Disposable Souls

by Phonse Jessome

  “Coffee, black, and a chat with Lo,” Blair said.

  “Lolita’s up next, hon, so you’ll have to wait. We got a twenty-buck minimum bar charge, and the coffee really sucks. You sure you don’t want something a little stronger?” The gum rolled to the front of her mouth, and a bubble the size of a grapefruit blocked her face. It popped and disappeared inside her mouth to be ground back into shape.

  “Make it a Coke then.” He smiled “How much do I have to pay to have a chat with you?”

  “You’re sweet, sugar, but I ain’t for hire.” Another bubble, there and gone in a heartbeat. “You just stay here, and I’ll make that Coke a double.” She headed for the bar.

  Blair watched her ask for the Coke and caught the eye of the bartender. Bald guy with a head full of ink and enough street smarts to make him for a cop. Blair grinned back, but Baldy just scowled and reached for a phone under the bar. Probably wasn’t ordering the Coke.

  The naked girl who was on the pole when he came in was now chatting up two men at a table beside the bar, meter running. A deep voice boomed from the speaker overhead as the lights on the stage flashed red, yellow, and white. There was so much reverb it was impossible to make out half of what the guy was saying. Blair heard something about New York, Vancouver, and Montreal before the words blurred into a growl ending in a long exaggerated scream of the name “Lolita.” The over-the-top voice of the announcer was swallowed in a sea of whistles and shouts as a dancer strutted to the centre of the stage.

  Even in three-inch platforms the girl barely reached five feet. She wore the same private-school outfit Blair had seen in the ad. The skirt had the familiar Sacred Heart plaid he’d seen downtown outside the exclusive school. The gap between the top of the white stockings and the bottom of the plaid skirt was wide. The stockings couldn’t reach high enough to meet the hemline. The skirt could pass for a plaid belt. The white shirttails were tied just above her navel, the buttons above undone. The Yardbirds screamed from the sound system; “Good morning, little schoolgirl,” indeed. She pranced around the stage, swinging a tattered teddy bear from her left hand, the thumb of her right planted between unnaturally swollen lips. White ribbons held two black pigtails tightly to the sides of her head. They bounced with each step. Her eyes scanned the crowd and locked briefly with each man in the place. She dropped the bear several times during the opening number, and each time she turned her back to the appreciative crowd as she bent from the waist to pick it up, revealing pink lace that left little to the imagination.

  As the first song drew to a close, she leaned back on the chrome pole in the centre of the stage. It rested between her shoulder blades as she pushed her pelvis forward and pulled her thumb free. She toyed with the knotted shirttails, tugging gently on the loose ends, as a new song filled the room. Blair’s first instinct was to badge his way through the crowd, pull her from the stage, and call child services. Then her eyes locked with his. There was no little girl behind that stare.

  He ignored the rest of the show. Instead, he watched as the bartender kept the drinks flowing while trying to keep a close eye on him. He finished his Coke and signalled the waitress for another as he played I-watch-you-watch-me with Baldy. The bartender stopped eyeing Blair. Chalk one up for the good guys. The final song in the set ended, and a naked Lolita picked up her clothes and her teddy bear and made her way to a door near the bar. A few minutes later, she was back in costume and making her way to Blair’s table.

  Jimmy Williams rubbed his left hand along his jawline, still pissed about Gunner’s sucker punch. He kicked his legs out, the heels resting on the edge of the desk in front of him. He’d find a way to hurt Gunner. Priority fucking one, once he had full-patch status.

  He held his cellphone up and looked at the number of the last caller. Nicholas Mapp. Williams figured Mapp had serious pull in the club if he could reach out to a burner cell. The way-too-slick car-and-coke dealer said he was impressed with Williams’s move on Gunner. Fucking right. If Jimmy hadn’t made the move, Mapp would be looking for a dentist. Now Mapp wanted a meet without Gunner at the dealership. Like he didn’t have enough to do. There was a party at the clubhouse, and he had to be there to tend bar and clean up with the other prospects. He also had this place to run and the Litter Box Boys to keep in line. Fuck. Still, Mapp might be a guy worth knowing. He had to think it through. Gunner would pull his prospect rocker if he found out, but if Mapp really was a shot caller maybe he could protect Williams and get him that full patch faster. Williams hadn’t gotten this far without taking chances.

  He glanced at the TV screen above the row of video monitors. The all-news channel was showing that prick Neville and his asshole Indian partner ducking under a piece of yellow plastic ribbon. A headline banner filled the bottom third of the screen, Murder in Point Pleasant. The words faded, and another headline appeared: Woman found dead near jogging path. Well shit, there’s a break. Some bitch gets offed before the cops come sniffing around Lolita. That should buy enough time to find out what she knows. Gunner had left without telling Williams shit, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t find out for himself. Sure as hell, Neville and his partner looked plenty distracted, and that had to be a good thing.

  The knock on the office door startled him. He dropped his boots to the floor with a clunk and leaned over the desktop.

  “Open it,” he yelled.

  Bartender Glen Carroll opened the door, took one step into the room and stopped. Williams glanced quickly at the monitor showing the space behind the bar. Phil was there in Carroll’s place. Fine.

  “Um, there’s a bit of a problem.” Carroll’s voice was part rasp, part growl. His vocal chords were shot. Williams remembered something about his being forced to gargle bleach or some damn thing in prison. One enforcer who didn’t talk, and one who couldn’t. Maybe time to hire new help.

  “Come in where I can fucking hear you.”

  Carroll moved into the centre of the room to Williams’s desk. He wore a loose sleeveless sweatshirt. It was Stallion blue with 19 on the chest and back. Support gear was forbidden in the club, but the double 19 shirt was an exception. S is the nineteenth letter in the alphabet. Two 19s, S S for Satan’s Stallion. The squares never made the connection, and those who did saw it as a warning.

  The shirt hung loose, but it rode high on Carroll’s chest before dropping to his waist. The tattoos that covered his hairless head dropped down around his neck and disappeared beneath the collar. They popped back out on top of rounded shoulders and flowed over his biceps. Some seriously dark Gothic shit ran the length of each arm. Daggers, skulls, flames, dragons. Real fucking art. The three teardrop tattoos beneath his left eye marked the death of the fools who force-fed him the bleach. It should have killed him, but it killed them.

  The bleach didn’t really matter; this guy didn’t need a voice. Without saying a word, he scared the shit out of every square who walked into the bar. Williams knew Carroll wanted to get out of the bar and into the real money, but the guy was perfect where he was. Sometimes, you gotta take one for the team.

  “Now, what’d you say?”

  “Problem, Jimmy.” Carroll’s face betrayed no emotion. His mouth a flat line. His eyes focused on the floor. Another fucking Phil.

  Williams looked at the monitors. Everything out front seemed normal. Phil was behind the bar. If there was a problem out there, he’d be handling it.

  “Looks good to me. What’s up?”

  “Cop talking to Lolita,” he whispered.

  “The fuck you say?” Williams was on his feet examining the monitors. Sure as shit, the fucking Indian was at a table by the door, and Lolita was with him. Williams looked back at the TV monitor. How could the fucker be on TV and in the club at the same time? Fucking TV news bullshit.

  Glen Carroll moved fast for a big man. He headed for the door as soon as he delivered the news.

  “Wait. Get back here.”


  Carroll stopped short. His shoulders met on each side of the doorway, his back to Williams. He turned slowly and walked back into the office. He stood in front of the desk, his hands clasped in front, forearms pulsing in and out as he flexed. Not showing Jimmy disrespect, just a nervous thing.

  “Shut the door,” Williams said as he stared at the monitor. The bartender did as he was told and returned to the same spot. Williams grabbed the phone, ready to call Phil. He looked at the screen again; Lolita wouldn’t say shit to a cop. Maybe this was a good thing. He put the phone down and looked at Glen Carroll.

  “You want in the Litter Box pretty bad, right?”

  “Yes.” He looked up now.

  “Ready to prove you’re worth it?”

  “Yes.” Locking eyes with Williams now. Ready to hurt the cop, good.

  “You gotta understand something. I need you here, not in the street.”

  Carroll was silent; his eyes dropped again.

  “Here’s the thing. I’m busy. Spending a lot of time at the house until I finish this prospect thing. I need eyes and a brain here. I can’t have the fucking dancers out there talking to the cops. Can’t have them leave the club in the middle of the night either.”

  Carroll’s head dropped further. It was all Williams needed. He knew his bartender had let Lolita leave last night. Fuck, none of this shit would be falling on Jimmy if only that bitch had been kept where she belonged. Let them out of your sight for five minutes, and the trouble follows. Well, no point in punishing the help. Last night it wasn’t Carroll’s job to control the dancers. Now, it was.

  “I know your heart is in the street, but believe me, corralling these bitches can be harder than running a corner. You’d be in the Box but not in the street. We’ll find some fucking room on you somewhere and get you the ink first thing. Think you can handle them?”

  “I can do that.” The corner of his mouth moved slightly; the tiny teardrop tattoos beneath his left eye lifted with it.

  “I’ll go get her,” he whispered.

  “Do that and throw that fucking Indian out.” Williams sat down to watch the show.

  Blair smiled as Lolita explained the cost of a strip-club conversation. Twenty dollars a song for her time, plus bar tab. She touched his arm conspiratorially, like it was a necessary nuisance instead of bar stool robbery. She nodded to the waitress as soon as she cleared that up, and a Shirley Temple arrived at the table before Blair had a chance to respond. Smooth operation—he was now on the hook for twenty plus the drink whether he liked the terms or not. He couldn’t wait to see the reaction when the expense claim went through.

  “Haven’t seen you around before, hon, what’s your name?” She sipped her drink through a pink straw. She turned sideways in her chair, keeping her legs out where Blair could see them. She crossed them, and the little plaid skirt rode higher, widening the gap with the white stocking.

  “I’m Blair. A friend told me I should check you out while I’m in town. I think he was right.” Blair smiled, looking at her legs. He decided to keep the badge out of it, try to play her. The badge tended to put a damper on conversations.

  “Oh, and who was that?” Her eyes sparkled as the lids flicked quickly. Turning on the little-girl charm.

  “I probably shouldn’t say.”

  “Oh, hon, I can keep a secret. We all can.” She smiled over her drink as she recrossed her legs.

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter. He’s gone now anyway. His name was Sandy Gardner. I flew in for a meeting with him today, only to find out he passed away yesterday. Such a loss.” Blair kept it vague— like maybe he had a heart attack—to see how she would react. She uncrossed her legs and tucked them in under the table as she lowered her drink and stared at him. No more sparkle, no more little-girl charm. No more little girl at all.

  “I’m sorry, maybe you didn’t know he passed,” Blair said, hoping to keep the ruse going.

  “I know he’s dead. And I know he would never send you to see me. Who are you?” Anger in the tone now. Not fear.

  Blair pulled out his badge and placed it on the table between them. No point in hiding it now. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked up to see two men walking toward the table. Baldy, the bartender, and Phil Murphy, an enforcer with the Litter Box Boys. This could get interesting real fast. Blair knew the club was a Stallion front and wasn’t surprised to see Murphy. He knew the giant would never approach a cop without direct orders. Hell, the guy probably didn’t go to the can without direct orders. Baldy pulled Lolita from her chair, knocking it over as her legs tangled under the table.

  He whispered something in her ear before slapping the back of her head with an open hand. Blair stood and stepped forward, grabbing the front of Baldy’s T-shirt.

  “That’s assault, asshole. I suggest you apologize before I drag you downtown.”

  “Fuck you, cop. She ain’t gonna file a complaint. Now get out. We don’t allow cops or Indians in here.”

  The guy was leaning into Blair now, whispering the threat like some cheap gangster, hatred in his eyes. Blair ignored the eyes and glanced down at his balled fists. The man wanted to impress. Blair could smell it off him. Worst kind of idiot. Stupid, made dumber by the need to prove how hard he was. He shoved him backward and turned his head to the bigger man.

  “You’d better rein him in, Phil, or you’re both coming with me.”

  “Leave now.” Murphy wasn’t asking.

  The tattoo-topped bartender caught his footing and moved quickly back toward Blair. Fast enough to be a threat to the safety of an officer. That was the test, and Baldy just passed it. Sweet. Blair pivoted away, and drove a left sidekick into his stomach. The kick was fast enough to do serious damage all on its own. It was multiplied by the forward momentum of the target. All the air, all the fight, and all thoughts of impressing anyone vanished as the bartender puked, doubled over, and fell face first into his own mess. One down.

  Blair barely had his foot back under him when he felt the freight train slam into the side of his head. His vision went black, and then filled with stars as it returned. The light show cost time he didn’t have. As his head cleared, he locked eyes with the dancer on the stage, followed her gaze back to the massive hulk to his right. Murphy was hauling a tree trunk with a fist at the end of it back for another shot. Blair knew he had to duck the punch; a second blow would put him down and out. Never live it down, if he was dropped in a bar fight by a guy he hadn’t tagged even once. He was about to lose a fight, no question. He just wanted to get something on the judges’ scorecard before he went to sleep.

  He was off balance; the first punch had him leaning too far to the left to get a kick or a strong right off. He twisted and snapped a fast left jab into the giant’s balls as he rolled further left and out of range. He felt the jolt travel from his fist through his arm and knew it had landed strong. Murphy didn’t seem to notice at all. He moved forward and drove his right fist with bone-shattering speed. Blair leaned away from it, and the punch missed its intended target, good for his head, bad for his shoulder. All feeling left his right arm as his head was finally clearing from the first shot. He watched Murphy continue to move toward him. No reverse in the guy. Hours in the ring sparring with Cam, a mixed-martial-arts champ, and here he was losing to a gorilla with no technique.

  He remembered the lessons learned in the ring, could hear Cam telling him he could be outmatched physically and still win. Fight smart, but fight fast. Trouble is, he’d never been outmatched physically, and he was not feeling very smart. He didn’t see the kick coming, but felt it as it caught him in the ribs. He swore he heard the cracking as he sprawled across a table. Maybe it was just the table. He rolled over the top and landed on his feet, buying some distance with his pain.

  Thoughts of a fair fight with Murphy danced away with the stars as his head finally cleared. Fight smart. He forced his tingling righ
t arm into action and grabbed the gun from the holster slung under his left. He thumbed the safety and raised his arm, sliding his left palm under the gun for support. Murphy kept coming as Blair felt the weight of the trigger against his finger. His eyes locked on the gun sights as he centred them on Murphy’s chest. Everything else in the room blurred as he released his breath slowly and prepared for the familiar kick of the gun. The trigger was about to break when a small hand slid in front of the sight, and Murphy’s forward movement stopped. Blair eased the tension on the trigger as he allowed his eyes to move from the sight. Jimmy Williams. The little freak had stepped in front of the gun. His arm was straight back, his hand on Phil Murphy’s chest. The big man kept his eyes locked on Blair, but he was out of the fight.

  “Got a room full of witnesses gonna say you started this, pig.”

  Blair placed the gun back in its holster, keeping his gaze on Murphy.

  “Fuck you, midget. Your boys here attacked a police officer.”

  “Loud music. Don’t think they heard you say you were a pig. You grabbed our bartender and shoved him, then kicked him. Phil was just doing his job. Protecting the staff and the property. You look like any other drunk Indian.”

  Williams was baiting him. Blair forced down the rage, post-fight juice. He bent slowly and picked up his badge. Slipped it back into his jacket, trying to use the movement to chill the adrenaline rush. His hand shook. He figured the paperwork wasn’t worth it and decided to give Murphy a pass. Another second, and he would have killed the guy. If he had put that in a report, he’d have had to go through the usual psych interviews. He didn’t have time for that shit again.

  “Okay, little man, we’ll call this a mistake. No harm done. Now, I’m here to ask one of your dancers a few questions.”

  “Sorry. Get a warrant if you’d like to come back. Let us know ahead of time, so we can have a lawyer here. Now get the fuck out.”

  There was no point in pushing it. Lolita had been scared off anyway. Blair smiled at Murphy as he grabbed his right shoulder and tried to squeeze some feeling back into it. Wouldn’t give the guy the benefit of holding his flaming ribs. Had to admit, the guy could deliver the weight. He nodded and headed for the door. Next time.