by James Newman
Nick shot him a look that made all the color drain from the guy’s face. He shrank back against his ride.
Nick stood outside the club for a few seconds. Cracked his knuckles. On the door, a sign warned NO CONCEALED WEAPONS ALLOWED ON PREMISES.
He flung open the door and stepped into the Skin Den.
†
Two minutes later, he had Russo the bartender’s bald head in his hands, and he was slamming it down on the bar again and again and again.
It felt good. He put everything he had into it, as if there might be some sort of prize at the end.
The dancers screamed. The men in the crowd shouted “what the fuck?” and “think we should do something, Glenn?” But Nick barely heard any of it. A furious buzzing filled his ears, like a swarm of angry hornets, as he bounced Russo’s head off the bar. His assault soon fell into sync with the beat of the dubstep tune on the club’s P.A. system: whomp-THUD, whomp-whomp-THUD...
Finally, someone had the good sense to kill the music.
The bartender called Nick a motherfucker as his head came up again. That’s what it sounded like, anyway. He might have asked the big man to name his favorite action flicks. His lips were busted open like smashed grapes, two of his front teeth lay next to his empty tips jar, and his voice was all but unintelligible.
“You and me, we need to talk,” said Nick. “You’re gonna tell me where I can find Sophie.”
“I don’t have to tell you a goddamn th—” Russo started to say, but then Nick jerked him over the bar as if he weighed no more than a jug of that watered-down horse-piss he served his customers night after night.
“Better yet, you’re gonna take me to her. Let’s go for a ride, asshole.”
As Nick headed for the exit, he saw the curly-haired bouncer running toward them.
He glared at the guy. Slowly shook his head, like a stern parent warning a child not to act up in public.
The bouncer changed his mind, melted back into his dark corner.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” a voice screeched in Nick’s ear. “You can’t come in here throwing your weight around like that!”
Nick turned to see one of the orange-skinned, fake-tittied strippers from the night before. The one who had accused him of being gay because he didn’t want a dry-hump.
“You’re just a big, ugly bully,” she said. “That’s all you are!”
“Maybe.”
“You look like my cousin’s retarded stepson.”
“That hurts,” said Nick. It didn’t.
“I’m calling the cops.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and do that, honey? Tell them your buddy here was involved in the abduction of Sophie Lynn Suttles. Tell them he’s seen the error of his ways, and he’s gone to get her back.”
“Don’t,” the bartender said. “Leave it, Sheila. Don’t call the cops. It’s gonna be okay.”
The expression on the stripper’s face was that of someone who is unsure if she has chosen the right path in life. She backed away from Nick. Another young woman sobbed at the rear of the crowd.
“You’re making a big mistake,” the bartender told Nick. He wore a piece of tape on his nose from their last altercation, but it had come loose. It dangled from his cheek like a flap of dead skin. A bright red bib of blood stained his once-white TAPOUT T-shirt.
Someone else rushed at Nick then.
This time she wore a thin white blouse unbuttoned to her belly and a checkered “schoolgirl” miniskirt. Her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail.
“Claudette.”
“I wanted to tell you...he hasn’t laid a hand on me. Hasn’t spoken to me at all, after what you said to him. It’s like he’s scared of me.”
“That’s good to hear,” said Nick.
“I thought you should know. I’m fine.” She touched Nick’s arm. “Are you...gonna hurt him?”
“Probably,” said Nick. “He’s done some bad things. You’ll hear about them soon.”
Claudette looked at the bartender. He hung his head.
Nick gave a barely perceptible nod to the young lady, before shoving Russo toward the exit.
†
“What do you drive?” he asked, once they were outside.
“The red Camaro.”
Nick glanced toward his Kia parked a few feet away. “We’ll take yours.”
†
Russo drove. Nick sat beside him in the Camaro’s passenger seat.
For now, he had instructed the bartender to drive toward Midnight. As they merged onto the interstate, he said, “Tell me what you did.”
“Go to hell.”
“Start over.”
Russo winced, made a pained grunting sound.
“You sold her like she was a piece of property,” said Nick.
“I introduced one guy to another guy. That’s all. Maybe I made a few bucks off the deal. Whatever happened after that, I didn’t have nothing to do with it.”
“How did it go down?”
Russo watched the rearview mirror as if expecting to find the answer there. While he waited, blood dripped from his broken face onto his leather-clad lap: plip-plip-plip, like ellipses in their conversation.
“I’m not gonna ask you again,” said Nick.
“There was this guy Eddie, used to hang out in the club sometimes. One night he’s knocking back shots of tequila like it’s nobody’s business. I ask him what he’s trying to forget. He starts rambling on and on about he owes this nigger a lot of money.”
Russo brought a hand to his shattered nose. Rolled down his window and spat bloody saliva out into the cool night air. Most of it blew back in his face. He rolled up the window.
“Keep talking,” said Nick.
“He says if only his girlfriend was still in touch with her daddy. Maybe he could squeeze some dough out of that fucker. Guy used to be a famous wrestler.”
Nick’s disfigured face betrayed nothing.
“I call over this fella I know. The, uh, one in your picture. He works for a private collector. Celebrity stuff. The more fucked-up, the better. The Widowmaker’s story, that’s about as fucked-up as it gets, right? I don’t have to tell you. Yeah...according to this Eddie guy, she’s your granddaughter. And she’s barely old enough to bleed. I figure she’ll be worth a ton of green to a rich prick with a touch of the ‘short eye.’ Turns out I’m right. He can’t wait to add her to his collection.”
It took every bit of willpower Nick possessed not to throw Russo out of the car at that moment, like a litterbug chucking a hamburger wrapper. He restrained himself, but just barely.
Russo tightened his grip on the steering wheel, as if he could read Nick’s mind.
Nick said, “You’re talking about Sophie like she’s a tube of lipstick used by Marilyn Monroe, or an old napkin Sammy Davis, Jr. sneezed on. You can’t ‘collect’ a human being, keep her in a glass case in some fucking museum.”
“You can do whatever you want when you’ve got more money than God,” Russo replied. “This guy does.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mr. Balfour. Hiram Balfour. But his associates all call him—”
“Daddy,” said Nick. “I know. Where does this asshole live? How far do we have to go?”
“I don’t know where he lives. Somewhere in Morganville, I think. But I’ve never been to his house.”
“Did you think we were just gonna drive around, maybe I’d get sleepy and nod off after a while?”
“You told me to drive. That’s what I’m doing. I can’t tell you where to find him because I don’t know.”
“You also claimed you didn’t know the guy who robbed the drugstore.”
“He was my only link to Mr. Balfour. But he can’t help us. Because you killed him.”
“Correction,” said Nick. “I killed both of them.”
The bartender cursed Nick beneath his breath.
“Sounds like you expect me to apologize. I must have misunderstood his intentions after he r
epainted the inside of my truck with my buddy’s brains, then tried to do the same to me. As for his brother, I guess he broke into my motel room looking for some other seven-foot, three-hundred pound guest with a face like a slab of roast beef left out in the sun.”
Russo was silent.
“What was his name?” said Nick. “Your friend.”
“Charlie.”
Nick brought a hand to his face, pinched at the gnarled scar tissue that had once been the bridge of a strong, Roman nose as he took a minute to ponder his next move. It was a no-brainer that Russo was the one who had tipped off the assassin last night. He assumed that had happened well before he and Leon left the club. However, he recalled Sheriff Mackey telling him that the off-ramp hitman had nothing on his person but the twelve-gauge, which meant that Charlie’s cellphone—assuming he had owned one—was most likely in the hands of the wheelman now. The driver of the Mercedes.
It was worth a shot. Perhaps it would amount to nothing, but Nick had a hunch...
“Your phone,” he said. “Give it to me.”
“What?”
Nick didn’t repeat himself. He held out an open palm.
Russo’s hands shook as he pulled an iPhone from a pocket in his leather pants. He gave it to Nick, begrudgingly.
Nick thumbed through the bartender’s contacts. Lots of women. Most of them with stripper names: CANDI, MITZI, DEEDEE, MONIQUE. Although a MEEMAW was in there too.
Finally, Nick found what he was looking for: CHARLIE.
He handed the phone back to Russo. “Call it.”
“What? But...he’s dead. You ki—”
Nick glared at him.
Russo did as he was told. He put the phone on SPEAKER so Nick could hear both sides of the conversation.
The call went straight to voicemail. A beep, then a man’s voice said, “Leave a message. I’ll get back to you if I think it’s worth my time.”
“Umm...yeah,” the bartender said into the phone. “It’s Russo. Charlie’s friend from the club. If, uh, anyone’s still checking his messages...we need to talk. It’s about the kid. It’s...not good.”
He hung up, set the phone on his knee.
“What do we now?” he asked Nick.
“We keep driving. And we wait for someone to call us back.”
†
Ten minutes later, the phone rang. The ringtone was something by Lady Gaga.
Russo shot Nick an embarrassed look.
The big man didn’t blink. “It’s not gonna answer itself.”
Once again, it was a man’s voice on the other end of the line. But a different one this time.
He said, “You shouldn’t be calling this number. You don’t have any reason to be calling here anymore.”
“Wait...wait!” Russo shot a nervous glance toward Nick. “There’s,...uh...something you need to know.”
“What is it?”
“Tell him the Widowmaker is coming,” said Nick. He stared straight ahead as he spoke. “His people tried to put me down for the count, but they just pissed me off. If we have to drive around all night, we will find them. Morganville’s a small town, and they should know by now that I don’t give up easily.”
“Umm...I guess you heard all of that?” Russo said into the phone.
Silence. A silence that seemed to last forever. No, not quite silence. Faintly, there was muffled conversation on the other end of the line. It sounded like the man had covered the phone with one hand and was arguing with someone in the background.
Pavement hummed beneath the Camaro’s tires. At least a minute passed.
Russo swallowed loudly, asked, “Are you still there?”
“There’s a place in Midnight. Storch’s Rim. Do you know it?”
“No,” said Russo.
Nick said he did.
“Be there in half an hour. Just the two of you. I see anybody who looks like a cop anywhere near the ’Rim, I will slice off one of her tits.”
The connection was severed.
Nick spat out every obscene word he knew. His massive fist struck the dashboard again and again. When his assault was finished, his knuckles were bloody and raw. The dashboard fared no better. The door to the glove compartment fell off, landed between his boots as if it were made of cardboard.
Russo, meanwhile, now looked as if he might be thinking about throwing himself out of the car, just to get away from the giant’s fury.
†
Once upon a time, Storch’s Rim had been Polk County’s own Lover’s Lane, its “make-out spot” where Midnight’s teen contingent sneaked away to park late at night and indulge in forbidden activities. Nick Bullman remembered it well. He had lost his own virginity there forty-some years ago, to a young lady whose name he had long since forgotten. Back then, the ’Rim had been an eyesore of the worst kind. Strewn throughout the grove atop the region’s highest point of elevation was the detritus left behind by those who cared about nothing more than having a good time: crumpled beer cans, shattered liquor bottles, and the occasional used condom. A lot had changed since Nick last saw the place, however, and for the better. Instead of hard-packed earth cross-hatched with dozens of tire tracks, a circle of white gravel welcomed visitors to the lookout spot at the end of a winding blacktop road. Picnic tables had replaced the graffiti-stained boulders that once bordered the parking area. A yellow guardrail had been erected at the edge of the ’Rim, protecting those who came here from certain death. Beyond it was a steep drop-off that might have been the very edge of the world. Those who stood at the top of the ’Rim could see for miles and miles. Below, the distant lights of Nick’s hometown resembled a multitude of bright, unblinking eyes in the night.
Nick ordered Russo to park along the edge, but told him to back into the spot, so they could see the enemy coming. The only sounds were the urgent chirping of crickets in the thick brown weeds upon the mountainside and the whisper of a soft breeze wafting through the nearby treetops. A hint of lightning flickered in the clouds above town every few seconds.
At one point, Russo asked Nick if he could leave. He promised he would just get out of the car and start walking, he wouldn’t even look back. This didn’t have anything to do with him anymore, he said, and he just wanted to go home.
Nick told him to shut his fucking mouth, don’t move a muscle, or it would be his name on the MISSING posters all over town come tomorrow.
They sat in silence the rest of the time.
No more than fifteen minutes later, headlights appeared on the road.
The vehicle crested the hill, blinding both men with its high beams.
“You get out,” said Nick.
Russo gave him a look like he had just been instructed to climb over that guardrail and take flight over Midnight.
“Get out,” Nick said again.
Gravel crunched beneath the other vehicle’s tires as it came to a smooth stop about a dozen feet in front of them. It was something large. An SUV, for sure. A Hummer, maybe.
Russo stepped out of the Camaro.
A tall, man-shaped figure got out of the SUV, on the driver’s side. He left the engine running.
Russo glanced over at Nick, as if waiting to be told what to say. “H-Hey...he made m—”
One of the silhouette’s hands came up, and three quick pops shattered the quiet night. Muzzle flashes.
Blood spurted from Russo’s throat and chest. He made a choking sound, and was dead before he hit the ground.
Nick threw open his door.
“Stay where you are!”
The shooter approached him, stuck a small pistol in his face. Nick still couldn’t make out the man’s features, as the man stood between him and the SUV’s high beams. He could make out long hair, what looked like an oversized leather jacket, but not much else.
“Hold out your right hand.”
Nick did as he was told, tentatively.
The man slapped a cellphone into his palm. “It’s for you. Don’t keep him waiting.”
Nick b
rought the phone to his ear.
“Nicholas James Bullman,” said a voice, with what sounded like great effort. “A.K.A. ‘the Widowmaker.’ Sports entertainment’s brightest star...until they took your face.”
The voice was ancient, decrepit. Nick didn’t hear it as much as it seemed to slither inside his ear, like something diseased and eager to infest.
“And you must be Mr. Balfour,” said Nick. “The one they call ‘Daddy.’ ”
“Ah, so you know who I am,” said the old man. He spoke very slowly, in an almost robotic manner, carefully enunciating every syllable. “My associates and I should have known better than to underestimate you. You have caused us an unprecedented amount of trouble.” A long, rattling breath. “Mr. Bullman, I wish for you to come see me. Tonight.”
“I look forward to it,” said Nick.
“You will ride with my associate. If, at any point, you act in a manner unbecoming of a guest on my property, he will not hesitate to put a bullet in your brain. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” said Nick.
“Wonderful. Goodbye for now, Mr. Bullman. Please give the phone back to Jeremy.”
“I’m assuming you’re Jeremy.” Nick handed the phone to the man standing over him.
The gunman brought the phone to his ear. “Yes?” He listened. “Okay.”
He hung up.
“Out of the car.”
Nick stepped out of the Camaro with his hands in the air.
“Now get in the Hummer.” The man gestured with his weapon for Nick to walk in front of him.
Nick did as he was told.
The man followed him, slammed the Hummer’s passenger-side door once Nick was inside.
And suddenly Nick felt a sting in the back of his neck. As if from a giant bee perched on his shoulder. Took him a second or two to realize it was a needle. Something burned through his veins.
He tried to turn, to rip the spike from his flesh and fight off the culprit, but already his head felt as if it had swollen to the size of a hot air balloon. His arms weighed a thousand pounds each.
