by John Locke
“You can’t tell me over the phone?”
“I already said too much.”
My cell phone vibrates. Lou Kelly. To Tony I say, “You know the club, Top Six?”
“Carmine Porrello’s club?”
“Yeah.”
“What time?”
“Ten-thirty.”
I hang up the house phone, answer the cell. “That was quick.”
“I’m going to take a stab at this,” Lou says, laughing. “Kimberly’s boyfriend’s a pre-Rapture pet salesman, right?”
“You’re good. You found him?”
“I don’t know where to start. There are hundreds of these guys scattered across the country. I found six in Duval County. Their standard sales pitch is pets have no souls, so they’ll be left behind when the Rapture takes place. If you love your pets, you won’t let them starve.”
“So Kimberly’s boyfriend has to convince them he’s sinful enough to be left behind but loving enough to care for their pets.”
“Odd way to make a buck,” Lou says.
“Anything else?”
“Kimberly’s grades.”
“Do I want to know?”
“You do.”
“Lay it on me.”
“Perfect attendance, A’s in every subject but one.”
“Biology?”
“Right. B plus.”
“He’s a dick.”
“Who, the teacher?”
“Yeah.”
“She said that?”
“She did.”
“Kids talk like that to their parents these days?”
“I don’t know how kids talk. Like we said, she’s pushing my buttons.”
“You say anything to her about it?”
“No. She’s got all the power.”
“How so?”
“She can hang up anytime she wants.”
“You can stop sending her money.”
“And what type of message would that send? Respect me or else?”
Lou pauses a minute. Then says, “Well, at least she’s still enrolled, making good grades. That’s a good thing. And she’s always been a great kid.”
“And still is,” I say. “So yeah, I’m lucky. It could be a helluva lot worse. How about our guy, Jimmy T.?”
“You still want her followed?”
“For a little while. Until I’m completely comfortable about things.”
“I’ll track Jimmy down and put him to work.”
“Thanks, Lou.”
19.
I focus a pinpoint of light on the face of my watch as it turns 9:00 p.m., thinking, two hours ago Gwen Peters asked Carmine “The Chin” Porrello to have me whacked.
I’m in the Las Vegas Zoo, standing by the monkey cage. The monkeys are so surprised to see a visitor after closing time, they actually stop picking their asses to stare at me.
“You talkin’ to me?” I say, channeling my inner Robert DeNiro.
The zoo’s been closed three hours. It was harder to break in than you’d think. Probably because they house endangered cats, apes, and exotic reptiles, so their security needs to be top notch.
It’s dark, but not pitch black. I might need the pen light to see my watch, but I can see the monkeys without it, and they can see me. I snap the light off and put it back in my pocket, remove the ceramic device and move it around in my hand.
The monkey cage isn’t actually a cage. It’s more like a deep, circular pit with a rock mountain in the center, and some artificial climbing trees. The monkeys have lots of space to move around in, and the trees and mountain offer them opportunities to exercise. The chain link fence around the perimeter comes up to the middle of my chest, high enough to keep kids from falling into the pit.
I fling the ceramic device at the monkeys.
Several rush to the place where it strikes the mountain, and scramble around, fighting for it, until one emerges with the prize.
I watch with amusement as he tries to keep it away from the others. He jumps onto one of the trees and makes his way to the top. He sniffs it, puts it in his mouth. For a moment I think how funny it’ll be if he swallows it. But he removes it from his mouth and works it around in his hand the way I’ve been doing.
Pressing the button four times in ten seconds will fry my brain.
The monkey gives up and tosses the device to the ground.
Dozens of monkeys begin fighting over it, and I assume it won’t take long for this many monkeys to press a single button four times in ten seconds.
Why am I doing this?
I don’t know. It’s fun? I’m in Vegas? I need the rush? My fate is in the hands of a bunch of monkeys, which seems appropriate, somehow.
I start to laugh. And keep laughing. Kimberly’s not the only one who can push my buttons!
“Have at it!” I shout, and walk away. I get about five feet when something hits me in the back of the head.
I bend down and pick up the device.
The monkeys have spoken.
I wipe the device on my pant leg, put it back in my pocket. Then head to Carmine Porrello’s club, the Top Six.
20.
“How old IS that one?” I ask Carmine, pointing at the skinny blond on the far left.
“The nurse?”
I feel like saying, “nurse costume,” but what’s the point?
“You like her?” Carmine says.
“She doesn’t look legal.”
“I run a legit club. She don’t look eighteen, but she’s got a driver’s license. You want me to call her over?”
“No.”
I look at the skinny girl a second time. Her hair is close-cropped, with a streak of red on the front of each side, framing her delicate, pale face. She looks like she’s completely drugged out. But there’s something else in her face that would break my heart if I were her father. It’s something you don’t normally see at her age.
She’s given up.
This is the type of kid who probably won’t live to see her twenties. I’m looking at a dead girl, I think.
“You keep lookin’ at her,” Carmine says. “Here, I’ll call her over.”
He waves his hand until she notices him. She looks over her shoulder a minute, then back at Carmine, then reluctantly climbs off the stage and comes over.
“Hi Shirl,” he says.
“Is something wrong?” she says. “I’m supposed to go on next.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Shirl looks nervously to the left of the stage. “But Roy-”
“I’ll take care of Roy.”
She looks dubious.
Carmine says, “You trust me, yes?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Porrello.”
He nods. “Good. I want you to meet a friend of mine. A good friend.”
She looks at me. I notice Carmine didn’t say my name, which is his way of showing respect. He’s old school. He’ll let me decide if I want to use a fake name.
“Hi Shirl, I’m Donovan Creed.”
I put my hand out. Shirl looks at me with utter confusion, bites the corner of her lip and looks at Carmine, who says, “He’s offering you his hand. Shake it.”
Shirl looks completely bewildered, but takes my hand. It took her exactly ten seconds to make me feel like I’m mentally challenged. She looks back up at the stage, clearly agitated, shifting her weight from one leg to the next, while looking at the big, angry slab of beef who’s giving her a hard look.
“That’s Roy?” I say.
“Uh huh. I better go.”
She starts to move, but Carmine puts his hand on her arm. Shirl stops, but looks as though she might pee her pants, she’s so frightened.
“Don’t be rude,” Carmine says.
“We’re about to play PNQ,” she says, by way of explanation. “I’m up first.”
Carmine nods. “Okay. After that, you come back down.”
“I’ll ask Roy.”
“You’ll what?” Carmine says.
Shirl realizes
she’s made a big mistake. By fearing Roy more than Carmine, she’s disrespected the old Don.
In front of me, a good friend.
She’s in full-blown panic mode. It’s pitiful to see.
I know what’s going on here. Carmine’s older than dirt. Roy’s the young tough. They’re about to butt heads. Carmine, needing to prove he’s still got it. Roy, not wanting to be disrespected. I’m in a position to prevent it. Normally I wouldn’t give a shit either way, but Carmine did me a favor telling me about Gwen. And this little girl shouldn’t have to live in fear like this.
“What’s PNQ?” I say.
Carmine’s about to blow up, but my question simmers him down a bit. He actually starts to chuckle.
“PNQ stands for penny, nickel, quarter. It’s a game our friend Gwen made up when she used to work for me. Since you never played, I don’t wanna give nothin’ away. You’ll like it.”
“I’ll walk Shirl back up on stage,” I say.
Carmine starts to say something, then looks over at Roy, who’s scowling at both of us. Then says, “That’s good.” He smiles, and adds, “That’s real good. And Creed?”
“Yes, Mr. Porrello?” I say, showing him respect in front of Shirl because I, too, am old school.
“Have fun with it,” he says.
“You know it.”
21.
“Whatever you’re about to do on stage,” I say to Shirl, “You don’t have to.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“Me too. Of all the things I have to do, this is the easiest. It’s no big deal, and it’s fun for the customers.”
“What about afterward?”
“After PNQ?”
“Yes.”
“That part’s not so much fun. But it’s work, you know?”
“I do.”
By now, Shirl and I have climbed the side steps to the stage, and Jimmy comes over to meet us. The Emcee has been watching this mini drama unfold, and he’s stalling, telling jokes, to buy a little time.
Roy’s furious. His reptilian eyes have narrowed to slits, and the veins in his temples are pulsing. But he doesn’t say anything yet. He doesn’t know me, but figures I’m connected, since Carmine called Shirl over to meet me. But he’s connected too, and he’s a certified tough guy, something I can tell by the scar tissue around his eyes, and the fact his nose has been broken at least twice. Up in his hairline I see a thin line where he’s had surgery. If I’m guessing, that’s from a beer bottle. Bouncing’s a tough life. Roy’s got to be happy he’s moved up a step, running strippers. Helluva lot easier beating up young girls than tough drunks.
The three of us are standing on the stage, just beyond the steps. Shirl’s nervous. I’m sizing up this young, stocky warrior, and Roy’s probably doing the same to me. He’s waiting for me to speak, but I’m in no hurry. They’re on a time clock here, not me.
Roy says, “Get your ass center stage, you piece of shit.”
Shirl moves quickly. As she passes him, he puts his leg out and trips her. She stumbles, but shows remarkable athleticism correcting her fall at the last second. She manages to keep from hitting the stage. He snarls, “You and me are gonna have a little talk tonight.”
She looks at me.
I nod back.
“You got something to say to me, asshole?” he asks me.
“Nope.”
“Then get your ass back with grandpa before I kick the shit outta you.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“You’re still here.”
“I am?”
He pauses. Then says, “You don’t want to piss me off.”
“Of course not.”
“Then get the fuck outta my club.”
“Wait. I thought you wanted me to get my ass back with grandpa.”
He shows me that look people give when they wonder if I’m some kind of wise ass.
“What’re you, some kind of wise ass?” he says.
“Yeah, but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
He makes a sudden move, hoping to catch me off-balance, to push me backwards. There are only four steps, but we’re high enough that a push could cause serious injury.
No matter. I’ve been expecting the shove since Roy joined us. Most bar fighters want to shove you before launching their power shot. It gets you off balance, gets your hands away from your face, so they can inflict the most possible damage before you can retaliate. If they get you on the ground it can be a rough night if you’re unskilled.
Unfortunately for Roy, I’m plenty skilled. Before his right hand makes contact with my chest, I reach up and grab it with my left hand and start squeezing. Roy’s been around tough guys all his life, but he’s never had his hand stuck in a vice grip like mine, and it shows in his expression as I crush the bones in his hand. He screams in pain and tries to get his hand away, which only makes it worse for him, because it gives me the opportunity to clamp down harder.
In the background, I hear the emcee go quiet. The whole club is watching us, but Carmine’s holding a hand up, to keep them from interfering. I turn my attention back to Roy. His eyes are bugging out. As he begins to panic, he makes another blunder by moving his body into mine, attempting to muscle me down the steps. But before Roy’s chest makes contact with my body, I grab his belt with my right hand and spin us around to where our positions are reversed. I continue squeezing his hand, but now I’m also grinding the broken bones together. Tears are pouring from his eyes, and he’s holding his left hand up in supplication, trying to get to his knees. I lower his hand enough to accommodate him.
Now, with Roy on his knees, I lean over and whisper in his ear, “You don’t hit Shirl, you don’t touch her, ever again. You got that?”
I squeeze his hand harder, for emphasis. Then back it down slightly so he won’t pass out.
“I got it!” he gasps.
“If you so much as raise your voice to her, I’ll hear about it, and you’ll regret it. Tell me you understand.”
He nods his head, vigorously. “I understand,” he says.
Roy really is a tough guy. I’ve crushed the bones in his hand so badly it’s going to require extensive surgery to correct. In a few years he’ll probably end up with the worst case of arthritis imaginable. Roy’s at a point where I could make him do anything. I consider making him sing Mammy, by Al Jolson. I mean, he’s already on his knees, right? But that would be cruel. And anyway, I have a better idea.
“One last thing,” I say.
Roy’s trying not to cry in front of the whole bar. His tough guy persona is really taking a beating tonight, and he’ll probably have to maim some drunks to re-establish his rep. I just hope he doesn’t treat the other girls worse because he’s angry at Shirl. I’m not going to threaten him about it, though. These girls, they come and go. They’ve been around the block. I’m not going to warn Roy not to pick on them. I don’t know the other girls. They could make something up about him, and I wouldn’t know the difference, and that wouldn’t be fair. But there is something I need to warn him about that will be easy to monitor.
“You’re disrespecting Carmine,” I say. “And I won’t have it. He made his bones before your parents were born. In other words, he’s earned his place. I’m going to let go of you, and when I do, you’re going to walk over to Carmine and kiss his ring. And Roy?”
He looks up at me.
“If you don’t, I’m going to kill you before the sun comes up.”
He looks down. Then back up.
“Do you believe me?”
He nods through his tears.
I release his hand and watch him walk over to Carmine with his head bowed. When he gets there, he apologizes, and kneels to kiss Carmine’s ring. As he does so, Carmine slaps the side of his face, hard. There’s not much force on the blow, since Carmine’s old and out of shape, but it makes enough of a sound to fill the room.
Then Carmine st
ands and embraces Roy, and calls someone over to drive him to the hospital. When that’s worked out, I rejoin Carmine at his table in front of the stage, and the emcee announces how the game is played.
22.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, you’re in for a treat,” the emcee says, “because it’s time to play PNQ!”
The rules are simple. Anyone who wants to play gets a card to fill out. The card costs ten dollars. Carmine insists I play, and buys me a card. At the top left is the number one, and beside it are pictures of a penny, a nickel, a quarter, a half-dollar, and a silver dollar. The pictures are repeated for numbers two through eight. There will be eight strippers on stage. The idea is to pick the smallest coin that can completely cover the aureole on the left breast of each girl.
We’re given a marking pen to make our choices. Looks like thirty of us are playing. Winner gets half the pot and a lap dance from the stripper of his choice. The girl he chooses gets one-fourth of the pot, the house gets the rest.
First girl up is Shirl, wearing her nurse costume. She walks to the front of the stage and peels down to her bra and panties, which surprises me, because she’s wearing an actual bra and panties instead of stripper gear. Gear’s probably not the right word, but I don’t know the lingo. I don’t frequent stripper bars. They’re too depressing. Take Shirl, for instance.
While she’s up there, smiling, the men hoot and holler. She puts her arms in the air and moves for them, and ends her little dance by turning her backside toward the audience and shaking it. The men like what they see. They like it a lot.
This is why I don’t do strip joints. I’m quite annoyed watching Shirl perform for these rowdy drunken customers like some sort of stage monkey. If I weren’t Carmine’s guest, I’d walk out right now. Of course, if I weren’t Carmine’s guest, I wouldn’t have entered the Top Six in the first place. I watch Shirl play up to the men. She’s facing us now, caressing herself, licking her lips while giving that universal bedroom look these women have all perfected. I can’t imagine why Shirl would act like that.
Then it hits me.
She’s trying to win the lap dance money.
I think about the emotions I’ve just experienced, and realize what a colossal hypocrite I am! Getting all worked up wondering how a girl like Shirl could do this. Wasn’t it just this morning I had sex with Gwen, who danced on this very stage eight months ago? Look at me, Mr. High and Mighty, indignant about this poor waif. If Shirl was two years older and a little prettier, I’d almost certainly pay her for sex tonight.
