He turned off the engine and climbed out of the Polo. It was still hot, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he crossed the road. He pushed open the double doors and was immediately hit by a blast of cold air and a pounding rock beat. Two big men in black T-shirts were standing there and Standing was thankful he’d left his gun in the car. One of the heavies mimed for Standing to raise his arms and he did. The heavy patted him down roughly, then gestured for him to go through to the bar.
There were two long podiums, each with two dancers on it, and beyond the podiums was a bar with three bartenders – two men and a woman – wearing black T-shirts and jeans. Off to the left was a curtain and above it a sign that said VIP AREA and to the right was a door with a STAFF ONLY sign on it.
He walked over to the bar and slid onto a stool. The male bartender walked over. He was in his thirties, tanned and with his blond hair tied back in a ponytail. He gestured with his chin, his way of asking what Standing wanted to drink.
‘Budweiser,’ said Standing.
The barman pulled a bottle off a shelf, popped off the cap and put it on the bar in front of Standing without saying a word. As the barman walked away, Standing swivelled around on his stool.
All four dancers were topless, and from the look of it had invested in breast implants. Two were blondes, one was a brunette and one had hair that had been dyed a vibrant pink. All of the girls had at least one visible tattoo and the girl with pink hair had a full back tattoo of a leopard.
The curtain to the VIP area was pulled back and a bearded man in blue jeans and a red checked shirt walked out, followed by another topless blonde. As the customer headed out, the girl walked over to a booth where two men in suits were drinking whisky. One of the men got to his feet and the girl took him by the hand and led him through the curtain.
A girl appeared at Standing’s side. She had black spikey hair that was a stark contrast to her pale white skin. ‘Hey,’ she said. She had thick black eyeliner and shocking pink lipstick.
He raised his bottle in salute. ‘Hey back at you.’
‘Do you want a dance?’ Her accent was East European, Polish maybe.
‘Perhaps later,’ said Standing. ‘But can I buy you a drink?’
‘Sure,’ she said. She nodded at one of the female bartenders and a pale-blue cocktail appeared within seconds. Standing didn’t bother asking what it was or how much it cost. The key to any successful operation was intel, and so far Standing knew next to nothing about his target. All he had was a man’s name, Denis Volkov, and a location, a back room at The Dollhouse. Volkov was always armed, Yurin had said, but that was to be expected. And he always had a minimum of three heavies with him. That was also to be expected.
‘I’m Simon,’ he said.
‘Eva,’ she said. He figured they were probably both lying about their names. She clinked her glass against his bottle. ‘Are you on vacation or here on business?’
‘A bit of both,’ he said. ‘So how long have you worked here?’
Eva shrugged. ‘A few weeks,’ she said, and Standing could tell from her body language alone that she was lying. Customers probably didn’t like to hear that the girl they were chatting up had been sliding up and down a chrome pole for years.
She was young, he was sure of that, but there was a weariness in her eyes and dark patches under them that suggested sleepless nights or drug use or maybe both.
‘It’s a good place to work?’
She shrugged again. ‘It is what it is,’ she said.
There was a bruise on her right wrist. Several bruises. As if a hand had gripped her tightly.
Standing looked around the club. ‘Answer me this,’ he said. ‘We’re in California, but there are no Hispanics dancing. Why is that? Does the boss not like Mexicans?’
Eva laughed. ‘Plenty of Mexicans come for jobs but the boss never hires them. He says they can’t dance.’
‘Is that true?’
She snorted softly. ‘Of course not. He brings the girls in himself, he doesn’t hire walk-ins. Doesn’t trust them.’
Standing nodded. The subtext was clear – Volkov and his men were traffickers and they brought their own girls. That almost certainly explained the bruises on Eva’s wrist.
‘So do you want a dance?’ she asked. She had drained her glass and there was nothing in it now but ice cubes.
‘Nah, I’m good, thanks,’ said Standing. ‘But I’ll buy you another drink.’
She shook her head. ‘I need dances,’ she said. She flashed him a tight smile and walked away. She went over to a booth and began talking to some guys in jeans and denim workshirts. In less than a minute she had one of them by the hand and was leading him towards the VIP area.
A middle-aged man in a cowboy hat and a shirt with the name of a landscaping firm on the back waved a hundred-dollar bill in the air. A waitress went over and took the money to the bar, returning with a wad of single dollar bills. The two dancers on the podium moved towards him like sharks that had scented blood, but he ignored them and began to methodically count every note. When he’d finished he snarled and clicked his fingers to get the attention of the waitress. After she’d walked up to him, he began to harangue her for only giving him ninety-two singles. ‘You’ve stolen eight bucks!’ he shouted. ‘What sort of fucking place is this! I want my eight bucks!’
The waitress said something to him but whatever she had said only made him angrier. He stood up and began shouting that he wanted his hundred-dollar bill back.
Standing watched as the two bouncers walked quickly across the club. Cowboy Hat didn’t see them coming and he was still haranguing the waitress when he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck by the bigger of the two bouncers. The other punched him twice in the stomach, quickly and efficiently. Cowboy Hat doubled over and the bouncer who was holding his collar hauled him over to the exit. The bouncer who had done the hitting picked up the dropped banknotes, then hurried after his colleague.
The two bouncers took the customer outside and were with him for several minutes, presumably explaining the error of his ways. When they reappeared, the bigger of the two was licking his knuckles.
None of the customers had paid any attention to the fracas, though one of the dancers shouted over at the bouncers. Standing guessed that she was asking for the money, and from the way the bouncers gestured back at her, he guessed they were telling her to go fuck herself.
Standing sipped his beer. The door to the office remained closed. There didn’t appear to be any CCTV cameras in the club, so whoever was behind the door probably wasn’t aware of the disturbance. Hopefully, the converse would also be true and anything that happened inside wouldn’t be heard by the bouncers.
Two men in suits appeared at the entrance and from the way the dancers all pointed their breasts in their direction it was clear that they were regulars. Both men were patted down by the bouncers, then headed to sit at one of the podiums. A waitress took their orders and both men handed over hundred-dollar bills.
Eva reappeared with her customer and took him back to his table, then took the hand of the guy he was with and walked with him back into the VIP area. The girl was clearly a trooper.
The waitress carried drinks over to the two new arrivals and gave them each a stack of dollar bills. The men took the money and they both tipped the waitress.
There were now three girls on the podium closest to the guys and they immediately went into overdrive, dancing around the silver poles as if their lives depended on it. The two suits were soon handing over money, usually tucking it into the thongs the girls were wearing.
Standing’s eyes scanned the bar. He had no way of knowing how many men were in the office, or what weapons they were carrying. He slid off his stool and went over to the men’s room, which was to the left of the office. There was a line of urinals and two stalls. He had hoped that there would be a window that he could use to get the gun into the building, but the only source of outside light was a line of glass blocks.
He
went back to his seat, considering his options. He could either go into the office, or bring the men out. He was sure he could take out the two bouncers, but there were several dozen customers in various stages of inebriation and he wasn’t sure how they would react if it kicked off in the club.
The two suits were being very generous with their money and were attracting quite a bit of attention from the customers and girls. The two bouncers were deep in conversation at the entrance. Standing put down his beer. He headed towards the men’s room. He took a quick look over his shoulder but no one was paying him any attention. He walked past the men’s room and grabbed the handle of the office door and pushed it open. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Game on.
23
There were five men in the room. Two were sitting on a sofa facing the door with their feet up on a long coffee table. One was sitting behind a desk, on which there was a big Apple computer. Another was sitting at a table looking at his smartphone. There was a man in an armchair reading a Russian newspaper. Next to him was a coffee-maker with two pots of coffee, presumably caffeinated and decaffeinated and even as he scanned the room Standing couldn’t help wondering what sort of Russian mobster would bother with decaf.
There was a window opposite the door but it was covered by blinds and they were pulled shut. There were fluorescent lights overhead and a large floor lamp by the desk. To the right was a blue-topped pool table with the balls set up for a game.
All five men stared at him. Standing was fairly sure that Volkov was the man behind the desk, and his suspicion was confirmed when he stood up. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he said, his hands on his hips. He was wearing a black turtle-neck sweater with the sleeves pulled up to reveal forearms covered with thick, black hair.
‘I’m the guy who’s just been cheated out of eight bucks,’ said Standing. He closed the door behind him. ‘I gave the waitress a hundred and she gave me back ninety-two singles.’
‘Are you fucking serious?’ said Volkov. ‘You’re bothering me about eight fucking dollars?’
‘What sort of joint is this?’ said Standing. ‘You rip off everyone, do you?’
Volkov waved at the two men on the sofa and spoke to them in Russian. They got to their feet and walked towards Standing. No weapons that he could see. They were both wearing long-sleeved shirts and tight jeans, fashionable but not the greatest gear for a bit of rough and tumble.
The man holding the newspaper put it down. He was wearing a dark-brown leather jacket and Standing caught a glimpse of something metallic under his left armpit. He was thin and his wrists were protruding from the sleeves of his jacket. He had three large rings on his right hand, not a good idea if he planned to be pulling a trigger any time soon.
The heavy who had been studying his smartphone had put it down and he now had a large switchblade in his hand. The handle alone was close to nine inches long.
Standing stood with his hands at his side. ‘I just want my money back,’ he said, still playing the irate customer.
The bruiser approaching on Standing’s left side was the bigger of the two, with a shaved head that glistened under the fluorescent lights. He had a spider-web tattoo across his neck and both hands were covered in ink. He had a wide chin with a dimple in the centre and a nose that looked as if it had been pushed flat against his face.
The other heavy reached into his pocket and pulled out a brass knuckleduster that he slipped over his right hand.
Standing went into overdrive. There were two fire extinguishers fixed to the wall at the side of the door. One was a water extinguisher, the other filled with CO2. Standing grabbed the CO2 cylinder, ripped out the locking pin and pressed the trigger as he pointed the horn at the heavy with the knuckleduster. A jet of liquid CO2 hit the man in the face. He coughed and spluttered and had no time to react as Standing slammed the base of the cylinder into his face. The bruiser slumped to the ground, the white foam on his face turning red.
The heavy with the tattoos pulled back his fist to hit Standing, but Standing was already aiming the horn and he pulled the trigger again, sending a stream of foam into the man’s eyes and mouth. Standing stepped to the side and slammed the extinguisher into the man’s stomach, then as he doubled over, Standing brought it crashing down on the back of his neck. He went down but he was still conscious and pushed himself back up, his hands slipping on the foam-soaked floor. Standing brought the cylinder down on the back of his head and he shuddered and went limp.
Two down, three to go.
The man with the switchblade was on his feet, coming around the other side of the pool table. The man with the newspaper had dropped it and was pulling out his gun. The fact that he was still in his armchair hindered his movement and he was having trouble getting the weapon out of its holster. Standing hurled the extinguisher at him, then grabbed a pool cue from the table.
The extinguisher hit the man in the chest and he roared in pain. The extinguisher fell to the floor and the man got to his feet, reaching for his gun again. Standing upended the pool cue, took two quick steps and slammed the heavy end against his right elbow. There was a loud crack as the joint broke and the man yelped. Standing hit him again, this time on the right knee, and again there was the satisfying sound of cartilage breaking. Standing slammed the cue into the man’s stomach and the air exploded from his lungs as he bent over. Standing dropped the cue, grabbed the butt of the man’s gun and yanked it from the holster, then slammed it down on the back of his skull. He fell heavily and lay still.
The gun was a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard .38 with a five-round cylinder. Not the most accurate of weapons but it packed a punch. Volkov was staring open-mouthed at Standing. If he had a weapon, he wasn’t reaching for it.
The man with the flick-knife was coming around the pool table. He was holding the knife low, his thumb along the handle close to the blade, ready to stab upwards or slice. He looked like he knew what he was doing. Standing knew a dozen ways of taking a knife off an attacker but there was always an element of risk, so he swung the gun around and shot the man twice in the chest. The man staggered back, collapsed into the armchair, and the knife fell from his senseless fingers and clattered to the floor.
The familiar smell of cordite assailed Standing’s nostrils as he turned to face Volkov. Volkov bent to open one of the drawers of his desk. ‘Don’t even think about going for a gun!’ said Standing. He levelled his weapon at Volkov’s chest. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’
Volkov slowly raised his hands. There was a thick gold chain around his right wrist and a chunky gold watch on his left. He was big, a couple of inches over six feet, and the turtle-neck was a size too small, as if to emphasise his upper body muscles. Volkov glared at Standing, then nodded slowly. His eyes were a pale blue and he had the thousand-yard stare of a man who had taken the lives of others and done it without a shred of conscience. ‘You’re the motherfucker who killed Yurin,’ he said.
It wasn’t a question and Standing just shrugged. He had no intention of telling Volkov that Yurin was alive, albeit with a bullet in his leg.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ said Volkov. ‘You a Navy SEAL like Barnes?’
‘Where’s the girl?’ asked Standing.
‘Fuck you. You think I’m scared of a gun?’
‘Well, you’ve got your hands in the air, haven’t you?’
The door behind Standing opened. He took a quick look over his shoulder and saw it was one of the bouncers. The bouncer didn’t see the gun in Standing’s hand and rushed towards him. Standing turned and slammed the gun against his temple. It stunned him but didn’t knock him out and he managed to throw a punch that connected with Standing’s shoulder before Standing hit him again with the gun. As the bouncer fell to his knees, Standing caught movement in the corner of his eye and he dropped into a crouch and whirled around. Volkov had a gun, a large revolver, and it kicked in his hand as he pulled the trigger. The round whizzed a couple of inches above Standing’s head and buried itself in the wall
behind him.
Standing brought his own gun up and instinctively pulled the trigger twice, a double tap that put two bullets in the centre of his chest. It was only as Volkov fell to the floor that Standing regretted his action. He’d wanted the Russian alive.
He hurried over and stood looking down at Volkov. His eyes were glassy and there was bloody froth bubbling between his lips. ‘Where is the girl?’ asked Standing, but it was too late. The Russian shuddered once and went still.
Standing bent down and pulled Volkov’s wallet from his jacket and his keys from his trouser pocket. He had no way of knowing if the bouncer had come into the office because he’d heard the shots, or if it had just been bad timing.
He looked around the room. Volkov was dead. The bouncer was out for the count. The heavy with the knife was dead. The man who had pulled out his gun was face down on the floor, unconscious. The two guys he’d hit with the fire extinguisher were also out cold.
He put the wallet and keys in his own jacket pocket, then went over to the tattooed heavy and rolled him over. He slapped him on the face but it had no effect. Standing straightened up, went over to the door and looked out into the club. Girls were dancing, customers were drinking and there was no sign of the second bouncer. He slipped the gun inside his waistband, pulled his jacket over it and headed out, keeping his head down and pulling the door closed behind him.
The music was loud, and he began to think that it had covered the noise of the shots, but then he saw the bouncer standing by the exit with his phone up to his ear. The bouncer saw Standing and his eyes widened, and Standing knew immediately that he was either phoning the police or calling for reinforcements. Standing walked towards him and the bouncer backed away until he was against the wall. Standing hit him twice in the solar plexus, two punches in quick succession that pretty much paralysed him. Standing grabbed the phone and looked at the screen. It was a cellphone he’d been calling, so the cops wouldn’t be turning up any time soon.
Last Man Standing Page 18
