough to drink and get past Patrick.
“It can only be to our advantage if Patrick is going to be busy checking IDs,” said Denise. She turned to Michelle. “I hope you’re right that he won’t recognize us from the hospital.”
“If only you could see yourselves. You’re not easy to recognize. But if I’m wrong, we’ll just leave again, okay?”
Jazmine sighed. “We’ve gone over this a hundred times, Michelle. Of course we will. We’re not stupid!”
“Okay, sorry. Anyway, Patrick is actually fairly nearsighted, but he won’t admit it, so I’ve never seen him with glasses. If you pull your neck scarves up a bit to reveal your cleavages like we discussed, he probably won’t notice anything else.” She considered what she had said for a moment. “The bastard,” she added.
Jazmine looked at her watch. “It’s only twelve, Michelle. Do you even think there’s any money in the cashbox at this time?”
She nodded. “It’s Wednesday, and most people have to get up early tomorrow, so the doors opened at eleven.”
She pointed at the security cameras. In a few seconds they would be visible on the screen.
Over at the entrance, Patrick was already in full swing, looking slightly threatening like the bulwark against unwanted guests he was employed to be. His tattoos were visible on his bare forearms, and his sleeves were rolled up to his biceps, displaying what you would have to contend with if you were after trouble. Not to mention the black gloves and boots no one in their right mind would want to be on the receiving end of.
This image of a completely indifferent bouncer-robot admitted the guests one by one, frisked a few of the men, refused to let people in with plastic bags, and now and then demanded to see someone’s ID. Those he knew were waved in without further ado. There was no doubt who was in charge.
“Wait!” Michelle grabbed Denise’s arm. “I think we have some help,” she whispered, and pointed over to a group of determined guys crossing the road, who looked like they might be immigrants. Maybe one of them was old enough to gain entry, but not the others. Early beard growth rarely disguised immaturity in Denise’s experience, and no doubt in Patrick’s too.
It was clear that he had already spotted the problem the way he instinctively took a step forward and pulled out a walkie-talkie from his pocket to speak to one of his colleagues.
“This is it,” whispered Michelle. “Walk behind me.”
“Hi, Patrick,” she said clearly and loudly, as if she had overcome the worst of her nerves.
An obvious look of confusion spread over Patrick’s otherwise determined face. Two totally different problems were obviously more than he was used to handling at once, which allowed Jazmine and Denise to walk straight past him.
A few steps and they were inside, while Michelle remained outside to distract Patrick.
The room was grey and raw. It was impossible to say what it had formerly been used for because now it just resembled a dirty storeroom with bare concrete walls. Where there had once been doors, there were now just openings. The banisters had been removed and replaced with shutter boards. The fixtures and fittings—and anything else of any value—had been removed.
The whole sorry place will be demolished within a year, thought Denise. An era was coming to an end in Sydhavnen for all the small private businesses. It had simply become too expensive because of its proximity to the docks and the refreshing breeze over the harbor area.
They paid the entrance fee and pushed past people dancing in an attempt to cross the dance floor. A lot of guys looked their way, but tonight their minds were on something altogether different.
The DJ was already going crazy, and the mass of people and concrete floor appeared to be burning up under the laser-light show. The blasting volume was enough to render any meaningful communication impossible, so Denise just pushed through the crowd in Jazmine’s slipstream.
Jazmine had said that a few years back she had been up in the office with the acting manager, who had been more than willing to accept her offer of a sexual encounter.
She later heard that he had ended up in his grave due to an excess use of methamphetamine and cocaine, so it was a good thing she didn’t get pregnant by him like she’d intended. It would probably have damaged the embryo, she thought. And deformed children were harder to get rid of, so who would take the risk?
They reached the other side of the dance floor and entered an icy-cold corridor lit by fluorescent lighting at least ten feet above them on the ceiling. And then they were stopped.
The security guard, who in stature was a clone of Patrick, barred their path and asked what they were doing there, much as they had anticipated he would.
“Hi, mate! Lucky we found you.” Denise pointed at his walkie-talkie. “Didn’t you hear that Patrick needs help out there? There’s some bother with a group of immigrant guys.”
He looked skeptical, but the serious expression on Denise’s face made him reach down for his walkie-talkie anyway.
“Get a move on, big guy!” shouted Jazmine. “Do you really think he’s got time to chat on the phone just now?”
He put his overly pumped body in motion and set off.
Jazmine nodded toward a metal staircase at the end of the corridor.
“Just now there’s at least one person in the office watching the security cameras, so there’s no doubt that we’ve been spotted,” said Jazmine. She indicated with her head toward the ceiling. “Don’t look up, but there’s a camera there. I waved at it last time I was here.”
Denise held on to the iron banister, and, copying Jazmine, she pulled her neck scarf up around her lower face.
As they opened the door to the office, they were hit by a wall of sound. A couple was standing making out by the far wall, the woman with her hands all over the man without the faintest hint of shame.
Denise looked around quickly and then moved with the stealth of a cat over to the couple. The row of monitors on the side wall looked like flickering wallpaper, and one of them clearly showed that the situation at the entrance was already under control. Right there in the middle of the screen stood Michelle with a guilty expression next to her ex-boyfriend while he divided his professionally threatening attention between her and the constant stream of arriving guests.
Despite a minor scrap, it appeared that Michelle was managing to play her part, thank God.
Now the monitors revealed that the guard they had encountered before had reached the entrance. He shouted something to Patrick, who shook his head in confusion and pointed at another security guy standing nearby.
The guy looked frustrated. He would soon be back at his post in the corridor, presumably to try to prevent his boss from being disturbed.