I smiled—a real one this time—and wiped a tear away with the back of my hand. “I’m fine.”
“I’ll see you soon?”
“I hope so.”
43
All things considered, goodbyes with my mother and Pele had gone about as well as they could have. Paul, on the other hand, was going to take some finagling. He’d had no problem voicing his suspicions about my behavior as of late, and to be truthful, I wasn’t even sure I should call him. What could I possibly say without raising his suspicions even higher? There was a desperate part of me that wanted to tell him everything. He was my best friend and I loved him more than anyone alive. But I knew Paul; if I told him, he would insist on some kind of involvement, assuming he didn’t tell me I was nuts for going through with this craziness first—which he assuredly would.
I couldn’t tell him. No way. Like the night at the bar where I hacked into my calf to remind me to keep my mouth shut, I needed to be just as disciplined here—more so. If I’d slipped up at the bar, my punishment would have only been a barrage of questions followed by a barrage of rhetorical questions, asking if I used to take the short bus to school. If I slipped up now? Told him everything? I don’t even want to think about my punishment. As I said, Paul—after telling me I was a fucking idiot—would insist on some kind of involvement. If something happened to me, so be it. If something happened to me and Paul? Christ, I got sick just thinking about it.
I pulled into the parking lot of the Winchester Hotel. It was the nicest place with the closest proximity to the club. Angela had selected it, and she was inside, waiting for me. I was a few minutes early—as I’d planned—and I used that opportunity to call Paul. I dialed his cell, and was still unsure as to what I was going to say, even after the third ring. His voicemail eventually came on, and a part of me felt relief—it would be better to leave a message than to suffer his questioning.
“Hey, man, it’s me. I’m just calling to apologize for my weird behavior lately. I’m actually sitting outside the Winchester Hotel right now. I’m about to go inside to meet this girl I’ve been kinda seeing lately. Unfortunately, I’m not going in there to do what you think I’m going in there to do.” I paused a second and took a breath that felt like smog down my lungs. “I got into some serious shit, man…and there’s a good chance I’m not gonna…” I cleared my throat. “If I don’t see you again…”
Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry
“…I just need you to know how lucky I am to have a friend like you. I love you, man.”
I hung up, turned off my phone, and cried.
44
I stood outside the hotel room. I did not knock. Just stood there, my nose six inches from the peep hole. I thought about turning and leaving. I thought about option B—running. Could I live the rest of my life running in fear? Could I live with Angela’s death on my conscience if Mr. John did end up hanging her on that meat hook? I kept telling myself I was doing it for me, to save my own life, and I was, but it was becoming more and more real by the second, my body struggling to adjust to the side effects of this new drug reality. And the irony of it all was anything but amusing. No more numb? Living in the now? We’ve got just the pill, sir. Side effects may include extreme doubt, paranoia, and scared shitlessness.
I raised a fist to knock, froze, and then lowered my hand.
If I run, he’ll find me, right?
(Maybe.)
If I do this, I could die. If I don’t do it, I’ll definitely die.
(If they find you.)
Why wouldn’t they? I’m no survivalist who can live off the grid. I’d have no clue where to even begin.
(Then we don’t have a choice, do we?)
No. This IS the safer of the two options. This way I’ve got the element of surprise; like Angela said. If I run, I’m handing that element over to them.
(Then knock. Take the first step and knock.)
I raised my fist and knocked.
Angela immediately opened the door. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought she was watching me through the peep hole, studying my apprehension.
As soon as she let me in, she closed the door, locked it, and gave me a powerful hug. “Thank you,” she said.
I pulled away and held her at arms’ length. “I’m doing this for us you know. You and me.”
She nodded. “I know that.” Her front teeth were still gone.
“It’s just like you said: I’m saving our asses.”
She gave another nod.
I took a deep breath, held it for a second, then let it out slow. “Okay then…what do you have for me?”
She pointed to a black leather bag on the bed. It looked like the kind of bag a doctor who made house calls would carry.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
“Hopefully everything you’ll need.”
I opened the bag. Inside were a gun and an impressive looking knife. I held up the knife. “What’s this for?”
She gave a partial shrug. “I don’t know. Just in case?”
I wagged the knife at her like a finger. “If I lose the gun, they’re going to use this to check my prostate.”
“Stop it.”
I put the knife back in the bag and took out the gun. I saw an emblem that read Glock near the gun barrel. A long dark cylinder that looked like a piece of pipe was attached to the barrel. I’m no gun guy, but I’d seen enough movies to guess that dark cylinder attached to the barrel was a silencer. I asked anyway, tapping the end of the weapon with my finger. “This a silencer thingy?”
“Yeah. Don’t ask where I got it.”
I wasn’t about to. For all I knew it was hers—one of many.
I put the gun back in the bag. “What about the key?”
She went into her pocket and produced a thick brass key. “This will get you in the back door. I’d park a good distance away, then make the remainder on foot. A car in the back lot after hours might raise suspicion.” She handed me the key. “You feel good about the floor plans?”
“I think so.” I then studied her carefully after asking: “Still no idea about the money?”
“It’ll be there. Where? is the question. You might have to…” She gave a partial shrug.
“What?”
“Get him to show you.”
“I imagine he’ll be eager.”
“So you make him eager,” she said.
I snorted and shook my head. “You really do think I’m James Bond.”
“So…” she said, ignoring my doubt. “They should be there by now. Probably into their first bottle of vodka already. Now’s as good a time as any.”
“No—not yet it’s not.” I sat down on the bed. “I need one last thing from you before I go anywhere.”
45
“What one last thing?” she said.
“I want the tape.”
“What tape?”
“The one with you, me, and the freak, Angela. The one where I was bound—by you—and then attacked by some bat-wielding psychopath—at your command—forcing me to defend myself. Not that edited nonsense that makes me look like Jason fucking Voorhees. I want the original.”
She stared back at me with a good poker face. I’m not sure what kind of reaction I expected—maybe I wanted to rattle her a little—but I did not expect her to look as composed as she did. Perhaps she’d been expecting it, wondered why it took me so long to mention the damn thing.
“I want that tape,” I said again. “I’m putting my life on the line here tonight, and if I live, I want proof that I was, in fact, acting in self-defense should any of Mr. John’s friends decide to send that edited bullshit into the wrong hands.”
“It’s a DVD,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Nobody uses tapes, Calvin.”
“Are you honestly trying to divert with this semantic bullshit?”
“No—I was just saying.”
“I don’t care what kind of fucking format you use, I want
the footage. The original footage.”
“How do you know I still have it?”
“What?”
“How do you know I didn’t destroy the original?”
Shit—I’d never considered that. For the very life of me, I don’t know why, but I’d never considered that. Whatever leverage I thought I’d achieved in this exchange was now gone. I could try and bluff, try some kind of psychology about her being the narcissistic type who would prefer to hold on to the original as a reminder of her prowess in all things manipulation, a sociopath who keeps trophies of past conquests. But I no longer believed Angela was a sociopath. I didn’t even believe she was a narcissist. Any bluff on my part would have been transparent to an eye as sharpened as hers. So I said the only thing I could manage:
“Did you?”
She paused a moment, looking down at me. “No,” she eventually said. “I still have it.”
And then, instead of asking for it once more, I asked something else. “Why?”
She sighed. “Maybe I kept it for the same reason you want it.”
“To prove my innocence?”
“Maybe—if it ever came to that.”
(Do you believe her? Do you believe her??)
“I’d still like to have it,” I said. “For peace of mind, if nothing else.”
“It’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”
“I see—I come back alive, and my reward is the uncut version of Calvin and The Freak.”
She ignored my shot at levity and said: “And me—if you want me.”
My cynicism, momentarily humbled during Angela’s reasoning for not destroying the original film, suddenly resurfaced from its pool of self-preservation. “Don’t forget about the money. Can’t forget about that, right?”
She sighed. “Yeah…and the money.”
The Bar
“I know that place,” the bartender says. “That spa club. You’re talking about the one on Beck Street, right? Long, one-story building? Kinda hidden behind a shopping center?”
I nod.
“Yeah—I’ve actually been there. A buddy of mine had guest passes. Place is unreal. Like one of those Greek bath houses you see in books and movies. Fancy tile, marble columns, fountains. I tell ya; if I had the money…”
I sip my scotch and say nothing.
“So wait—” He pauses, something hitting him, yet seemingly unsure how to phrase it. “The spa club…”
“Yeah?”
“Your face, the money you keep laying on the bar…”
I only stare at him.
“You did it,” he says. “You pulled it off.”
I look away, replaying it all in my head. Despite the fuzzy clarity the alcohol has given the film, the ending is always the same.
Angela.
I drain my scotch and wince, but not from the scotch. “I didn’t pull off shit.”
PART NINE
Mr. John
46
The club was on Beck Street, tucked away behind a haughty shopping center that sported a Whole Foods instead of an Acme, gourmet coffee bars instead of proper bars. The club’s modest locale seemed intentional; advertising was word of mouth. The extravagant architecture a monetary deterrent to those who happened by.
A solitary car was in the club’s lot. A black Mercedes with tinted windows.
(Angela drives a black Mercedes with tinted windows.)
Maybe it was Mr. John’s?
(Or maybe she’s inside.)
What sense would that make?
(Has ANY of this shit made sense so far?)
I continued past the club for about fifty yards, pulled a U-y, rolled alongside the curb until I had a good view of the club from afar, and killed the engine. The key Angela had given me was to gain access through the back of the club. That meant the rest of the way would have to be done on foot—a car in the back lot after hours would raise too much suspicion, she’d said.
I glanced over at the passenger seat. The black leather bag was there, as ominous as ever. I opened it, took out the gun. I’d held it once since Angela had given it to me. It felt unnatural then, and it felt just as unnatural now. More so.
(Sure does beat a baseball bat or a machete though.)
I put the gun back in the bag and exited my car.
47
For the second time in my life, I stood outside a locked door, holding the key, my objective to enter and kill someone.
No mask this time. Masks were only if you’d planned on leaving people alive—or were being filmed. None of that applied here.
The second time in my life. I’d wager two percent of the population had done it once. And I’m discounting military and law enforcement, of course. Hopefully I needn’t explain why. Maybe I’d get a few justice points for offing scumbags like Mr. John and his help, but any I’d earn would bounce off the mountain of debt I’d accrued after the Stephanie incident.
Second time in my life. I looked down at the black leather bag in my hand. No box-cutter in there. We got us a Glock and a foot-long knife that could shave a beard of nails.
I opened my fist and looked at the brass key. Angela’s words in my head: “This gets you in. You feel good about the floor plans? The money will be there. Where? is the question. You might have to…get him to show you… They should be there by now. Probably into their first bottle of vodka already. Now is as good a time as any…”
They were here already. On the other side of this door. Not a drugged woman. Three men,
(and maybe Angela?)
two of them lethal.
Angela’s words in my head again: “I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”
I used the key and went inside.
48
The lighting was poor, the smell of chlorine immediate. I took a few steps forward, each step as if I feared the ground might crumble beneath me. Two more steps, and then I paused to listen. I heard nothing significant, just the constant hum of motors I presumed to be running the tubs and fountains of the place. Not that I could see them just yet—I was still too deep in back, still surrounded by the club’s utilitarian design, reserved for employee eyes only.
A few more delicate steps and I heard something. People talking in the distance. My heart began a rapid beat that instantly found its way to my ears. I held my breath to compensate, but the drumming of my pulse would not be deterred. I needed to get closer.
My steps forward were light and calculated, the floor beneath me changing from ceramic to marble tile. The smell of chlorine grew stronger, the humidity increasing and forming a faint mist. I was approaching the hot tubs. So far, the layout Angela had given me had proved correct. The hot tubs were at the far end of the club, swimming pools and other amenities in front. She’d said Mr. John and his protection would be in the hot tubs, drinking. I’d told her I was crap with a gun. She’d said to hide in the locker room and pick them off one by one when they inevitably went in to take a leak.
I continued further, two, maybe three more steps max. The mist was getting stronger, its veil forcing me to squint. I remained tight to the wall, the corridor providing me good cover from the voices bathing in the wide-open luxuries ahead. I could see the locker room door—half a dozen feet ahead and to the left. I could manage those half a dozen feet and slip inside while still maintaining good cover. So far, Angela was steering me just fine.
I made the half a dozen steps. The mist increased, but so did the voices. My pulse still thumped my head, but proximity was now my ally. I held my breath again. I could hear them. The bass of male voices.
(Any female?)
I craned my neck forward, thought about risking a few more steps forward for a quick peek, but self-preservation kept me rooted. I held my breath once again.
Still the heavy bass of male voices.
No—I don’t hear a female.
(Don’t you look.)
I won’t.
(Don’t)
I won’t!
An accent on one of the m
ale voices. It sounded Russian.
She’s right again. So far, everything Angela’s said has been right. (Then get in that fucking locker room and get ready to finish this.)
Firm grip on the leather bag, I crept over towards the locker room door, eased it open, and slipped inside. I waited a tick, ear pressed to the door, making sure I hadn’t been spotted or made a noise that needed investigating. I heard nothing but the steady bass of their chatter, no change in tempo, no cause for alarm. I let out a long sigh, turned and began searching for the bathroom stalls. I would lay in wait in one of those stalls like a trapdoor spider.
The stalls weren’t a difficult find. The restroom area was adjacent to the communal showers, a strip of wall dividing them. On the left you had your sinks, your urinals, your stalls. On your right you had your beautifully tiled communal shower with multiple high-powered showerheads in a row; and beneath one of those showerheads, you had your giant naked man covered in tattoos, standing there with his back to you, getting ready to take a shower.
49
Straight ahead, a good ten feet away, was a monster of a man, more ink than pink covering his entire body—yes, his entire body. The guy was ass-naked, back to me, and in the process of hanging a large white towel onto one of the hooks to the right of the showerhead. He had not seen or heard me enter. My presence alone felt loud enough to turn him, but thankfully he now seemed fixated on adjusting the levers on the shower to an agreeable temperature. Still, I had seconds before he turned and saw me. I could open the leather bag now, snatch the gun, and shoot him in the back. Boom—one down. I would then hide in the stalls to the left of the showers and wait like the trapdoor spider. Yes.
I went to open the bag.
The bang of the locker room door swinging open froze me. No subtle entry like mine. Drunk and in need of a piss.
Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller Page 16
