by Rob Hart
“I don’t believe in freebies, Ash.”
“Fine, then owe me one. A favor. And you know that just means I’m going to stumble into your bar one night and demand free drinks. Can you live with that?”
“That works.”
“The man you’re looking for is Daley. First or last name, I don’t know. The bar is called The Soviet. Do you know it?”
“Well enough.”
Ash slaps his hands onto his knees and gets up. Then he reaches down for the bottle of vodka. “Taking this with me. Doesn’t count toward your debt because I still want my whiskey.”
“Understood.” Ginny rises and takes Ash’s hand. They shake and he turns to leave.
As he twists the knob to the door, Ginny says, “Ash.”
He doesn’t turn around. “Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s what friends are here for.”
GINNY LAYS TWO lines of coke on the pearl-handled hand mirror on her vanity, then coats the inside of each nostril. Just enough to balance out the Oxy.
When the blow kicks in and her head stops swimming, she goes about applying her makeup. Using a paintbrush, she dabs foundation around her face and rubs it in with her fingertips until it disappears.
She applies a pale silver highlight to her eyelids, blending it with a pinky until it just barely disappears into the skin of her face. Then she attacks her lips, first with a pencil, to lay down the thick brown outline that will stand out in the red lighting of The Soviet.
She leans into the mirror to inspect her face. She looks like a cheap hooker at the end of a bad shift, but the thought of more makeup is exhausting.
Then there’s the closet. She flips through her clothes, sliding hangers across the chrome bar, passing over dresses that are too short or too tight or too elegant. She settles on a matte Jersey infinity dress with a flare skirt by Donna Karen. Something simple, a little fancy, but more importantly, she can move around in it.
She drapes a beige pashmina over her shoulders and tugs her wig in place. As she inspects herself in the mirror, she frowns; something is missing. Then she remembers the obnoxiously huge Russian fur hat she got as a gift and subsequently buried in the back of the closet. It doesn’t take long to locate. An ushanka, she thinks it’s called.
The hat works with the outfit. Certainly appropriate for the destination, and anyway, it’s a little chilly. She inspects herself in the mirror one more time, and confident that her armor is intact, she heads for the door.
Then she stops. It would be silly to go into this naked, so she goes back to the vanity, hikes up her dress, and straps on her garter holster. From the right drawer she pulls out a Kel-Tec P-32, so small it nearly disappears in her hand.
She checks the clip, finds it full, and slides it into its strap.
As she exits her apartmen,t she clicks at the face of her phone, sending a text to Samson: Car. By the time she exits the building, Samson is leaning against the black Lincoln Town Car, smoking a cigarette and staring through reflective sunglasses at the drunken women littering the sidewalk outside Chanticleer.
Ginny snaps her fingers at him. “Find something to play with later.”
Samson flicks his half-done cigarette onto the pavement and moves to open the door of the car, moving quicker than his size would indicate he could. Then he climbs in the front and pulls away from the curb.
Ginny takes a glass vial of white powder out of a pouch in her purse and leans forward to blow another line.
That one sets her just about right.
GINNY WRAPS THE pashmina tighter around her shoulders and curses herself for not wearing a warmer jacket. The hat helps, but it’s also a little too big, and she has to concentrate to keep it straight.
She sucks down the last drag of a skinny cigarette and lets it drop to the asphalt. This is stupid. She should send in Samson. He doesn’t say much, because as a bald black man with shoulders as wide as he is tall, he doesn’t need to. It helps that he doesn’t smile, either.
But still, Ginny feels compelled to handle this. Part of her success in this neighborhood has come from her hands-on approach. She doesn’t ask anyone to do anything she wouldn’t do herself. People see that and they respect it.
This guy, Daley, whoever he is, he’s trying to move in on her land, and if she sends someone else, it’ll convey a message that maybe she’s not too concerned with the value of said land.
So Ginny draws up from her slouch to a razor-sharp pose. She sets her lips into a sneer and arches her back. Over her shoulder to Samson, she says, “Keep it running, darling. I don’t know how long we’re staying.”
She pulls out her cell again and hits a few numbers. Then she holds her arm up like she’s lofting a martini, clicks the phone off, and sashays into The Soviet.
IT’S A WEEKDAY so the bar is crowded but not packed. When Ginny walks in, every conversation stops.
From the first time Ginny smeared her mother’s lipstick across her mouth as she stood on the bathroom counter, she knew what she was doing wasn’t a mere indulgence. She also knew, even from that young age, she would never make a convincing woman. Her Adam’s apple was too pronounced. Her slight body too straight and bony. That became part of the game.
But regardless of why the people in the bar had stopped to stare—aghast, disgusted, intrigued—they were still looking, and that’s all that ever mattered to Ginny.
She slides up the bar and puts a long hand on the wooden top. The bartender looks up from the glass he’s polishing, and without saying anything, points to the back, toward a bank of three doors. One of them isn’t a bathroom, so that’s the one Ginny picks to walk through.
It’s a small room with plain walls. More like a large storage closet with room enough for six people to stand in and have an intimate conversation. Pushed up against the back wall is a poker table with a man sitting behind it.
The man is in his thirties, with hair bordering on gray and an easy look about him, like a movie star who’s growing old and isn’t too concerned about it. There’s an ashtray on the table in front of him and half a cigarette sending tufts of smoke into the air.
The door closes and the sound of the bar is cut off. Soundproofed.
The man doesn’t say anything. Ginny doesn’t want to be the first one to talk, but she has no choice when it becomes clear that the man isn’t budging. In fact, he hasn’t budged at all, to the point where she wants to check for a pulse.
“So,” Ginny says. “What does it take for a lady to get offered a seat in a joint like this?”
The man smiles. “Forgive me. I’ve been rude.”
He gets up and pulls out the chair across from him and helps Ginny into it, like a gentleman on a first date. He returns to his seat and picks up his cigarette, which has gone out. He relights it with a wooden match and takes a deep drag before setting it back down again.
Ginny says, “Daley. I wish I could say it was a pleasure, darling.”
Daley smiles again. It’s such a warm smile. He speaks with a slight Russian accent. He says, “But I find this very pleasurable.”
“Not for long, maybe.”
“We’ll see. Would you like a drink? Dare I say, a gin and tonic?”
“I’ll take a seltzer with lime.”
Daley leans over and presses a button on a small box next to the ashtray. He says, “Seltzer with lime.”
He leans back and smiles, waiting. A few moments later, two men come in the room. Big guys. Ginny doesn’t turn to look; that’ll make her look afraid. She can tell from their footsteps, and how they block the light.
One of the men puts the drink down in front of her, and the other places a rocks glass of amber liquid, straight, in front of Daley. The two men take guard at Ginny’s shoulders. Just close enough that she can’t forget they’re there.
Daley takes a sip of his drink and glances down at Ginny’s untouched glass. “Please.”
Ginny laughs. “How do I know you didn’t spike it?”
/> “Because if I wanted you dead, I would have shot you as soon as you walked in and that door closed.”
Ginny draws in her breath, involuntary, vulnerable. She leans forward to hide it, then picks up the drink and sips to show she’s not afraid. She sets the glass down. “Wonderful. I was parched.”
“That is a very interesting name,” he says. “Ginny Tonic. What made you choose that?”
“Why so interested?”
He waves the glass. “Because I’m curious to know more about you.”
Ginny takes another sip of the seltzer, her brain crackling from the coke. “Gin tastes like Christmas.”
“It does taste like Christmas, doesn’t it?” He takes another sip of his drink, leans forward. “I’m a scotch man myself. I like the smoke. I like a drink that tastes like fire. I guess that’s the difference between us.” He raises his fist, pumps it, scrunches his face. “I like my drinks a little more…,masculine.”
“Scotch all tastes the same to me,” Ginny says. “And it gives me a headache. So, apparently, do scotch-drinkers. Darling, how about we get down to it?”
Daley sits back, curling his lip. “You mean my position as your new partner.”
“I don’t even get dinner first?”
“I’m not one to drag things out.”
Ginny can’t tell if it’s a pun. Her cell phone buzzes in her purse. She reaches for it and he puts one hand up, the other close to the inside of his jacket. He says, “It’s rude to reach for something like that.”
“Just my phone.”
“Would you mind putting it on the table? I’m sorry to ask, but I think it’s only fair that we can see each other’s hands.”
Ginny doesn’t nod, doesn’t acknowledge him, just places her cell phone on the table and hits the button on the side to make it stop vibrating. She pulls out her own cigarettes and puts them next to the phone, then places one between her lips. Daley leans over and lights it for her.
“You’re quite the gentleman for someone who’s trying to fuck me. And not in the nice way.”
“I’m not fucking you. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship.”
Ginny almost chokes on her cigarette. “Honey, I’ve been running this show for three years now by myself. Why would I need to go into business with someone?”
“Because I can bring a lot to the table.”
“What do you have that I could possibly need?”
“Manpower. Knowledge. I have hooks into the district leaders in the northern territories, and I have knowledge of how business works in other parts of the city.”
“So do I.”
“I also have extensive connections in the police department.”
“And I blow the detective inspector from the precinct down the block from my bar. So what?”
The smile fades from Daley’s lips. He picks up his cigarette, lights it, takes another drag, places it back down. “Together, I believe we could be very powerful.”
“Then why did you move into my territory without asking me first? Was I supposed to be impressed that you were encroaching on my businesses?”
“No, the reason for that was that I plan on moving into this neighborhood regardless of how you answer. I’m offering you the opportunity to maintain a foothold. I, of course, will be running things. But you will answer to me.”
“That doesn’t sound like a partnership.”
“To you and your people it will be.”
“So, you’re trying to overthrow me.”
Daley shrugs.
Ginny’s cell buzzes again. Her finger lingers on the side. She never takes her eyes off Daley. Then she shrugs back and hits the button. Then she says, “I refuse.”
“That’s not an option.”
“Of course it is. I’ve never heard of you. I’ve never seen you. I have broken so many nails to get where I am. You’re not welcome, you’re not my partner, and I will give you one chance to pack up and leave, or else you will be dead by the end of the night.”
Daley nods. He looks sad, like a friend died. Then he says, “Well, then you leave me no choice.”
He snaps his fingers again. Before she can turn, something heavy snaps across her skull and the lights dim.
STONE STEPS. THE smell of hard water and stale beer. Darkness and a harsh light. Ginny fades in and out until finally she’s doused with a bucket of water and manages to shake off the buzzing in her skull.
She looks up at Daley, holding an empty bucket. He’s smiling, except now it’s a lot less warm. He leans down in front of her and places a hand on her cheek. Ginny tries to say something but she’s still a little loopy from the blow to the head and the cocktail of drugs in her blood. The pain rolls around her brain, making it hard to think.
“So, this is where you find yourself,” Daley says. “You could have accepted my offer. I wouldn’t have hurt you. You must understand, you made me do this.”
With great effort, Ginny manages to string words together. “You know, funny, this is how I started my day. I guess I’m paying some sort of karmic debt.”
“Yes, my messenger. He was collateral damage. I wasn’t expecting to get him back.”
“Then I can’t disappoint you.”
Daley drags a chair across the floor and places it in front of Ginny. Her vision is steadying and she takes in her surroundings. It’s a basement. Another basement under a bar. They’re boxed in by kegs. Her hands are tied down with thick pieces of rope. Her legs, too.
Daley places a cigarette between Ginny’s lips and lights it for her. She takes a few drags as Daley leans back and crosses his legs.
Ginny says, “Why not just kill me?”
“Because there are things I need to know, about how things operate around here. You’re going to tell them to me. If you tell me enough, maybe I’ll let you live.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” Ginny says, trying to not drop the cigarette.
“How would you feel if I told you that your driver has been detained, and I can make the next few hours of his life exceedingly uncomfortable?”
“Samson is a loyal soldier. He knows the risks.”
“I’ll just have to make life exceedingly uncomfortable for you.”
“Then just keep talking, darling.”
Daley nods and produces something from his pocket. He brings up his hand into the light. A shiny straight razor with a pearl handle. He pulls up the hem of Ginny’s dress, revealing her bare knees.
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand why men want to dress like women.”
“The day men’s clothing is as fabulous as women’s, then I’ll come back.”
Daley presses the razor to the exposed flesh above the knob of Ginny’s knee. He presses down, enough to indent the skin but not enough to break it. “But how can anyone take you seriously? To dress like that, like a woman, how is that a sign of strength? How do you expect people to respect you?”
“They don’t need to respect me. They just need to be afraid.”
He presses down on the razor. The skin separates and a small trickle of blood rolls down the outside of Ginny’s leg. She doesn’t move, doesn’t change the tone of her voice. She just looks straight at Daley. “You may believe the way I look to be a sign of weakness, but the first time you get your ass kicked by a man dressed like a woman, that changes your perspective.”
“But you aren’t kicking my ass.”
“Give it a few minutes.”
Daley drags the razor toward Ginny’s crotch, cleaving the skin. She breathes in sharp and tenses her shoulders. It hurts and she wants to cry out but she bites the tip of her tongue and asks, “Before I answer any questions, I need to know something.”
“Hmm?”
“Ash is loyal as a clock. How did you get him to flip?”
There are footsteps in the corner, outside the range of light. Ginny didn’t realize they weren’t alone. A manicured hand appears on Daley’s shoulder. “No, dear, Ash didn’t do this. At least, not directly.”
> That voice. The figure steps into the light, the glitter in her blonde wig scattering the light.
Jacqueline Coke says, “Ash wasn’t your problem.”
“Well, Jacqui, I guess I made a mistake by putting my trust in you.”
“You did.”
“What are you getting out of this?”
“I’ll be king of the queens when you’re gone. Daley’s liaison into the community.”
“That’s lovely for you, dear. But indulge me, please. How did you get Ash in on this?”
“He likes to drink and he likes to please. Wasn’t hard.”
“Well, good to know, for future reference.”
Jacqueline leans down to Ginny, her voice guttural and mean. “You think you’re so clever. Sitting up on high, giving orders. Making people dance for you. You never realized that I was a plant. I didn’t even think I was that good an actress. And yet, somehow, I managed to take everything away from you.”
Ginny laughs, then spits in Jacqueline’s face.
Jacqueline draws the back of her hand across her cheek, then balls up her fist and smashes it across Ginny’s face. Ginny’s head snaps back and she feels something in her jaw go loose. She drops her head and blood leaks from her mouth onto the floor.
Jacqueline takes the straight razor from Daley and presses it to Ginny’s face. “I’m going to take something from you. Something you value. And then we’ll see if you’re interested in talking.”
Instead of moving, instead of flinching, Ginny laughs. Long and hard, her voice echoing off the stone walls. So loud and so hard that Daley and Jacqueline are visibly upset by it.
When Ginny has finally calmed down, Daley asks, “Did I miss a joke?”
“Not really, but where my phone?”
“I left it upstairs.”
“Did you break it? Do anything to it?”
“No.”
“Good. Then this will all be over soon.”
Daley leans forward. “How so?”
“I have this fun little program built into my phone. When I activate that program, it buzzes every ten minutes, and unless I turn it off, it broadcasts an emergency text and my current location.”
