I

Okay... I'll confess. Can you just tell that copper to stop staring at me, okay? People who stare, it's bloody rude.

It was me and V.V., we started the bar or club or whatever you want to call it. But it was just a joke, you see? We were just playing a prank. Nobody was going to get hurt. I didn't want anyone to die...

****

V.V. and me, we became friends when we were students in England. He was American, but people didn't think of him as American. We always cooked up practical jokes and gags. It wasn't like anyone of us was the leader. We acted together. I knew him since I was... eighteen, I think.

He told me that in America people like us, guys with ideas, had opportunities. Not like in stuffy old Britain. The more I heard it, and the worse our grades got, the more I believed him.

After we dropped out of the university and moved to America, we shared a cheap apartment near the old industrial park. Great view of an abandoned warehouse just outside our window. Over on the next block, some of the old warehouses had been converted to rave clubs. Five and six in the morning, the doped-up ravers walked home beneath our window.

V.V. and me, we shouted at them sometimes: "Come buy best Jamaican spliffs, ya?

Simpson's the name, mon!" Simpson was the guy living next door. We heard the occasional raver ring on his door and ask to buy drugs, and almost wet ourselves laughing. Then one morning, we were on our way to our jobs, we saw the clubbers stagger home past the abandoned warehouse... and I got an idea.

"See that door?" I told V.V. and pointed to the graffiti-covered door right across the street. It was made of solid metal plating with bolts around the edges, and it had no door handle. "What if we put a sign on it: ‘New Club Opens Tomorrow!' Imagine the rave-heads standing in line all night, for nothing!"

V.V. and me, we were on the same wavelength about these things. He continued my train of thought and said, "Yeah! And let's nail a broken security camera on top of the door, so it looks authentic!"

"And maybe," I riffed, "we pay some moron to stand in front as a bouncer -"

"I'll do it," V.V. said. "I was a bouncer once."

"Yeah, for a whole two hours!"

V.V. had lost his only bouncer job when he started collecting phone numbers from the girls who stood in line, and he only let blondes in.

"So what're you gonna tell the clubbers who want to come in? That it's real exclusive?" I asked.

He thought about it for a moment, and burst out laughing. "Better! We can't open that door, right? So I let nobody in!"

"Nobody gets in?"

"Nobody gets in! That's the joke!"

"Fokkin' brilliant!"

So we high-fived each other and almost forgot about going to work.

***

I came home from my burger-flipping job around eighteen o'clock. V.V. had gathered all the stuff we needed for the prank, and carried it home. From the paint shop where he worked, he'd taken a few cans of spray paint. From the dumpster outside an electronics shop, he'd salvaged a broken surveillance camera. Hell, we'd scavenged practically everything in our apartment. You Americans throw away stuff that's practically new.

The Salvation Army had provided V.V. with a worn-down leather jacket for that "tough and stupid" bouncer look. He already had shades.

And so we went to work in a hurry: the clubbers mustn't see us.

***

A few hours' work later, we admired our prank.The metal door and surrounding brick wall had been sprayed black. Along the edges of the doorframe, we'd added a kind of halo of glow-in-the-dark blue... it made the door stand out at night like the monolith from 2001.

And on top of the door that wouldn't open, we'd rigged the broken security camera.

To perfect the illusion, we'd hid a boom-box behind a trash bin, muffled by padding. When it played, it sounded like thumping music was leaking out of the warehouse.

"Fokkin' brilliant," I said. "But something's missing..."

We both said it at the same time. "A name!"

V.V. suggested "Shangri-La."

"Taken," I said. "I got it. 'Hellfire Club'."

"Wanker name. How about... wait! I got it! Nothing."

"Club Nothing?"

"No name. The club with no name. It'll create an aura of mystery."

We agreed on 'The Club With No Name' and didn't make a sign. The show could begin.

***

I did suspect that V.V. might get tired of our gag after the first hour. I mean, nobody tried to get in - at first. The clubbers just walked past, pretended not to see the new black door with the blue halo and the bouncer with the shades who guarded it.

I watched it from our apartment window, and called him on the phone every hour. Just had to tease him a bit: "Hang in there, V.V.! Maybe some senior citizens will think it's a bingo hall and drop by!"

"Laugh it up, wanker," V.V. replied on the phone, and gave me the finger across the street when nobody was watching. "If you build it, they will come! I have faith in this place!"

"If they try to break in, should I call the cops?" I joked.

"Nobody gets in alive!" he yelled and hung up.

In the morning he got home to sleep, and he never complained.

"It was fun," he told me. "You feel this power when you're a bouncer, even if you're guarding nothing." So he wanted to do it again the next night, and who was I to stop him?

***

The next night, when I spied on him from our window, I could see the first line of people materialize by the door. It was like watching one of those nature documentaries: the party people formed little clusters, at the opposite side of the street, from a safe distance, and the clusters sent out spies to test the bouncer - V.V., that is.

The spies returned to their clusters, and I expected the groups to give up and go elsewhere. Some did - but most of them stayed, and drifted closer to the entrance and formed a line.

It made me so curious. This must be how people who photograph animals in the wild feel. I had to move closer and hear what the people on the street were saying - probably just gossip about what a jerk the bouncer was...

I put on a pair of shades light enough to see in the dark, went outside, made a circle around my apartment block so nobody would notice where I came from, and strolled over to this cluster of young people who stood near the dumpster where we hid the boom-box.

The thumping music played, and two girls in tight dresses were pretend-dancing to it with each other. Teenagers, I thought.

"What's this new place?" I asked a girl, playing dumb.

"Haven't you heard?" she said, chewing gum while she was talking. "It's the Dark Door. They don't let anybody in. Someone says they saw someone famous walk in."

"Are you sure?" I said. Almost let my act slip. "I never heard of a place by that name."

She gave me an annoyed look. "You're from Europe, aren't you? Just arrived, huh? You sound British, or French. It's new and like, really exclusive. I'll bet they deal coke in the VIP room."

I wanted to roll my eyes, but I was having too much fun. Had to really stop myself from laughing. I walked past V.V., who stood in front of the doorway, and pretended I didn't know him. V.V. didn't so much as wink at me, but kept looking forward with that perfect bouncer stare. He totally got into the act.

I walked over to another group of people. Naturally, they were mad at the man who wouldn't let them in. They wore expensive clothes, gold watches and jewels, and talked in their fancy little cell phones. When they saw me coming, they turned their noses up - I didn't look as well off in my jeans and leather jacket.

"You wanna get inside?" I asked them.

"You know a way in?" said a tall blond guy with capped teeth. I hated him already. "I've been calling all my connections. Some of'em swear they've been there already or know people who've been invited."

"There are ways and means," I said, and had to work really hard not to laugh. "You need to get on the member list." Pure improv theater. Did I tell you my grandfather was a vaudeville actor?

Some of the other rich wankers warned Tall Blond Guy that I didn't look like an "insider," but he wouldn't listen. He produced a thick wallet and handed me a ten-dollar bill.

"So spill it," he said.

"I dunno..." I said. "I have to put in a request, it could take a few days."

He immediately put another twenty dollars in my palm. I swallowed, and took a good look at the six young men and women. That's the kinda situation where my upbringing saves me face, Guv'nor - I never let my jaw drop. The way these people looked at me, in complete silence, with those desperate looks on their faces... suddenly our little prank had turned a bit creepy. Didn't they have anything better to do with their money and time than hang around a closed door, dreaming about the never-neverland of Hip on the other side?

But there's nothing like taking the piss out of rich wankers.

"Okay," I told them. "I know this bloke who knows the owner. You have to buy a place on the bottom of the list, and only the top fifty on the list get in."

"What, only fifty people get to have the place to themselves?" He started, but I was just getting warmed up. "No, no... the names on the list are shuffled around, see? It's a complicated system, but eventually everybody gets in. And there's the entertainers... know what I mean?"

I nudged him with my elbow, and he gave out a nervous laugh.

"Only fifty at a time doesn't sound like much fun," someone said.

"I see you haven't been... inside." I gave them a sneer which they mistook for experience.

"So how does the bouncer know he'll let me in?" asked Tall Blond Guy.

He nearly had me stumped there. I glanced at the doorway, where V.V. was standing immobile, cell phone by his ear, while the two dancing girls I spotted earlier were squeezing their bodies against him. A bouncer sandwich.

"See there?" I said, and pointed.

"What, the girls?"

"The camera, stupid. You send in your photo with your name. When your name is up, you just look into the camera and they call the doorman who lets you in. And you're made."

"Of course," said Tall Blond Guy, and tried to look like he had been in on the secret I just invented. "I know. So, do I give my photo to you, or can I just phone it in...?"

It was the first time, I swear, that an honest prank turned into a scam. Somehow I felt I was doing these suckers a favour - giving them something to believe in, y'know? I gave them one of my e-mail addresses, and told them to send the photos there.

***

II

After the second night was over, I showed V.V. all the money I made - we made - on selling slots on the "member list" to the hangers-on who'd gathered outside. We shared equally... I'm no Scrooge.

But when V.V. counted his share of the cash, over and over, he got that gleam in his eye.

I told him that we could stop now while the going was good, before someone inevitably would get suspicious and call the coppers.

"Those two girls gave me their phone numbers," he said, and gazed at the dollar bills in his grip. "They said they're into threesomes. I've never had two girls."

"You wouldn't prefer a day job?"

"Screw that. This is the greatest job I ever had."

"But what if the coppers do come and ask to have a look inside? There's already talk about drug dealers inside... inside the hot new place that doesn't even exist!"

V.V. pursed his lips, frowned and looked at the open window, making sure no one was listening. He turned to me and lowered his voice.

"If the cops come, we close the place down. Closing it is easy. Opening it... that's the hard part. I tried the door. It won't budge."

He went back to counting his cash, and said, "Do you think I should buy new threads for the job? I'm thinking purples and leather, like Larry Fishburne in The Matrix. And some cool shades to go with the threads."

The job. He was already calling it "the job."

***

The thing about selling non-existent memberships to people who hang around outside your home night after night, is that they might recognize you in the daytime. Every time some clubber took a snapshot of her friends outside the place, I jumped.

I imagined my photo and V.V.'s ugly mug were being shown all over the Internet... and that any moment, someone would pin down our real identities - two nobodies - and call the coppers. The best I could hope for was being thrown out of the country.

The first week of the scam was awful. I saw imaginary police spies in every corner. V.V., though, he had this weird Zen aura around him, like he completely had gone into his role.

On Thursday he brought home boxes from a tailor shop, and locked himself into his room to try on the new threads. When he came out of there, he was wearing his normal shabby clothes.

"Why can't I see'em?" I asked.

"Not now," he said. "It's my secret identity. In the daytime, you call me V.V. At night, I'm..."

"Superwanker."

He smiled. "I'm The Bouncer With No Name."

"And suppose someone recognizes V.V.?"

Now he chuckled, like he knew a secret. He paused for a moment. "Guess who dropped by the other night I was standing there, out front? My own brother, Gordon, just home on leave from Iraq. Bastard didn't even recognize me! He walked off when I said he couldn't come in. I never even smiled at him."

"You could've told him, mate. It's your own brother."

"He would've ruined the whole setup. Don't worry. I'll give him a call. But don't tell him about the job. You gotta promise!"

"Okay, okay..." We hadn't cooked up any new pranks since this scam started. V.V. was changing, getting more serious, made fewer jokes, and laughed much less at mine.

But I couldn't give up on the scam just yet. The money was too good - and the ladies, of course. We only had to be careful not to take them home to our apartment, but home to their places.

Practically every night during the next week, V.V. followed some girl home. When he did, I didn't see him until a few hours before his "night shift" started. He dressed meticulously for the bouncer job, in his leather coat and purple silk shirt and tie and matching boots.

We chatted about the crowd that seemed to grow bigger with each night, how much cash we expected to make, and what escape routes I should choose if someone came for my blood.

And I checked all the photos that people had mailed to me. Hundreds of photos. All those hopeful faces. Sneering, trying to tough it up for the camera, or with happy grins on their faces... I started to have dreams about the faces, staring at me, lining up in front of the door, and I couldn't open it.

There was always the risk of violence. You could feel it in the air. I didn't show up too late, when people were drunk and all wired up.

Already by the end of the second week, someone threw a bottle that landed by my feet. But maybe they were too scared to hit me, because they might "drop off the list."

I kept telling myself each night: this is the last night. We've taken this as far as it can go. We can still bail out and nobody gets hurt. Hell, maybe someone would buy the place and start a real club there, after we'd left.

Anyway, on the last night of the second week, something happened that made me realize how far out of control we'd gone.

Around one in the morning, a warm night, rain had just passed and the streets were slick like in the movies, and the crowd was having its own little party outside the club door. They played their own music from car stereos, people cruised by and waved at the young women who danced in the street; a street vendor was selling snacks in a corner.

Then the limo rolled in. It was white, long as three normal cars, had a real quiet motor. It stopped near the door where V.V. was standing, his arms crossed, his shades revealing nothing. The smoked backseat window slid down, and someone glanced out. The party people went quiet. They recognized the man in the limo. He was still quite famous.

He made a gesture, and some woman exited the backseat from the opposite door. She was famous too, at least for dating the guy in the limo. She wiggled over to V.V. and said a few words. From where I was standing, I saw V.V. shrug. She put her hand on his arm. Still a shrug. She offered money.

You tell me: How could V.V. allow even a celebrity inside? And he never smiled. I would've. The bimbo gave up and stormed back into the limo. The celebrity poked his head out, gave V.V. the finger and shouted that he didn't give an effing eff about that effing place anyway. The window went up, and the limo rolled.

But when the limo rolled away the crowd cheered, clapped their hands and threw beer cans after it. V.V. gave them a cool shrug. They were on his side now: nobody got in, and if he had the nerve to refuse a famous person, it was somehow better than standing outside to see the "beautiful people" come in.

I went around a corner and called V.V. on the phone.

"I've had enough," I told him. "Keep the money. This is getting out of hand."

"Are you sure?"

"This is me, V.V.! Can't you see? It's only a matter of minutes before the paparazzi get wind of who you turned down. And then the coppers will be here to look for drugs. And when you won't open, because you can't, they'll nick you. Do you want to go jail?"

"I've got it under control."

He had made me mad before, but never this mad. I shouted to the phone: "You're crazy! Sod this, I'm moving on. Bye!"

I packed two bags with my clothes, and moved out of the apartment that same night. And I blocked his number from my phone, so he wouldn't be able to reach me.

You don't have to tell me I was a lousy friend for abandoning V.V in that position. I felt lousy. If you'd been in my shoes, would you have done any differently?

I swear I didn't tell anyone about the club until now. And I didn't hear about it again until a few days later, when it got all over the news.

Yes, the bloody drive-by shooting. No, I don't know who did it. Could've been anyone of the local drug-dealers that V.V. wouldn't let in... can't you see? It was bound to happen! There wasn't a single dealer in town who didn't think V.V. was standing in their way.

***

III

As soon as I heard about the drive-by and the police raid, I wanted to call V.V. - never mind that you coppers couldn't find him. But I got scared. So I walked down to the block, and saw how you'd taped up the area for investigation.

It amazed me then, that you had left no marks on the door. I only saw the bullet holes in the bricks, and the dents the bullets had left in the steel plating. I tried to pass the police lines by pretending to be a reporter for that local tabloid rag, The National Surveillor. And that copper, Bolland, he let me inside. I just thought it was going to be a good laugh... to see the look on your faces when you break into the place you think is a club or disco or bar where drugs are being sold... and there's nothing inside. Just an empty old warehouse.

So when I stepped into the posh lobby with the red carpet and the wardrobe desk, and the wall poster claiming that Lou Reed was playing next Saturday... at first it didn't register in my brain. Like it passed right through me.

The copper followed me into the bar. It had a gleaming counter, and a whole wall stacked with every kind of beer and booze bottle, and a sign above that read "NOBODY GETS OUT SOBER."

It sounded just like one of V.V.'s jokes.

Then I saw the empty dance floor and stage, and slowly it dawned on me... I turned around and faced the copper, and asked him:

"This is a joke, right?"

He didn't get it.

"You can tell me now. You put this stuff in here, right?" I went over to the bar and banged my fist on the counter. It was solid. I went behind the counter. Everything was there: beer dispensers, glasses, sinks, fridges.

"What's this place called?" I raised my voice a bit more than I ought to.

Finally the copper got it. "Sir," he said, "This is not a joke! This is the club that was subject to last night's drive-by. We couldn't find a name sign."

"Who owns this so-called club?"

"We don't know, sir."

"And who was the bouncer in front?"

"According to witnesses, he fled into the club when the assailants fired at the entrance. The small blood stain on the doorstep suggests he'd been injured."

I started to laugh. "Come on! V.V. couldn't have opened that door... not from the outside! This is bullshit! There never was a place inside this place! It was only a joke, ferchrissake!"

That's when the copper arrested me. Joke's on me, eh?

It's got to be V.V. He played his best prank ever on me. Probably watched me from nearby, laughing at how he set up a real club without me knowing it. When you find him, he'll tell you, I'm sure.

That's the only rational explanation, right?

No, I'm not pulling your leg. Honestly! You've got to believe me... I don't know anything about drugs inside... how could that happen at a club that doesn't let anyone in?

He's not dead, he's just hiding. You'll see. He'll turn up. Any moment now...

***

IV

Detective Garris left the interrogation room and took a look at the suspect from the other side of the one-way window. The young man in the room, skinny and short-haired, hunched down across the table and began to weep. His name was Graham Feckham.

"Could he be telling the truth?" he asked McKinnick, his superior. "That he really doesn't know where V.V. went?"

She took a sip from her coffee mug. "Beats me. Wanna do a polygraph test?"

"Sure. And if it doesn't produce anything, maybe this case should go to Franklin and the narcs. I can't prove a murder without a corpse, and we haven't found one."

"What about the bloodstains?"

"The lab says it came from a human, blood group A. Some traces of amphetamines in it. But it's so little blood, it doesn't look like V.V. was killed. And the stains ended in a backdoor. I called up the hospitals in the whole city. Nobody turned up who matched his description. So all we can hold this Feckham on is drugs, maybe."

"Surely someone must own that club. Somebody paid for the interior. Someone built it."

"Nobody in the official files, anyway. That's hardly news - this precinct used to have a speakeasy in every basement, back in the 1920s."

McKinnick's features hardened and wrinkles appeared on her forehead. "I don't intend to lead a sloppy department, Garris. Don't let this one slip between your fingers, like that last missing person on your watch."

Garris held his breath for a moment, visibly shaken. "I won't. He won't leave the room until I've made him talk." He checked his watch. "Have Melvin bring in a pot of coffee and donuts. And tell Bolland he can go home. I'll handle Feckham."

"Good luck." She exited and went home for the evening.

***

At eight in the morning, Garris had coaxed a taped confession from the suspect, of drug possession and peddling diluted drugs to minors.

The police officer on duty led Feckham away to the cell block to await his day in court. Garris stopped them in a doorway. "Wait."

He walked up close to face Feckham and gave him a cop stare with bloodshot, tired eyes. "Come on, Graham... you know something about V.V.'s disappearance." He stifled a yawn. "Tell us now, and you'll get a much shorter sentence. You don't have to protect that creep! He conned you, started a club behind your back, made you look like a fool. You don't owe him this."

Feckham laughed - not a sane laugh. He looked past Garris and talked incoherently. Garris could only make out fragments of what Feckham said:

"Something's wrong with this part of town..." "We all wished the club to exist..." "V.V. went inside before it had fully materialized..." "Throw me in jail... I don't care. Get me out of here."

Garris gave up and let the man have his wish. Then he picked up his jacket and gun, and headed for the parking lot. Outside, Sergeant Bolland came after him.

"Sir, you shouldn't be driving in your condition. Let me drive you home. And I just got the fingerprint report from the club." He handed a printout to Garris.

In his groggy, sleep-deprived state Garris didn't know whether to read the report or hand it back. He got into the patrol car and let Bolland drive him, while the report rested in his lap.

"I had a peek, sir," said Bolland. "Our technicians, they've got this amazing new fingerprint scanner that connects directly to the national register. Like a barcode scanner, they just run it over the dusted prints and it goes into the FBI computers..."

Garris drifted between sleeping and waking. "Did they find V.V.'s prints?"

"They found his prints, sir. There's no doubt he got inside after he was shot, and walked to another exit, and touched the door handle from the inside. But..."

"Hmm?" He thought he heard Bolland clear his throat - or was he already dreaming?

He thought he heard Bolland say: "Apart from V.V.'s fingerprints, and those of our own personnel... the club was completely clean. Like nothing living had ever touched it before..."





"The Club That Wouldn't Let Anyone In" (c)A.R.Yngve 2006. All rights reserved. May not be reproduced without permission.