Rest for the Wicked

by Ellen Hart

  “Um—”

  “Just shut up.”

  “Okay.” Jane responded in kind by backing Georgia up against the wall and kissing her with surprising enthusiasm, running her hands up underneath her lace robe. “Whoa,” she said, standing back. She wasn’t quite sure what had gotten into her.

  “Don’t stop.”

  If she hadn’t thought of Avi just then, she might not have.

  “Jane, come on. I won’t bite. Unless you want me to.” She pulled her back in. “There’s a room upstairs where we can be alone. I’ll take you.”

  Slipping a hand behind Georgia’s neck, Jane looked deep into her eyes, not wanting to analyze, just to feel. Not wanting to go anywhere but right here. She pressed her body against Georgia’s, her hand moving down the soft skin of her stomach.

  An Asian guy in a chef’s coat rushed past them, clearing his voice and giving them a disapproving look.

  Falling together, giggling, then sinking to the floor, they laughed like naughty teenagers.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” cooed Georgia.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Aw, you are a real buzz kill. Remember I said I had a present?”

  “I thought that was the present.”

  “Go back to the women’s restroom. The middle stall. The door’s shut, but nobody’s inside.”

  “What am I supposed to find?”

  “Just go.”

  Doing as she was told, Jane got up and crossed the hall to the restroom. Catching sight of herself in a mirror, she stopped for a second to pin a few wisps of hair back into her braid and tuck her turtleneck back inside her slacks. Feeling a little more put together, she opened the stall. Inside she found a line of white powder on a GaudyLights napkin resting on a small shelf above the toilet paper, a dollar bill rolled up next to it.

  “Hell, no,” she said, backing up, beginning to feel as if she’d made a big mistake.

  Returning to the hallway, she found Georgia attempting to interest a bald guy with a paunch in a table dance.

  Georgia winked.

  “Thanks,” said Jane, “but no thanks.”

  Georgia moved away from the guy. “No?”

  “No.”

  Making a pouting face, Georgia returned to Mr. Paunch and her hard sell, as if what had just happened between them was nothing more than a moment of lust with a customer—albeit nonpaying—which, of course, it was.

  Jane snaked her way through the tables on her way back to the bar. As she sat down, she saw that Avi was nowhere in sight. Diamond Brown had taken her place. Attempting to get her attention, she waited until Diamond came to take her drink order, then said, “What happened to Avi?”

  “She left, sugar. Not feeling well.”

  “Do you always stand in when one of the bartenders has to leave early?”

  “Couldn’t find anyone else on such short notice. We need to keep the customers happy.”

  Down the bar, Dorsey was watching their interaction with a smirk on his face. Shanice Williams, who sat across from him nursing a glass of wine, looked positively menacing.

  “If you’re interested, Avi cut out about an hour ago,” said Diamond. “Can I get you something? You’re drinking Waldorfs, right?”

  “No thanks,” said Jane, feeling deflated. She’d been looking forward to spending the rest of the evening with Avi, maybe getting a bite to eat after her shift was over. When she turned around, trying to figure out what to do with the shank of the evening, she found Vince Bessetti steaming toward her through the crowd.

  “You got a couple minutes?” he asked. Even a few feet away, he wreaked of men’s cologne.

  She shrugged. “Sure.”

  “I pulled some figures together.”

  “Figures?”

  “You said you might be interested in investing in GaudyLights.”

  “Oh, right. Sure, I’d be happy to look at them.”

  “Why don’t you come back to my office. It’s a little loud in here to talk.”

  Glad to get away from the pounding music, Jane followed him down a dimly lit hallway directly behind the nightclub’s main floor.

  “In here,” he said, unlocking a door and shoving it open with his foot. “There’s a chair next to the desk. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll just be a second.” He stepped over to a filing cabinet and began searching through the top drawer.

  For some reason, the room didn’t feel quite solid. Glancing at her watch, Jane saw that it was a quarter of one. It was odd that she didn’t feel as tired as she normally would at this time of night. She was concerned about Avi, but it was probably too late to call, especially if she wasn’t feeling well and had gone to bed when she got home. Jane figured she would text her, ask her to call in the morning, just to make sure everything was okay. Maybe she’d take her some homemade chicken soup tomorrow. The idea made her smile.

  Waiting for Bessetti to find what he was looking for, she surveyed the office. It was fairly large, with a comfortable-looking couch, a flat-screen TV, and a few chairs. Most of the furniture was boringly utilitarian. A calendar of nude women hung on the wall next to a couple of GaudyLights posters.

  “Who designed the posters?” asked Jane.

  “A friend of a friend,” said Bessetti absently, still digging through the files. “I was sure I’d put the pages right in front.”

  Scanning the desktop, Jane sat up straight when she saw a piece of typing paper lying on top of a stack of magazines with the same Greek word written on it that she’d found in DeAndre’s hotel room. Moving closer to get a better look, she was surprised when Bessetti said, “Find something interesting?”

  She looked up, unable to read his expression. “No. Well, yes. This is Greek, right?”

  “It is,” he said, his eyes locked on her.

  Something had just happened, she wasn’t sure what. In a split second, the warmth in his manner had turned subzero.

  “You read Greek?” he asked.

  “Me? No.”

  “But you knew they were Greek letters.”

  “I was in a sorority at the U of M. They’d revoke my membership if I couldn’t recognize Greek.”

  He sat down, dropping a file folder on the desk. “I’m curious,” he said, placing his hands flat on the folder. “You’ve lived in this town for what—fifteen, twenty years?”

  “All my adult life.”

  “All your adult life,” he repeated, tasting the words as he spoke them. “If you’re so interested in strip clubs, how come it’s taken you so long to visit us?”

  “I wasn’t the least bit interested until I indulged in a whim the other night.” She could tell by his tone that the question had an important subtext—the real question. She wasn’t sure what it was. Deciding to take a chance, she nodded to the page with the Greek letters and said, “If you don’t mind my asking, where’d you get that?”

  He pulled it in front of him and smoothed the rumpled surface. “From the police. They found a thin fragment of copper with those letters stamped into it.”

  Copper, thought Jane. Was that what DeAndre had written about? “Found it where?” she asked.

  “A friend of mine was murdered.”

  “Here in town?”

  “In Brooklyn Center.”

  The answer turned her upside down. It had to be Royal Rudmann. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Was he a longtime friend?”

  “You could say that.” Leaning back, he went on. “So, have you given any thought to how much money you might like to invest in the club?”

  “I’d need to look at your figures first, have a conversation with my lawyer and my accountant.”

  “Say, a hundred thousand?”

  “It’s possible. No promises.”

  “Do you have any questions I could answer? You might be interested in a tour.”

  “Not tonight. Like I said, I’ll need to take a look at your figures first.”

  He flexed his fingers. “That’s reasonable,” he said, shovi
ng the file across the desktop. “Do me a favor. Stick around long enough to see the 1:00 A.M. floor show. We always reserve the best for last.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Jane, rising and shaking his hand. “Thanks for the information.”

  27

  Jane found herself an empty table near the front and watched the final show. Georgia was one of the dancers and gave her … all on the pole. Standing a good fifteen feet away along the side wall, Shanice ignored the show and instead glared at Jane. Jane had the sense that if she’d had a mustache to twirl, she would have been twirling it. Jane found it strange, even a little pathetic, that she still held a grudge.

  Shortly after one thirty, Jane left the club, bundling a wool scarf around her neck as she wound her way through the back parking lot. After so much loud music, the minimal traffic noise outside seemed like utter silence. She had so much on her mind that she barely noticed her surroundings as she trotted to her car. It had been hours since she’d had anything to drink, thus she felt it unnecessary to take a cab. She’d found a parking space at the far south end, and thankfully, because she’d driven her Mini, she’d been able to squeeze into it.

  Coming out of the lot a few minutes later, she turned onto Washington Avenue, then west, working her way through the side streets in the north loop. As she was about to pull onto 5th, flashing lights lit up her rearview mirror. At first she figured the cop car was trying to pull around her, but it eventually penetrated that the cruiser was following her.

  Moving to the curb, she lowered the window.

  The cop sauntered up and leaned over to talk to her. He was around her age, burly, with small, unfriendly eyes. “You got a taillight out.”

  “I do? Sorry. I’ll be sure to have it repaired.”

  He glanced inside the car. “Let me see your license and registration.”

  She flipped open her glove compartment to get the registration and handed both over.

  Using his flashlight to examine them, he said, “Step out of the car, please.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Just step out.”

  She wasn’t sure what was going on.

  Once she was standing in the street, he said, “I’d like to examine the inside of your vehicle.”

  “Why? No.”

  “Step to the back of the car, please.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “The back of the car, ma’am.”

  Grudgingly, she moved, waiting while he ducked inside. He emerged a few seconds later holding a plastic sack. “What’s in this?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. I’ve never seen it before.”

  Opening the sack, he took a taste. “Turn around.”

  “Not before you tell me what’s going on.”

  Pushing her roughly against the rear fender, he cuffed her hands behind her back. “You’re under arrest for possession.”

  “Of what?”

  “Looks like about half a gram of cocaine.”

  She sucked in a breath, trying to force away the panic in her chest. “It’s not mine.”

  “Then what was it doing in your car?”

  “I don’t know, but I didn’t put it there.”

  “Sure,” he said, grabbing her arm and leading her back to his squad. “It’s amazing how often I hear that. Like it’s magic that the stuff just—poof—appears.”

  “You had no right to do a search without my permission.”

  “Got a visual, lady. It was on the floor in plain view.”

  “If it was in plain view, I would have seen it, and I didn’t.”

  “Take it up with the judge.”

  Before she knew what was happening, she found herself staring out the back window, watching the lights of downtown Minneapolis rush past as she was driven away to be booked.

  * * *

  Vince scanned the empty parking lot, relieved to see that all the vehicles were gone. Springing down the steps to his car, he couldn’t seem to shake the feeling of being watched. As the owner of the building and the lot behind it, he’d commandeered the best parking space for himself. On this bleak winter night, however, it was little solace.

  This had been one of the worst days of Vince’s life. Right along with the knowledge that someone was out there trying to kill him came a heavy, almost suffocating paranoia. It wasn’t simply an excess of cocaine. Someone really was out to get him. Every unexpected sound or sudden movement sliced into him. He did have one thing going for him, a piece of critical information that the others never knew. His killer, whoever he or she was, liked to do his or her handiwork up close and personal. Tatum, Rudmann, and Crowder had all been murdered inside, where they lived, which meant it was unlikely that someone would take a shot from a distance. As long as Vince could protect himself, as long as he knew it was coming, he had a leg up on the others.

  He began to scrape a thin coating of frost off his windshield, then groaned when he noticed that his tire had gone flat. Bending down to take a closer look, he found a pocketknife stuck in between the treads.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he said, straightening up and smacking his hand on the hood. Hearing a car and then the crunch of tires on snow, he looked up in time to spot a red sedan pull into the alley. As it rolled up next to him, the window came down and one of his strippers called out, “Need some help?”

  Before he could answer, she was out the door.

  “No problems here, Georgia. Just get back in your car and go home.”

  She stepped closer. “Jeez, hon, that’s nasty. Your tire’s completely flat. Is that a knife?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Want me to call the cops?”

  When he noticed that her hands were hidden inside the pockets of her jacket, all expression died on his face. He pulled his Walther from his coat pocket. “Just back up and get the hell out of here.”

  She raised her hands. “Sure. Whatever.”

  He kept the gun on her, sweating inside his coat’s heavy fleece lining, until she drove away.

  “Jesus,” he said, almost collapsing against the trunk. As he stood trying to catch his breath, he felt a twinge of pain in his chest. “No way,” he said, staggering back to the steps. With all the exercise he did every day, all the desserts he’d passed up, all the lousy protein shakes he sucked down instead of burgers and fries, no way was he going to die of a freakin’ heart attack. He waited, gripping the railing, until the feeling passed, then went back inside, resetting the security code and returning to the safety of his locked office.

  * * *

  Feeling humiliated, raw, and dead tired from a night spent being booked, fingerprinted, stripped of her clothes, ordered to wear a jumpsuit, drug tested, and moved from one small claustrophobic box to another, Jane stood next to her father at the arraignment the following morning. Initially, she’d been loath to phone him, thinking that this was the last thing he needed, but she became more and more frightened by the impersonal, brutal, and seemingly all-powerful bureaucracy all around her, and because he was a defense attorney, albeit a semiretired one, she made the call. When they’d first been allowed a brief conversation, she could see her own horror mirrored in his eyes. They were both doing their best to calm each other’s fears.

  After pleading her case, the judge set bail. An hour later, she was released ROR.

  Her father drove her home and stayed downstairs in the kitchen making them breakfast while she went upstairs to shower and change into clean clothes. It felt so good to be in her own house that she could have kissed the floors, the walls, the furniture. Thinking that there had to be a better way to show her euphoria, she kissed Mouse instead.

  At the kitchen table, over cheese omelets, toast, and coffee, Jane finally began to process what had happened.

  “It was a setup,” said her dad.

  “Could that police officer have been part of it?”

  “I hate to say it, but yes. It wouldn’t be the first time some bent cop targeted an innocent person, most likely for mone
y, or because he owed someone a favor.”

  “But why?”

  Ray spread strawberry jam on his toast, thinking it over. “You said you’ve been spending a lot of time at GaudyLights?”

  “Because of DeAndre Moore’s murder.”

  “That place is a snake pit. You can bet someone there was behind it.”

  Jane thought back to the cocaine Georgia had left in the bathroom stall last night as a present. If she’d taken the bait and used it, the coke would have been in her system when the police did the drug test. That was a little too close for comfort. Had Georgia set her up?

  “What happens now?” she asked, holding the coffee mug in both hands.

  “The next court date will be six weeks from now. This is a felony, Jane. We’re talking serious crime. If you’re convicted, even if you don’t go to jail—and that’s a big ‘if’—you could lose your liquor license for both restaurants, as well as your PI license. You might have to pay a significant fine. The conviction would be public knowledge. Fact is, the charge might already be.”

  All of a sudden, Jane didn’t feel quite so hungry. “What should I do?”

  “I made some calls while you were upstairs. I’ve got my people working on it. For the time being, stay out of GaudyLights. Understood?”

  She nodded.

  “You need to get some sleep. Don’t try to analyze what happened until you’re rested. You’ll just be spinning your wheels.”

  “Good advice.”

  “I’ll call you when I know anything. Might take a while.”

  Jane studied her father’s strong face, seeing the affection in his eyes and feeling steadied by it. His hair, once a chestnut brown like hers, had turned silver and then, in the last couple of years, white. He was still a handsome man with a formidable voice and an imposing manner, but he was smaller somehow. Age was playing all of its dirty tricks, the ones even a practiced lawyer couldn’t refute.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Eat your food.”

  28

  No rest for the wicked, thought Emmett, gazing up at the white colonial with dark green shutters that Vince Bessetti called home. On his way over, Emmett had been mentally riffing on that little biblical aphorism. He’d concluded that he didn’t want to rest. In the Bible, the words “rest” and “death” were often synonymous. The wicked were doomed to hellfire. Thus, no rest for the wicked was just fine with him if it meant more time before his ultimate consignment to eternal damnation.