by David Levien
This was when he was a customer at the Lady, before his money ran out, and he took the job doing security and door at the club. His idea was that he could work close to Michelle that way, put in the time that a woman of her caliber required. He could also make sure she didn’t get too close to anyone else and that no one got too close to her. He never missed a set. She’d come out blasting with Warrant, then take it down to “Mr. Brown-stone,” and finish off with something soulful, usually “Home Sweet Home” or Cinderella’s “Don’t Know What You Got.” The way she danced, as if the music was emanating from a place in her belly, moved him. And her body — it was magnetic. It made him want to touch her so bad. She wasn’t too thin like so many girls these days. Tad would be in physical pain by the time she finished and he couldn’t hear Tom Keifer’s searing voice without getting mournfully hard. Before long he became sure that none of the customers meant a thing to her. She made eye contact with them during table dances and that convinced some of the guys that she dug them, but he knew the truth.
“I look right through them,” she’d confided to Tad one night as she left the VIP room, tucking a roll of twenties into her little plastic case. As she walked by him, she reached out and touched his cheek. It felt like a kiss. It felt like lightning. “You look pale,” she said with sadness in her voice, as if she knew his dirty secret.
Along with the job, he’d gotten the idea that somehow Michelle was the answer to what stalked him. That she could calm his troubled mind. That she was peace. He conjured daydreams for himself. After they’d enjoyed each other, she would lay that cool hand across his brow and he would sleep. Over time he’d leave the smoking behind altogether and get in better shape. He’d be a strong, fit, big man.
The last verse of “Don’t Close Your Eyes” by Kix droned on. He looked down at Reno, undulating at the edge of the stage, her legs spread wide, her head thrown back. Tad almost saw her as Michelle for a moment and squeezed his cock hard against his thigh. The song ended and Reno closed her legs. She started scrabbling around the stage picking up her money. Tad hoisted himself out of the chair. His break was over.
Damn them, Behr thought, cursing the Gabriels as he sat in his car across the street from the window-less building that was the Golden Lady. It was a hulking structure, painted black. By way of a sign there was a halfhearted strip of purple neon outlining a painted dancing girl dipping her bottom into a martini glass. Behr worked on getting ahold of himself and managed to stop blaming the Gabriels for what he was feeling. It was an ancient anger, he realized, that predated them. He prepared himself to go in. He was out near the fairgrounds and didn’t have a gun with him. He rarely carried one. His heart thrummed rapidly, a surge of adrenaline coming up the back of his throat. It had been a long time since he’d worked a good case. He leaned over, opened the glove box, and pulled out his bad man’s brother — a leather sap, filled with iron shot. Just in case. He tucked it into his waistband and headed for the club. It’d been seven years since he’d gone independent, and he still wasn’t used to going in alone. He’d had thirteen years on the force and had never quite got used to going in with backup, either.
Behr entered a small foyer where a man sat in a glassed-in box office. He slid a twenty into the slot and got a drink ticket back. He pushed through a turnstile, went through another door into the club, and was assaulted by blaring metal music and spinning lights that sliced through the darkness. His eyes adjusted and he saw the place was dim and scummy, the gloom merely punctured by neon and strobes. A half-naked young woman in red platform boots slunk across the stage like some kind of feline animal. He scoped the crowd, which was less than capacity, it being early still, and breathed in the smell of jizz, bleach, beer, fruity strippers’ perfume, and the low, throat-closing odor of the smoke pumped onto the stage for the feature dancers.
He took a seat at a small round table not far from the stage and his gaze was pulled back to the dancer. Her hair was red, nearly matching her boots, and she was lithe and commanding despite being so young. She couldn’t have been much more than nineteen. His desire wrestled with sadness. She seemed to be worldly and expert, a willing courtesan. But he didn’t imagine the circumstances of the life that had led her there were good. Between songs an emcee came over the sound system exhorting the patrons to give it up for Lexi. When she was facing away from him, Behr leaned forward and placed a five-dollar bill on the edge of the stage. Another guitar-driven tune began, and a waitress, in a short skirt with a tray glued to her hand, stopped by the table.
“What’ll you have?”
“Vodka and tonic.” Behr extended his drink ticket. The waitress was a good five years older than the dancer, but it was a wide chasm. Her legs were decent with the benefit of control hose, and it appeared a pushup bra was helping her on top.
“It’s a two-drink minimum. The second round is eight bucks. You want both now?”
“Sure.”
“You need singles?”
Behr nodded and dropped a twenty on her tray, then leaned back and pretended to be a guy pretending to play it cool. He looked around the club casually instead of staring slavishly at the dancer.
“Just give me five back,” Behr said when the waitress brought his drinks.
She smiled and counted out five singles.
“I’m looking for a guy who used to come here—”
“You serving him a summons or he owe you money?” the waitress asked, retreating behind the cool facade built during her dancing days.
“Nah” — Behr coughed, acting embarrassed — “I owe him money.” He saw this changed things for the waitress and went on. “My cousin, actually. He used to work with him, then moved a while back. Asked me to drop by and pay him if I was in the neighborhood. It’s only two hundred forty. But I’ve got it.” Behr pat-patted his pocket. “Ted Ford. He here?”
“Tad.”
“Right.” Behr locked on the guy’s name, understanding why he’d missed him in the databases. The waitress scanned the dark room and bit her lip as she came up empty.
“I don’t see him. … But he’s on tonight.” The fact that Ford worked there settled on him. Behr wondered if the guy had seen him come in, made the remnants of cop that still clung to him, and headed out the back. Then he felt the waitress’s acrylic-tipped nails give a squeeze to his upper arm. “Oh, there he is. By the bar.”
Behr looked and saw a man wrestle a keg in behind the bar. He disappeared for a moment as he kneeled to hook it up to the line. Tad was young, about twenty-five, with doormat sideburns and dark hair carefully combed into a sort of pompadour. Some kind of brilliantine in it caught the strobes in the club. He was big, but by the way he struggled with the keg, Behr could tell he was soft.
“Hey, I should get a cut.” It was the waitress, as if she’d just gotten the idea, joking but full of hope.
“Sounds fair,” Behr said, handing her the five singles and dashing those hopes.
As Tad Ford walked back out the side door through which he’d come, Behr waited a beat, then stood and followed him out.
Tad flexed his lats as he walked outside and headed for the refrigerated room for a keg of Busch Light. If he worked here long enough, the kegs would start to feel like quart bottles. He reached for the silver handle of the walk-in and felt himself lurch forward out of control as he was shoved facefirst into the door of the refrigerated room.
“What the fu—?” Tad said, bouncing off the door a little, unhurt, spinning around and looping a lazy right hook at his attacker. Tad’s brain flashed that someone — Rudy probably — was jerking around with him, but his eyes went wide when he caught sight of a big man, a stranger.
Behr bobbed the hook by bending his knees. He pulled his blackjack and sapped Ford backhanded across the hipbone as he came back up. Ford squealed and doubled over.
“Goddamn. I’m sorry. I thought you were Rudy fucking with me.”
“I’m not Rudy.” Behr glared back at him.
“I can see that,” Ford
whined, straightening up and rubbing his hip. “What do you want, man?”
“What I want to know about, Tad, is you selling stolen bikes.” Behr saw Ford’s face go ivory with fear. Direct hit. Behr’s own pulse raced at the success.
“What?”
“Shut up.” Behr pushed him back against the door, grabbing a handful of his shirt. “You lying fuck.” He sapped him on the outside of the left thigh, on the peroneal nerve that ran down the leg. He felt Ford buckle and hoisted him up like a flaccid spinnaker. “You sold ‘em to Mickey Handley. I want to know where you got ‘em.”
Tad shook in pain and fear and answered, “I stole them.”
“I know you stole them. From who?”
“Kids. They just leave ‘em around …” Tad saw white and felt his right lower leg burning as if on fire. The big man in front of him had driven the toe of his heavy boot into his shin. It throbbed as Tad’s heart pounded.
“Goddamnit, I’m gonna call the cops,” Tad whined-threatened.
“No, you’re not. Who were you working with?”
“No one,” Tad blurted. He’d done the bikes alone. It was the truth and Behr read it as such, confusing as that was. It was only later that Tad thought that maybe the man hadn’t just meant the bikes. His answer would’ve come out different, even though he would never have given up Rooster and Riggi. Behr rolled his wrist flashing the sap for another strike when he heard the club door open with a bang. Behr used his body to hide the sap, then looked over his right shoulder in time to see a bull-necked man, wearing a taut black T-shirt despite the cold, step outside with a wild-haired dancer in tow. He had an air of authority and the easy swagger of a guy about to get blown.
“What the hell’s going on?” the man shouted, seeing his trysting spot occupied, the tips of his ears going red in the frosty air. “You better not be selling in my club, Ford.”
“No,” Tad gurgled, and seemed on the verge of screaming to Bull Neck for help. Behr knifed him with his eyes, willing him to stay quiet, and somehow he did.
“Selling what? I was looking for the men’s room—” Behr tried to fill the silence and wipe away the violence in the air.
“Bullshit,” Bull Neck shouted. Behr felt the man try to get a read on him. He considered charging him and cracking his skull on his way to the door. Instead he held his position near Ford and kept cool. “How much does the fat bastard owe you?” Bull Neck finally spoke.
Behr nodded and went with the number he’d used earlier. “Two-forty. He should know the Vikings never cover.”
“Do me a favor and take this shit someplace else. I can’t be having it here.” It was half-demand and half-request, but it seemed like the best out that Behr could hope for in the situation. He cursed to himself, feeling a real chance slipping away. He nodded easily, though, and walked past Bull Neck and his girl and went inside.
Tad, on battered and quaking legs, had nowhere to go but back inside the club as well.
“You look pale, Tad,” Reno said as he walked past them.
“You ought to pay your debts,” Rudy said to him. Then he heard their laughter.
Behr had been forced off Ford but he wasn’t ready yet to go home empty-handed. The man was connected to foul things. Behr was sure of it. He felt he was on the verge of getting names when they were interrupted, and the idea of walking away now and putting it off to another day killed him. He figured he had a few minutes at least, no matter how sophisticated the girl’s charms, before Bull Neck would be back inside to chase him out of the club. He crossed to the far corner and tried to hide in the darkness. A moment later he watched Ford limp in, cast his eyes around, miss him in his hiding spot, and head right for a vestibule by the men’s room. Behr saw Ford dial then raise a cell phone to his ear. Even with the distance and the darkness Behr could see it was a prepaid phone — no chance of recovering who Ford was calling. Ford put a finger in his other ear against the noise.
It was like a nightmare come true. Even worse than he had imagined. Tad had almost crapped himself when the huge guy started questioning him. Who the hell was he, and how did he know? He seemed coplike but didn’t say he was a cop. What other explanation was there? Tad was fucked, that was the one thing he knew for sure. He was screwed blue. The way he saw it there were only two things he could do: Nothing — just squeeze his eyes shut, pretend it never happened, finish his shift, and hope he never saw the huge guy again. Or call Mr. Riggi. It was horrible, but somehow he knew it wasn’t all going to go away and that he had to call. There was no sense in waiting, he figured, he might as well rip the Band-Aid off in one shot.
“Yeah.” Riggi’s voice came through the line, cold and irritated.
“It’s Tad Ford.”
“Tad,” Riggi answered, “I know you’re not calling me for your job back or for any kind of favor. Not after you rat-fucked me by walking out.”
Tad closed his eyes against the diamond-hard words, the hate, coming through the phone. He pictured him there, in some big modern house — he didn’t actually know where Mr. Riggi lived, he had never been invited over — in a silk robe, his bald head gleaming, the sound of ice cubes banging around in a glass of thousand-year-old scotch. He probably had a couple of hot Asian chicks waiting to satisfy his every desire, and now stupid Tad Ford was calling to screw up his night.
“Well, what is it?”
“Mr. Riggi, someone came to see me. He beat me. Fucked up my leg—”
“What’s it got to do with me?” Tad could feel Riggi gripping his telephone tightly.
“Maybe nothing, but … He was asking about a bike—”
“A goddamned—”
“I know I shouldn’t have, but I sold a few, you know, from the pickups a while back.” Tad heard a few short breaths of fury, then a quiet voice.
“Where are you calling me from?”
“From work, on a throwaway—”
“Thank god.” There was a rush of breath. “This conversation is over. Get out of there. Don’t say another word to anyone. You got me, you stupid fuck? I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll meet and sort this out.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. R., but I swear I didn’t say your name. …” Tad could’ve gone on, but he would’ve been talking to dead air.
Behr slipped out of the club when he saw Ford hang up the phone, figuring his time there was about up. He cast a backward glance on his way out and saw Ford leaning over the rail into the DJ booth. Behr sat in his car, watching the door, wondering if somebody would be showing up for an emergency powwow with Ford, but instead, within three minutes, it was Ford who hurried out. Behr watched him squeeze into an old but well-kept 300 ZX and pull out. He jotted down the plate number and took up a loose and easy tail. He followed him twelve minutes northeast, to a part of town that was choked with low-slung apartment buildings that had units you could pay by the month. The buildings had already started to fall apart and look old by the time the initial construction was finished, and they weren’t ever going to look any better before their date with a wrecking ball. Behr nosed toward the curb a half-block back and watched Ford ramble to the lobby door, casting a desperate look behind him. Behr gave it two minutes, saw a light go on in a street-side second-floor window covered by a thin, ratty curtain, then went and checked the mailboxes in the building’s foyer. Ford lived in 2-H, and that jibed with the light that had just gone on. Behr walked back to his car, relieved himself on the curb next to it, then climbed in to wait and see who showed for a visit.
SEVENTEEN
THE GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING QUIET gnawed at Rooster like a flesh-eating disease. The waiting thing had worn thin on him. He’d had the “just be patient” conversation with Riggi several times over the past four or five months.
This just isn’t the kind of thing that’s steady, me boy. And in this line you just can’t force it when it’s not there.
I know, I know.
I’ve got to find you a new anchor man, and he’s got to be the right guy.
I know, I kno
w.
Let it come to you. That’s what I’ve learned you’ve got to do.
I know, I know.
If you need something, that’s never an issue. As much cash as you need to get you through, just ask your captain.
I know, I know.
But “be patient” wasn’t Rooster’s stock-in-trade. Over the past two weeks he’d started to look on his apartment as a cage. It was a bachelor style on a street busy with big trucks and whores on the way out to the fairgrounds. He had a double bed, a television and a boom box on a baker’s rack, and a chin-up bar in the doorway to the bathroom. It was supposed to be temporary before Riggi put him in the next house with whoever would be his new partner. But the weeks had gone on and he was climbing the walls. He’d been talking aloud to himself for the past few days.
On the other hand the idle time had yielded something positive for him: size. Twenty-five pounds of solid brick-shit muscle. Time in the gym, supplements that provided hundreds of grams of whey-protein isolates, creatine, ATP, and a cycle on anabolics, had made him different than he had ever been before. Despite his five-foot-six stature, he now had the musculature of a slugging American League first baseman. He could push more weight, for more reps, and recover faster than ever before. He incorporated a system called plyometrics into his routine after reading about it in a weight-lifting magazine. Down at the gym he’d stack aerobic steps into a tower that reached his chest and leap up onto it from a stationary position. He’d do it until his legs shook and his lungs were set to explode, then he’d drop and bang out push-ups until his arms seized up on him. After the workouts he’d peel off his sweat-soaked shirt and pace past the mirrors on the way to his locker, taking in his ballooning pecs and the ropy veins cording down his neck. His jaw bulged from having been clenched in effort for the past two hours, and he’d snarl at any fags in the locker room that looked at him too long.
