Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening

by John Wayne Falbey

  There still were several empty tables, but only one vacant booth. It was against the wall to the left. The men took it. Almeida sat on the outside with Thomas next to him and Larsen directly across from him. Stensen sat next to Larsen on the inside. Whelan and Kirkland pulled chairs up to the end of the table.

  “Cliff has given us a well deserved twenty four hours off,” Whelan said. “Let’s have fun, but…”

  “Fuckin’ A I’m gonna have some fun,” Almeida said.

  Whelan didn’t like to be interrupted. Especially by Almeida. He kicked him under the table. Hard.

  “Yeow! Why’d you do that?” Almeida grabbed his leg. “I could kick your ass for that.”

  Whelan and the others stared at him. “Like I was saying, fun but no problems. We don’t want to piss away the last six months of training and all that the Society has done to get us here. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I get it.” Almeida was vigorously rubbing his leg.

  The bar was filling up, and forty percent of the patrons were women of all shapes, sizes and ages. Almeida kept up a steady commentary, specifically describing the sexual practices and positions he’d like to enjoy with each of the women. After several moments, Thomas elbowed him. “Give it a rest.”

  Larsen, more than the others, generally was amused by Almeida. “He can’t give it a rest, Quentin. He’s a horny little devil.”

  “Yeah, well, somebody please throw a bucket of cold water on him.”

  After a few minutes, a waitress walked up to the booth. She was in her mid-forties and about thirty pounds overweight, most of it in her thighs and butt. That didn’t stop her from wearing very tight, very short denim cutoffs. She wore a bright pink sleeveless knit top that was cut low over her ample breasts. Letters on the front said “Tit For Tat”. On the back of the top it said “What’s Tat?”

  “Hey, Beautiful, where you been all my life?” Almeida said as he eyed her breasts.

  “Waitin’ for you, Sugah.” She had a western Carolina drawl. “What can I get for you big, strong men?”

  Everyone ordered beer of one sort or another. Even Larsen and Thomas, ordinarily non-drinkers, joined in. Almeida also ordered a shot of tequila. As the waitress took their orders, he slowly slid his hand up the back of her thigh from her knee to the bottom of her cutoffs. She quickly stepped away from him. “Sugah, y’all want that arm tore off and shoved up yore ass, just keep it up.” She glanced at one of the bouncers who was watching her.

  “Hell, Baby, it’s always up,” Almeida said and flashed his best effort at a killer smile.

  Thomas elbowed him again. Harder.

  The warning seemed to be lost on Almeida. “Shit, if you pussies just wanna sit around and cry in your beer, that’s your problem. But tonight, Rafe Almeida’s gettin’ laid.”

  Stensen said, “Does that mean you’re gonna’ go into the men’s room and whack off?”

  “Keep it up and I’ll kick your ass, Stensen!”

  Stensen smiled a cruel smile and said, “Whenever you’re ready.” The red glow deep in the center of his eyes began to grow.

  Whelan leaned across the corner of the table and grabbed Almeida’s arm. “If any ass gets kicked tonight, it’s going to be yours, Rafe. I’ll drag you out of here and beat you half to death. How many fuckin’ times do you have to be told to get your shit together and keep it that way.”

  Almeida tried to pull his arm away, but couldn’t break Whelan’s grip. “Fuck you,” he said. “Who says you can kick my ass, Whelan?”

  Larsen leaned forward and smiled his good smile. “I do, for one.”

  “So do I,” said Thomas.

  “I think we should draw straws to see who gets to fuck him up,” Stensen said.

  Whelan looked at him. “Enough, Nick. Don’t add fuel to the fire. We’re just going to have a couple of cold ones and leave.” He released Almeida’s arm and said to him, “Any problems with the Norms could jeopardize everything. Stay cool.”

  The waitress returned with a tray of drinks. Almeida grabbed the shot of tequila off her tray and tossed it back. “Gimme another one, you little hottie. In fact, bring me a couple of ‘em. I’m thirsty tonight. And feelin’ lucky, too.” He rubbed his crotch. The waitress shook her head in disgust and left to wait on another group a few tables away.

  A couple of older men, probably in their seventies and clearly overdressed for a country bar, had come in with two very young and attractive women. Barely more than teenagers, they wore almost identical strapless, tightly fitted sheaths of shimmery Dupioni silk that stopped just below the panty line. One wore bright red, the other cobalt blue. They took a table across the room. Whelan and the others assumed it was a case of older men having paid for an evening’s fantasy.

  When the music switched to country rock, the girls jumped up and all but dragged their older companions onto the dance floor. The old guys were game, but it wasn’t even close. The two women knew that every man in the place had eyes on them. They were perpetual motion. Spinning, shimmying, gyrating, all in perfect time to the music. The sensuality was so strong it almost dripped from them. As they shook and whirled, their breasts all but broke loose from the confines of their sheaths. Their hemlines edged up higher and higher.

  Almeida couldn’t stand it. He jumped up and threaded his way through the tables to the dance floor. Whelan and the others watched him carefully. His attempt to cut in on one of the couples failed, but in the process it seemed to irritate one of the older men. His date for the evening stepped between the two men and, placing both hands on Almeida’s chest pushed him slowly off the dance floor. Whelan could almost read her lips; something along the lines of “We’re not available tonight. You’ll have to find someone else.”

  Almeida shrugged and walked over to the bar. In just moments, he had struck up an animated conversation with two unescorted women who had come in a few minutes earlier. Whelan and the others, except for Stensen, kept their eyes on him. Stensen nursed his beer and studied the ever-growing crowd—the hungry lion surveying the Serengeti. Slowly, the red dots in the center of his eyes brightened and grew larger.

  Next to Whelan, Larsen’s back stiffened suddenly and he leaned back in his seat, turning his head slightly as listening to something coming from behind him. It wasn’t lost on the others. Whelan leaned toward him and strained to hear. As his brain filtered out the loud music and the din of the crowd, he could distinguish voices coming from the booth immediately behind Larsen and Stensen. Mostly, it was a man’s voice, snarling threats at someone. “You stupid fuckin’ bitch. How many times I gotta beat shit outta’ yore sorry ass before you start to git it?”

  Whelan heard the voice of a young girl responding. “I’m sorry, Ricky. I…didn’t…mean…no harm by it. But…they’re my family. I know you hate my daddy ‘cause he don’t think yore good enough for me…but I…miss ‘em and needed to hear my momma’s voice. Please…don’t hurt me again.” Her voice was filled with fear as she stumbled through the words. She sounded as if she would sob at any moment. In some ways, it reminded Whelan of an incident in Ireland a long time ago, an incident that led him to meet the love of his life. For an instant, he felt that familiar tightening in his chest at the thought of Caitlin.

  “Oh, I’ll hurt you again, Lorene, you ever talk to that bunch of pig fuckers you call family,” Ricky said. “I got a good mind to bounce yore stupid fuckin’ head offa’ that wall behind you.”

  The girl gasped as if in pain and started crying. “Please, Ricky, don’t do that, it hurts so bad. I won’t ever talk to them again, I promise.”

  Larsen had heard enough and spun out of his seat as if he had been ejected from a cockpit. He stood in front of Ricky, who was still facing the girl seated beside him with his left hand clamped around her upper right arm. She was in pain. Her free hand was digging at Ricky’s fingers, trying to pry his grip lose. Her eyes were squeezed shut in agony and tears streamed down her face.

  “Let go of her and try slapping my head against the
wall,” Larsen said. His voice was hard and measured.

  Ricky was young, mid-twenties, and stocky like he had spent time in the weight room. He was a little less than six feet tall and about two hundred pounds.

  Ricky turned slowly toward Larsen. “Well looky here. Some dumb fucker wants to get his ass k….” He stopped short as he focused on the pure physicality of Larsen: massive chest, shoulders and arms, the frighteningly sinister face on a clean-shaven skull, a skull that rested directly on those powerful shoulders without wasting space for a neck.

  “Wha…? Who the hell are you?” Ricky said.

  The younger man did have a neck, and Larsen’s left hand shot out and grabbed it in a vise-like grip. He yanked Ricky out of the booth and held him four inches off the ground with one arm. From the lack of exertion he exhibited, Larsen could have been holding a dishtowel. The bar suddenly was quiet.

  Whelan said, “Bouncers,” and the others slid smoothly and quickly out of their seats. Together with Whelan, they formed a semicircle with their backs to Larsen and Ricky. Kirkland reached behind his back and closed a hand on one of the nunchaku.

  The four bouncers all were large men. They looked like they could have been former college linemen. Three were in their twenties, but the lead bouncer was at least ten years older and looked like he had been plying this trade for a long time. He wore a short-sleeve denim shirt that was unbuttoned to his waist. The name “Fred” was stitched over a breast pocket. As they quickly closed in on the scene, Fred said, “We don’t tolerate no trouble in here, boys. You got issues, take ‘em outside.” He motioned toward the door with his head.

  “We don’t have issues,” Whelan said as he stared down the bouncer. “You do. Little Ricky here was abusing this girl. From a legal perspective, if she was to suffer an injury, that could be a problem for the owners and operators of this bar, including you.”

  Fred looked uncertain. He didn’t like being told what to do by anyone who wasn’t paying him for his services. He liked the looks of these five strangers even less, especially the one with no neck. He had been around strong men all his life, but he never had seen anyone hold nearly two hundred pounds straight out with one arm. Especially when the effort seemed no more taxing to Larsen than holding an ice cream cone. He also was aware there was a sixth man dancing with two women he had just picked up at the bar. Fred had been in the muscle business for many years and had brawled countless times. He had beaten up more men than he could remember, and he had faith in the toughness of his three young colleagues. But something about these six men said “Not this time”.

  The other three bouncers shifted uneasily from foot to foot and glanced at each other then back to Fred. Finally, he said, “I see yore point. I don’t like nobody beatin’ on women in my bar.” He turned to the other bouncers and said, “Throw this piece of trash outta here and make shore he don’t come back. Take the shotgun with you. Watch ‘em, if he tries to get a weapon outta his car, shoot ‘em.”

  Larsen released his grip on Ricky’s neck and the young man collapsed into the booth gasping for air. He wasn’t there long. Two of the bouncers swept him up and literally dragged him to the door. The third bouncer followed along carrying a Mossberg 500 Tactical Cruiser, a six shot, 12 gauge shotgun with a pistol grip and an eighteen and a half inch barrel. Despite a disapproving look from Larsen, Lorene bolted out of the booth and ran after Ricky. He shook his head in disappointment and said, “Isn’t that what the shrinks used to call co-dependency twenty years ago?”

  Fred looked at Whelan and Larsen and said, “We don’t allow no vigilante justice in here. From now on leave the housekeepin’ to us. If there’s any more trouble, I’ll have to ask you boys to leave. If you don’t, I won’t hesitate to call the sheriff. Unnerstand?”

  Whelan nodded. As Fred headed back toward the bar area, they all sat down, except Stensen. “I’m going to take a leak,” he said and walked toward the sign that said “Restrooms”.

  “What now?” Whelan said.

  “Maybe the man really does have to take a leak,” Thomas said. “We are drinking beer.”

  “Where’s Lover Boy now?” Kirkland said.

  Larsen nodded toward the bar. Almeida and the two women had left the dance floor and were sitting at the bar again, laughing and drinking. After a few minutes, one of them stood up and took Almeida’s hand. Instead of returning to the dance floor, they picked their way through the tables and went out the front door. Twenty minutes later they came back inside. The woman’s hair was tousled and she was trying to smooth out her short, denim skirt. Almeida had a big, sleepy, satisfied grin on his face. He deposited the first woman back at the bar, took the other one’s hand and led her outside.

  “Shit, the man’s a satyr,” Thomas said.

  “Good to know some things never change,” said Kirkland.

  When they returned, it was like a rerun of the first episode except Almeida’s grin was a little wider and a little sleepier. This time, however, the bar scene had changed. Two drug store cowboys wearing boots, jeans with big belt buckles, and western style shirts had joined the first woman while Almeida and the other woman were outside. From the way the first woman had greeted the men, one in particular, Whelan and the others knew these were their dates. When Almeida returned with the second woman and she saw the two men, she stopped laughing and suddenly seemed nervous.

  The first woman introduced the men to Almeida, but no one offered a hand. Her friend seemed upset and kept touching her face. Her movements were stiff and she didn’t seem to want to face the two men. One of them, obviously quite angry, grabbed her arm and seemed to be demanding something, an explanation perhaps. The woman looked down and to the right as if struggling to think of what to say.

  Suddenly the man spun around and threw a punch at Almeida, who partially blocked it with his shoulder. Before he could throw another one, Almeida picked the man up and threw him over the bar. The other man grabbed Almeida’s shoulder and tried to spin him around, his fist drawn back. Almeida turned in the opposite direction and drove his right fist into the man’s stomach, doubling him over, then brought his left fist over the top of the man’s shoulder and into the side of his head. He went down and stayed there.

  The first bouncer on the scene grabbed Almeida from behind in a bear hug. Almeida snapped his head back, smashing it into the man’s nose, then simply burst loose from the restraint, turned and kicked him in the knee. The bouncer went down, scattering a couple of bar stools on the way. Almeida charged the second bouncer and picked up the three hundred pound man with ease, slamming the small of his back into the top edge of the bar where it formed an L-shape.

  At that point, Fred arrived. He swung a sap in a short arc into the back of Almeida’s head. Stunned and wobbly-kneed, Almeida stayed on his feet. Fred sapped him again. After a third blow, Almeida slid into unconsciousness and sagged to the floor. Whelan and the others had closed the gap from their booth just as Almeida hit the floor. The crowd noise had ceased, although the music continued to blare. Everyone just stood and eyed each other for a few moments. Fred slapped the sap against the palm of his left hand, slowly. The fourth bouncer stood a few feet away with the pistol grip Mossberg aimed at Larsen’s chest. They always point the weapons at a man with no neck, Whelan thought. Hell, so would I.

  “Look, I done tole you boys there better not be no more trouble. Now, I want you to get on outta here. If you don’t, I expect the sheriff will be comin’ by any minute.”

  Whelan nodded. He looked at Larsen then at Almeida’s inert form. Larsen understood. He scooped Almeida up with one hand and laid him over a shoulder. It didn’t appear that he used any more effort than he would have with an infant. Whelan motioned toward the door with his head. The men filed out after him and headed for their car.

  When they got there, Stensen was sitting on the hood. He looked at Almeida slung over Larsen’s shoulder and said, “Why am I not surprised.”

  “I thought you were taking a leak,” Whelan said.<
br />
  “I needed some fresh air.”

  “This have something to do with Ricky?”

  “Ricky who?” Stensen said.

  “The hell with Ricky,” Thomas said. “Tell me you didn’t harm the girl, what’s her name…Lorene?”

  “Shame on you, brother. I never harm women,” Stensen said. The red glow in his pupils had shrunk to pinpoints.

  48 The Cavern

  Levell was sitting at the battered kitchen table in the Cavern. Mr. Rhee had helped him move from the wheelchair to a simple wooden chair and then left the room. There was a cup of coffee in front of him that had long grown cold. The expression on his face was just the opposite. He was in a furious mood. He had summoned Whelan and, when he appeared at the kitchen doorway, Levell pointed to a chair across the table and said, “Sit.”

  Whelan remained in the doorway. “You wanted to see me?”

  “See you?” Levell said in a growl. “I’d like to wring your damn neck!”

  Whelan walked to the table and sat. “This is about last night.”

  “Jesus H. Christ! How could you let shit like that happen when we’re this close to the mission? We’ve come too far, invested too much, taken too many risks to blow it all in some redneck shithole. You of all people…the natural leader, the alpha wolf…you couldn’t have prevented that from happening?”