Page 94 of Gone Before Goodbye
“Same answer.”
She smiles at him. “How did you get this job, Bob?”
“Served in the military. Same as you. In fact, I think we were both at Camp Arifjan.”
“And then?”
“And then I got offered a boatload of money to work here. It’s not a complicated story.”
“You like it?”
Bob shrugs. “We can make fun of the overindulgence,” he says, “but my wife and I like luxury. It’s safe, no violent crime, tax-free,good health care, high standard of living. The kids seem happy. Why? You looking to move?”
“Hard pass,” she says. “With all those amenities, I assume there’s a bar downstairs.”
“They’d never use the word ‘bar’ here. There is however a wood-paneled exclusive club that offers an upscale social setting for elite and like-minded individuals to mingle.”
“You really memorized that brochure.”
“It looks bad to be scrolling on your phone.”
“Can I go to this club?”
Bob shrugs. “Suit yourself. This isn’t a prison.”
“Kinda feels like one.”
“It does, doesn’t it? Third floor.”
He leads her to a glass elevator. There are no buttons inside. She steps in, and he says “Private club” out loud. The elevator doors close and it whisks her down. It moves fast, silently; Maggie feels a little pressure in the ears.
The private club is varnished wood and low lights. The barkeep is tall and female and looks as though she just came off a Paris runway. The premium liquor bottles behind her are lit from below, which makes them appear even more premium. The men strewn about are a variety pack, but they all look middle-aged or older. The women are, no surprise, younger, far younger, and probably use social media euphemisms like “influencer” or “fitness model.” They are, no question, hot, but extremes—their hair is either jet-black or white blonde, their skin is either darkly tanned or completely pale, and—no judgment here—they’ve all been surgically enhanced or rejuvenated, which, come to think of it, are two more euphemisms.
Maggie gets it. Dubai is a playground for the rich and their most hedonistic urges. It’s Disney World for grown-ups who don’t want to be grown-ups. It wants to be salacious and gritty, but it is hard to blend that with the baser need to be safe and comfortable. There is nothingwrong with having fun, as Charles Lockwood and Trace Packer had pointed out, as long as it’s victimless. Is this? Victimless, that is. Maggie doesn’t know. The other issue for Maggie is based on something very simple she’s observed over the years—no one looks happy the day after. It all feels a tad desperate and sad. These people are rich and successful and powerful and have everything, but it isn’t enough. That’s the problem. It is never enough. Human nature sees to that. We get used to every luxury. Even the richest men in the world, we’ve seen over the past few years, can’t be satiated, no matter how much money or power or yachts or women or offspring or hero worship or attention or whatever they have. Maggie’s parents had introduced her and Sharon to the music of Bruce Springsteen, constantly playing his vinyls on their old record player, and there was a line in the song “Badlands” that the poor man wants to be rich, the rich man wants to be king, and the king ain’t satisfied until he rules everything.
That.
At the bar—yes, it’s still a bar; dress it up, use premium liquors and crystal decanters and upscale glassware, it’s still a bar—Maggie is surprised to see more women than men. Very few of the women appear to be building residents, though perhaps that’s sexism or ageism on her part. She doesn’t know the deal, but what seems to be happening at first glance is that the young women sit at the bar. Alone. There is at least one stool empty next to them. A man approaches, chats them up for a few minutes, and then they move into a darkened booth.
Hmm, Maggie thinks.Change of plans.
She’d hoped to find a man seated alone and make her approach that way, but perhaps this is better. As she heads to the bar, she notices three men against the walls in a triangular formation, all with, yep, the black suits and sunglasses, even in this low lighting. Security. Even in here. Maggie takes a seat next to a too-young, coltish woman with a heavy foundation of makeup. The young woman—okay, can we be honest andcall her a girl?—stares at her in surprise. Her fake eyelashes are oversize, like two tarantulas lying on their backs in the hot desert sun.
Maggie gives her a big smile and sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Maggie.”
The young woman looks suspicious but returns the shake. “Alena.”
“I need a favor, Alena.”
Alena waits, still giving off the wary.
“Can I borrow your phone?” Maggie asks.
Alena looks puzzled. Maggie wonders how fluent her English is. Then Alena says, “I don’t have one.”
“You don’t?”
“I mean, Ihaveone, but… Are you a resident?”
