by R. A. McGee
Badway straightened the bar stools out along the bar. “That’s good, man. My staff will do the rest. I just like to get them started a little.”
Badway unlocked the main door and Porter sat on the bar, feet dangling.
The employees of the Bali Bump House filtered into the club in ones and twos. The DJ was first, with her headphones around her neck and tablet under her arm. The door guy was next, followed by the two bartenders who had dragged one of the combatants out of the club the night before. Porter introduced himself and learned that the thick black man with the long goatee and nose ring was Steven. His friend was named Rowdy.
“Rowdy?” Porter said.
“Yeah, old nickname. Because I party hard, I guess.” The man was thin, and had attempted to slick his wild hair back for the night. It wasn’t working, but at least his hair was out of his eyes.
“Good to meet you,” Porter said.
Finally, Janet and Erin, the beer-tub girls from the night before, arrived.
Janet hugged everyone in the club as she entered, blonde hair hanging loose, red lipstick in full effect. Erin said hello, but was apparently not a hugger.
“So you working tonight?” Erin said to Porter.
“I’m afraid so,” Porter said.
“Good to know someone like you is here. You know, in case of trouble,” she said.
“If you need anything, just get my attention,” Porter said.
“Maybe I’ll just get your attention even if I don’t need help,” the pretty brunette said. “I mean… that didn’t come out right. Never mind.” She smiled at Porter and walked away.
He watched every step.
“Okay, people, listen up.” Badway was standing on the bar, motioning for the group to get together. “Not you, Two-Time, you keep setting up.” The DJ went back to the stage and fiddled with some speakers.
“It’s Saturday night and we should be busy. I want everyone to be safe tonight and make a bunch of money. That’ll make me happy. You all remember Porter?”
There was a murmur of assent from the group.
“Good. He’ll be working with us tonight. If he asks something, I hope you extend him any courtesy you would me,” Badway said.
“Any courtesy,” Janet said in a sing-song voice, elbowing Erin.
Even in the low light of the club, Porter could see her blush.
“All right, all right. Let’s get to work,” Badway said.
The house lights went down lower and the doorman took his place up front.
DJ Two-Time began a mix of music. Porter didn’t think it was too bad, but still found it much too loud.
Patrons trickled in a few at a time, and soon the Bali Bump House was about halfway full.
Porter always thought this was the witching hour of a nightclub. The place was just busy enough that people were buying drinks and laughing. It wasn’t full enough for many people to dance, since most people didn’t want to be seen by everyone. Any girl dancing that early in the evening was showing off, and any guy dancing that early was already drunk. It made it easy to pick out the guys who were a drink away from being a problem.
With no one dancing on the floor, Janet and Erin were doing a good job on their respective beer tubs. Showing off. Porter took a slow lap around the slowly filling club.
He saw no issues. No furtive movements, no aggressive actions or loud words. Porter grabbed a bottle of water from behind the bar and slammed it, knowing how hot it would get later in the night. Taking a post on the stage, Porter saw two men standing too close to each other, speaking animatedly.
By the time he got to the pair, they had already shaken hands and done the almost-hug that men do, keeping an arm between them. Porter retreated to the stage, and Badway moved to his side.
“See?” Badway said, voice raised so Porter could hear him. “The place takes care of itself. There won't be any problems tonight.”
Porter wished Badway hadn’t said that. It was a jinx if he’d ever heard one. It was his first clue that there would be trouble that night.
A few minutes later, Porter saw his second clue walking through the front door. The group of track-suited Armenians was back, and this time they’d brought a few more friends.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Six
The men were wearing the same colors as the night before. Guess they are uniforms, Porter thought. The two new guys were outfitted in a white tracksuit and a blue one, made of the material people in the eighties used to wear to lose weight.
Porter watched the group for a moment. In his experience, things would play out one of two ways. The first would be that they stormed in and immediately tried to get their revenge for the beatings they took the night before. That’s how a group of amateurs would do it—fake tough guys trying to scare people.
The other option would be the slow burn. They would drift in and order a drink or two. Eyeball the place, trying to make sure they were set up with an advantage. Then there would be an innocuous catalyst that would trigger the entire incident. Bump into a guy in the crowd or grope a random girl—anything to stir things up. Then they would make their move.
This group did both. Two of them came in fast, looking around the place, only to be horse-collared by the other members and pulled into a corner. Strategy session, Porter thought. I have a few minutes.
Leaving the stage, Porter scanned the room until he saw Badway stepping into the back. He followed.
The music grew more muffled the further Porter went down the back hallway, and he was grateful it did.
“What’s up?” Badway said, tap to a beer keg in his hands.
“Did you tell your door guy to keep those assholes from last night out?”
“Tell him what?” Badway said.
“When you throw people out of a club, they don’t get to come back in the next night, Sarge. Club security one-oh-one. They can't make trouble if they’re on the street.”
“They’re here?”
“Yeah, and they brought friends,” Porter said.
“Shit, they came back?” Badway said.
“Of course they came back. You hurt their feelings last night. Bruised their egos. You gonna tell me who they are already?” Porter said.
“That won’t help us now. How many are here?”
“Six.”
Porter watched his cousin look up, apparently performing a mental calculation. “That’s doable.”
“Let’s not if we don’t have to,” Porter said.
“What should I do?”
“Call the cops,” Porter said. “Those goons got hit with a trespassing notice last night when they got sent on their way. The cops will come and run them out for us. Use Big Brother to our advantage,” Porter said.
“That’s gonna be bad for business,” Badway said.
“Not as bad as if I start shooting people in your club.” Porter patted his waistband, where his Glock sat, slipped into a small holster. “Think of that headline tomorrow.”
“Fine, I’m calling.”
“Good. By the way, you’re sleeping outside the rest of the time I’m here. You owe me for this.” Porter didn’t wait for Badway to answer before he left the back room.
Porter walked through the hallway, music growing in intensity as he went. He passed the threshold and saw the group, bellied up to the bar. Porter went back to the stage, to have a better view. He walked in front of Erin, who patted him on the shoulder. When he looked up, she was pointing to the group with the tracksuits, an urgent look on her face.
Porter winked at her and continued walking, settling on the stage and its higher vantage point. During his short time in the back, people had continued filtering into the club. It was now ninety percent full. This was a blessing and a curse.
The extra people would mask Porter’s movements, and give him the element of surprise should he need it. It would also be easier to isolate the track-suited thugs, to use the crowd as a partition.
The downside was that Porter now had
to consider what might happen if one of the clubgoers was hurt. There were a bunch of innocent people around. He wouldn’t hesitate to shoot if things were going south, but he didn’t want to hurt a bystander.
In the end, Porter decided he needed to clear the floor a bit. The advantage in ease of movement was outweighed by the disadvantage of potential collateral damage.
He watched the new guy in the blue tracksuit. The man had a shaved head, the only one in the group. Cueball reached over the bar when Rowdy wasn’t looking and pulled a bottle of vodka off the shelf. His walk and demeanor told Porter that he had a concealed pistol.
Porter didn’t have x-ray vision, but a decade as a federal agent had taught him what to look for to tell if someone had a gun. It was even more noticeable when the person thought they were a gangster and stuck it in their waistband with no holster. The way they favored the area with the pistol, to ensure it was still in place. The altered gait, so as not to dislodge it; the frequent patting to make sure it was where they’d left it.
Amateur hour, but Cueball was exhibiting all the tells.
Porter moved over to DJ Two-Time, who lifted her headphones. Porter cupped his hands and said, “I need you to slow things down.”
A club DJ had a very important job. Most people thought it was just to get people to dance, but that was only part of it. A good DJ was like a maestro. Up-tempo music to get people on the floor, slower music to get them to calm down for a few minutes, drive them to the bar to pay for a few drinks, then more up-tempo music.
A good DJ rode the crowd like a horse.
Two-Time nodded at Porter and mixed in a slower-tempo song. Within seconds, part of the club had moved from the open area in the middle toward the bar or bathroom, unwittingly manipulated by Two-Time.
Porter stood at the edge of the stage, watching the group. They had moved away from the bar and were in the middle of the dance floor, bottles of beer all around, save for Shaved Head, who was swigging from the vodka bottle he had stolen from the bar.
Muscle, in the same black tracksuit as the night before, tried to walk into a group of girls, who closed ranks to keep him out. He laughed and put his arms around them. Several of the girls responded by pushing and yelling at him. He reached his hands out and grabbed at their chests, laughing the entire time. One intrepid redhead slapped Muscle.
Porter was already moving toward the group.
Muscle stopped laughing and rubbed his face. His answer to the rebuke was to spit in the girl’s face.
The redhead screamed and now the whole group was moving away from the man, who stood tall, yelling at the girls.
Porter stepped between the retreating girls and Muscle with the black tracksuit. The girls moved far away. Porter knew he no longer could wait for the police. He also didn’t know where Badway was and didn’t have the luxury of enough time to wait for him.
Muscle was screaming in Porter's face, gesturing at the girls as if he were the wronged party.
DJ Two-Time apparently thought slow-down time was finished—and must not have noticed the fight—because the familiar opening drop of The Notorious B.I.G.’s song “Hypnotize” blared out.
Porter said nothing but stepped forward enough that his foot stepped on Muscle’s toe. When the thick man looked down, Porter landed a solid uppercut on the tip of his chin. Muscle’s head snapped back, his body stiffened, and he was carried off his feet, into the crowd of his fellow goons.
A cry went up from the crowd, more in response to the song than anything Porter had done.
While three of the group grabbed Muscle, trying in vain to right him, Porter rushed the lone man to his left. It was Mustard, in the same ugly color as the previous night. His eyes were on the falling Muscle. When he looked up, Porter had closed the distance and grabbed him by the back of the head. Mustard clawed at Porter’s arm, but Porter delivered a barrage of elbows downward and into the man’s face, landing everywhere from his nose to his eye orbit. Porter felt something crunch underneath his elbow, and blood shot onto the front of his shirt.
Hands grabbed Porter from behind, but he didn’t turn his attention to them. He was moving forward with Mustard, rearranging his face with surgical precision. Since he was in motion, the most the hands behind could do was grab at his shirt and pull, trying to slow him down. Porter wasn’t going to stop until he was finished putting Mustard out of commission.
The first rule of fighting a group of people was to make sure no one was getting back up when you were done with them.
Finally coming to a stop against a brick wall next to the bar, Porter released Mustard. He felt the bodies clawing behind him and turned to face them. He saw a flash of movement and turned his head to the right. A beer bottle came crashing down on him. Part of the bottle hit the top of his head, and part hit the brick wall.
Contrary to popular belief, beer bottles didn’t always shatter on impact. They often stayed intact, and were a devastating weapon in a fight. The only reason this bottle shattered was the brick wall. If not for that, Porter would likely have been asleep and under the feet of the track-suited goon squad.
As it was, Porter felt his head open up and blood begin pouring from the wound.
“You piece of shit,” Porter said as the warm blood crept down his neck.
Cueball and Mr. Green were in front of him, grabbing at him. Porter threw a short jab at Mr. Green’s throat. The man let go of Porter and stepped back, hand clasped to his own neck, struggling for breath.
Cueball was grabbing Porter’s shirt with his left hand, and swinging wild punches with his right. The man was almost Porter’s height, and the punches were working. Porter ate one to the side of the face, and the next time Cueball reared back, Porter ducked his head. Shaved Head’s fist glanced off the side of Porter’s head and into the brick wall behind him. The man howled with pain, over a Biggie Smalls verse about escargot.
As Cueball bent over and held his hand, Porter grabbed the man’s arm and locked it up, then twisted it behind the man’s back and then lifted it as high toward the ceiling as he could. Porter felt the tendons and ligaments in the man’s shoulder pop as he tore the arm out of place. Shaved Head’s howl got louder. If he did have the gun Porter suspected, Porter wasn’t going to give him the chance to shoot it.
Or leave him with the ability to pick up a cup, for that matter.
Over the head of Mr. Green, Porter saw Badway swinging quick fists at the man in the white tracksuit, with Velour already on the ground at his feet. Porter turned his attention back to Mr. Green, who was still grabbing at his own throat, struggling for air.
Porter grabbed him by the back of his head, fingers tight on the man’s greasy hair for grip. Then, he fired knees into Mr. Green’s face. Over and over, he slammed his knee into the man until Mr. Green collapsed face-down on the concrete floor. Porter stepped back and cast a glance at Badway, who was dragging Velour toward the front door.
He started to go for the gun he knew Cueball was carrying, but stopped himself when he realized that no one was in any shape to retaliate. Porter looked from man to man, each disabled on the floor in some way. He followed Badway out the front door.
Badway noticed Porter on his way back into the club. “Shit, man, your head. That’s bad.”
“I really hate you. Have I ever told you that?”
Seven
The police response was more intense than the night before. At first, one squad car showed up, but when the two officers in the car saw the carnage in the club, they sent for two more marked units.
And an ambulance.
Paramedics were doing a physical assessment of Cueball and were surprised to find that the man had a pistol in his pants. Porter wasn’t. Once the police learned Cueball had no concealed carry permit for the pistol, two officers followed the ambulance to the hospital. Mr. Green was on a gurney in the same ambulance.
The officers searching Velour found a gun in his sock. He came to in handcuffs, sitting in the back of a police cruiser.
Porter refused medical help, and sat in his white T-shirt with a clean bar towel pressed to the wound on top of his head. His button-up outer shirt was long thrown away. It was covered in several people’s blood, and the thought of that mix getting in the wound made him nauseous.
The officers talked to the other clubgoers, lingering near the group of girls that had been spit on, to get their sides of the story. It didn’t take them long to decide to arrest Muscle for assault, Red Velour and Cueball for the firearms violations, and the other thugs for assault and disturbing the peace. Except for the firearms violations, the charges were petty; with any competent lawyer, most of the group would be out soon. Porter didn’t care. At least they would be out of his hair for a while. Another run-in without a cooling-off period would be fatal for someone, and Porter had no intention of dying in Virginia.
The club having all but emptied out, Badway closed the doors for the rest of the night, then helped the staff close down and clean up.
Someone gave Porter a freezer bag of ice, and he wrapped it in the bar towel and pressed the mound to his head.
“You know, I watched all that.” Erin had cleaned out her beer tub and changed into more modest clothes. She hopped up on the bar next to Porter.
“How did I do?”
“Not too bad, I guess,” Erin said.
“Got any pointers?” Porter said.
Erin frowned. “Try not to let dirtbags hit you in the head with a beer bottle?”
“Good point. Maybe next time, I’ll work the beer tub and you handle the other stuff.”
“I’m not sure how good you’ll look in my little shorts, but you’re welcome to them,” Erin said. “I can get you a shirt, too. What’s your cleavage look like?”
“On second thought, I’ll stick with the beer bottles to the head,” Porter said with a smirk.
“You okay?”
“My head is pretty hard.”
“Maybe. But nothing here is worth all that trouble, you know?”
