The Four-Night Run

by William Lashner

  You came for the action, you came for the booze, you came to do business because it was the place to do business when other businesses closed, you came for the show, for the fights, for the pungent scent of danger, you came for the girls, you came for the girls, my God, you came for the girls, but whatever it was, you sure as hell came.

  Guaranteed.

  Scrbacek waited in the shadows, watching the comings and goings at the ungainly old building, trying to pick out escape routes if he needed to run, though he knew if it came to running he was as good as lost. The rain fell in a shifting rhythm, spitting against the turned-up collar of his raincoat before soaking his back. The raincoat no longer kept him dry; it only hid how wet his shirt had become.

  There were guards in the front, he remembered, though possibly more this night than he remembered, but he had no intention of strolling through the front door. There was a loading dock in the rear, where cases of liquor, cases of beer, dull metal kegs, pallets of frozen chicken wings, dog-size bottles of Tabasco, where all of the necessities were brought into the building, and it too would be guarded. There were most likely spotters on the long flat roof, maybe a few hiding in the cars parked in the lot. He had no doubt the place was being tightly watched, and that the watchers were watching for him.

  Scrbacek circled the building, keeping a careful distance, until he reached the bay, the black water pocked by rain. He stooped over and followed the coastline until he faced a long stretch of wall with a wide-open doorway gleaming in its middle. A man in a cable-knit sweater and black beret sat in a chair and leaned back against the wall right beside the doorway.

  This is where she’d said to come, this is where she’d said to wait, so he had come and now he would wait.

  Through the doorway he could see women with bare legs and flannel shirts passing back and forth, stepping outside for a smoke, talking with each other. One woman was crying, her back bent with a weary sadness, and two other women were comforting her. He saw a blonde, holding a pocketbook, take a step out the door and stand beside the man in the sweater. She peered into the darkness toward the bay. Elisha Baltimore. As she looked out, she spoke to the man in the sweater. He puffed out his chest and turned his full attention to her.

  Scrbacek stood and waved his arm slowly. She kept peering as if she didn’t see a thing, and then she stepped out into the rain, outside the man’s hearing distance, and pulled a cellular phone out of her pocketbook before putting the pocketbook over her head to protect her hair from the rain. A few seconds later, Scrbacek’s phone rang.

  “We’ve been having power problems,” she said. “One or two a night, something about a balky transformer sending surges through the system. We’re due for another in a few minutes. Remember the map I drew for you? You’ll have about thirty seconds to get in the door and through the hallway to the bar before they reset the circuit breaker.”

  “What about the guard?”

  “Just before it goes dark, he’ll be off searching for a mouse.”

  “He’ll leave his post for a mouse?”

  “It’ll be in the dressing room. Pete never fails to come up with excuses to find his way to the dressing room. More tits than a dairy barn in there. You see him leave, get ready. Lights out, you go.”

  “Will do.”

  “I can’t help you once you’re inside.”

  “I know that. But once I am inside, you get the hell out of there. It could get bad.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “You going to meet the others?”

  “Yes, of course. I have a weakness for romantic shipwrecks. I saw Titanic four times.”

  “You’re a hell of a woman, Elisha Baltimore, with strange masochistic tendencies.”

  “I hope you realize they’re going to kill you.”

  “I have a card to play, and I think it’s an ace.”

  “Scrbacek, you’re a sweet guy and all, but what you know about playing poker with these guys wouldn’t fill the inside of a matchbook.”

  The line went dead. Scrbacek watched as Elisha hustled back into the building, patting Pete on the beret as she passed by. Pete’s head whiplashed.

  Scrbacek bent low and scooted closer to the building until he was directly in front of the door. He kneeled down and waited. And waited. The rain battered his shoulders. The bass lines from the band rose from the ground like drummed messages of war. Scrbacek waited. And then Pete in the sweater swung out of his chair and rushed inside and Scrbacek readied himself like a sprinter for the lights to go out.

  And they did.

  And Scrbacek was off.

  Running through the dim skittering emergency lights flickering from the rooftop, running for the outline of the entrance, hearing the groan of exasperated patrons from inside. Up the steps, to the right, past trim shadows in their flannel shirts, brushing past swatches of soft skin.

  Hearing the women’s shouts and curses, and a male voice going, “Where’s that rat? Where’s that damn rat?” Another yelling, “Get the goddamn breaker, goddamn it.”

  Pushing his way through a swinging door into a place of absolute blackness, sliding forward until he was enveloped in the luscious thickness of velvet curtains. Finding the opening, pushing through the curtains into a vague stroboscopic light, like the light of a local subway station pulsing through the windows of a dark express train as the crowd hooted and yelled obscenities at the darkness. Rushing across a flat open surface, slamming into something so hard he fell back onto his tailbone.

  A pole? What the hell is a pole doing there?

  Oh yeah.

  Grabbing hold of the pole, pulling himself up, spying a row of faces lining the front of the stage, the faces blinking on and off with the strobe, eyes following his rushing shadow with the hope it might be something worth seeing. Scampering to the left, jumping off the edge of the stage, twisting his ankle and crying out even as he popped once again to his feet.

  Limping his way along the wall to the bar, past one stool, past another, some stools open, some with asses firmly in place, a scattering of curses, a hand slapping him away. Still moving, finding an empty series of stools and hopping on one, taking a deep breath, crossing his hands in front of him, another deep breath, calming his breathing a few seconds, a few seconds more.

  The lights blinked on, dim and red, true, but on. A cheer rose, a trumpet blasted, the crowd laughed and high-fived one another. The bartender, a tall, droopy man who looked like he himself had been poured, made his way along the length of the bar, barely noticing Scrbacek sitting on a stool all by his lonesome.

  “Rolling Rock and a tequila,” said Scrbacek.

  The bartender, without eyeing his new customer, reached behind for a bottle, popped off the top, poured a sloppy shot of house tequila, and slammed bottle and shot glass in front of Scrbacek.

  Scrbacek pulled a bill out of his pocket and handed it to the man.

  A very wet hundred.

  The bartender looked at the bill, looked at Scrbacek for the first time, cocked his head like the face was familiar for some reason, and said, “It better be good,” before heading to the register to make change.

  Scrbacek lifted the beer and took a long swig. As he drank, bottle tilted in front of his face, he spun around on his stool and took in the scene.

  Dirty Dirk’s.

  52

  THE BARKEEP

  It was like a temple to the goddess Aphrodite, if the Greeks had gone for navy-blue velvet instead of white marble, if the high priests played live blues, and if Aphrodite herself wore high heels and a G-string, and called herself Sunny DeLight.

  The stage at Dirty Dirk’s snaked across the front of the huge room, with walkways leading directly into the crowd. And there was a crowd, believe it, jammed up against the edges of the stage, frenzied in the red-tinged light, men drinking and laughing and reaching out with bills in their hands. They were shouting at Sunny, loudly, if you could tell anything from the straining of the tendons in their necks, and Sunny was he
aring it, the way she stared into the crowd and shook whatever could be shaken. But the men’s voices were lost to Scrbacek beneath the loud batterings of the band, trumpet and bass, two electric guitars, a saxophone.

  Waitresses dressed like underdressed Catholic schoolgirls weaved in and out of the clots of men, trays loaded with beer and bourbon. Naked women walked among the tables, pulling up chairs, sitting on laps, rubbing hard with the palms of their hands, letting the customers do everything but touch between their legs or unzip themselves. Weightlifters with pinched faces looked on and kept the peace.

  Behind the general crowd was a higher tier of tables, where the better-dressed men sat, where the band was not so loud, where the women were not so strict about the rules and were more than willing to diddle you under the table. And behind that, on the highest tier, was a rail with two guards and a single table, flanked by large red panels, each imprinted with a dragon rearing back and shooting flame. This was Caleb Breest’s personal table, where Scrbacek himself had sat with Joey Torresdale on his visits to Dirk’s. Scrbacek’s stomach sank when he saw that the table was empty.

  Scrbacek turned around and waited for the bartender to come back with his change.

  “You want to keep that?” he said.

  The bartender shrugged, the long, droopy face evidencing distinct disinterest even as he slipped the wad of change smoothly into his pocket.

  “Is the big man in tonight?” said Scrbacek.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play cute. You don’t have the face for it.”

  The bartender glanced behind Scrbacek and lowered his voice. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, mister, and neither do you if you know what’s good for you.”

  “I want advice, I’ll write Dear Abby.”

  A hint of a smile attached itself to one droopy lid. “Do I know you? I think I know you.”

  “When Mr. Breest finds out I was asking for him, he won’t be happy that I was ignored.”

  The smiling eyelid quieted. “Still don’t know who you’re talking about.” The bartender backed away before turning to acknowledge a thirsty call a few seats down.

  Scrbacek shrugged, took another swig of the beer, sucked the top off the tequila. He twisted once again to check out Breest’s table. Still empty. When he turned back, there was a different bartender behind the bar.

  He was into his second beer and shot when a woman stepped right beside him. He tried not to pay her too much notice, but it was hard, seeing as she was wearing a G-string and nothing else, and seeing as her breasts were positively Germanic and worthy of baring on some sun-slopped Spanish beach.

  “I’m Sandy,” she said.

  “Not from what I can tell,” said Scrbacek.

  “You want to buy me a drink?”

  “How much are champagne cocktails going for these days?”

  “Mine cost twenty-five,” she said, “but buy me two and I’ll dance on the bar and stick my ass in your face.”

  “You’re easy. With my usual dates it takes at least five.”

  “So we’re on?”

  “Thank you, Sandy, and it’s quite an attractive offer, but I’m here on business.”

  “Why the hell do you think I do this?”

  And then, from behind them both, a voice like a metal blade grinding on a stone wheel: “Beat it, Sandy.”

  Sandy startled at the sound and stared behind Scrbacek, who didn’t turn around. “I was just—”

  “Get lost.”

  Sandy backed away, spun around, ran.

  “You got nerve coming here,” said the voice, “and less than half a brain, if you think you’re getting out alive.”

  “Just in for a quick pop,” said Scrbacek, still without turning. “I hear you’ve been looking for me, Dirk.”

  “Was. Don’t have to anymore. How’d the hell you get in here anyways?”

  “I followed the rats.”

  “Funny. Now, nice and easy, get your ass in gear and come with me.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Scrbacek, finally turning around and leaning back with both elbows on the bar, bottle in his hand just in case.

  In front of him was a refugee from the WWE, tall, bald, with a great gold ring through his nose and a black T-shirt showing off his body, huge and cut and grotesquely steroidal.

  “I’d go if it was Sandy asking,” said Scrbacek, “follow her to a back room, sure. Those breasts. Gesundheit. But, frankly, Dirk, I never swung your way.”

  “You’re not man enough,” said Dirk.

  “That might be it, but for now, I think I’ll wait for Caleb. He told me to meet him here.”

  “And you wonder why everyone hates lawyers. We’re here talking not one minute and already you’re lying to my face.”

  “Ask him.”

  “Don’t need to.”

  “Tell him his attorney is here.”

  “Last I heard his attorney was dead. A hit-and-run accident right in the middle of Jefferson. Splat, like a possum on the road. Too bad, too. Vega was a good customer. In fact, Sandy was one of his favorites.”

  “Who you answering to these days, Dirk?” said Scrbacek. “Who’s got your balls in his fist now?”

  From behind Dirk came a soft voice, “Do we have a problem here, Dirk?”

  Scrbacek leaned to the side to get a view of the man behind Dirk, a small man in a gold jacket, fuchsia shirt, black tie, his hair slicked back tight to his skull. The nose on his face was a misshapen blob of putty.

  “Well,” said Scrbacek, “that answers that.”

  “J.D. Scrbacek,” said Joseph Torresdale. “It’s so good to see you again. And still alive, too. Wonderful. I was never able to congratulate you on your courtroom victory. Thrilling, just thrilling. You and I, working together as we did, it made me feel like I had a hand in it all.”

  “We had a little help, I gather, from my old law professor.”

  “I consulted DeLoatch, yes. Too bad about him—have you heard? He had a heart attack in a hot tub. They say people with heart conditions should avoid excessive heat. His pacemaker shorted on him, imagine that. Critical condition.”

  “It’s a dangerous night for lawyers.”

  “Oh, Dirk told you about Vega, did he? We just heard. He was a nice boy. Handsome too. Why are you here, J.D.?”

  “To talk to Caleb.”

  “He’s indisposed, I’m afraid. He had another episode with his heart. He took his pills, thank God—where would we be without the nitro—but we have no idea when he’ll be up and about. It’s such a dangerous thing to have an oversize heart.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Well, no reason to sit like a lump at the bar. Come join me at the table.”

  “I like it here,” said Scrbacek.

  “Come now, J.D. This is a respectable business, and you are our friend. You have nothing to fear here.”

  “That’s probably what Luigi Puchesi thought about Migello’s before it blew all to hell around him.”

  “Ah, suddenly a student of history. Next you’ll be lecturing me on the Defenestration of Prague.”

  “As far as defenestrations go, that’s the tops.”

  “The night is still young. Come, join me at the table. A bottle of cabernet for our guest, all right, Dirk? One of the good ones. Who are we saving it for? I don’t think the queen is coming, though I must say those pale-blue dress suits of hers are smashing.”

  “Let me waste him,” said Dirk. “Let me pull his liver out his throat.”

  “Patience. What have I been teaching you? Patience. Come, J.D., be a dear and don’t be afraid. Let’s chat.”

  53

  JOEY TORRESDALE

  “Have you ever wanted to reinvent yourself, J.D.? Have you ever considered the joy of becoming something completely new? Take your experiences, your learning, your view of the world, your joie de vivre, take everything you care about, everything that makes you J.D. Scrbacek, yet leave behind that useless encrusted matter that traps you within other
’s expectations. Your race, your profession, your class. I walk the streets, and mothers pull their children away. I open a club, and it is immediately a mob club. I give away turkeys to the poor on Christmas Day, and I’m laughed at as a hood trying to burnish his image. And they’re right. That’s why I give away turkeys on Christmas Day. What do you think, I care?”

  Scrbacek leaned on the table, before him an untouched wineglass filled with a liquid the color of blood. He was watching a woman on the stage do things to the pole that he had never before imagined but that he never again would forget. How did she get that one leg behind her head? he wondered. Joey Torresdale, beside him, was talking about something or other, trying to get whatever was aching him off his narrow chest, but Scrbacek was too tired and too afraid to listen very carefully. He was beginning to think coming here was a mistake.

  “When I was growing up, there wasn’t any choice,” continued Torresdale. “You either slaved in some factory or became a hood, working for the Puchesi family. I could never waste my life in a factory, J.D. Look at me. I’m not the type. I need more snap and jive, I need more excitement and adventure. I would have joined the marines, but I was too small, so I joined the mob. I was young, angry, I became a hood, and now I don’t want to be one anymore.”

  “Has Caleb recovered yet?” said Scrbacek, his gaze skittering around the club. “I need to talk to Caleb.”

  “Are you listening, J.D.? I’m pouring out my heart to you, not to mention the house’s finest wine, and I don’t even think you’re listening.”

  “It’s been a long night, Joey, and already I’ve heard enough speeches and monologues, enough solipsistic self-satisfied confessions, including my own, enough bullshit to make me want to puke right here on this table. Right here. On this table. The one thing I always admired about you was that you gave so little of yourself. Joseph Torresdale, man of mystery. Do I really need to listen to your confession too?”