by Scott Duff
We entered into a fray of pulsing music, glittering lights, and writhing bodies. To be fair, the writhing bodies were about five feet lower on the dance floor, the lights were fifteen feet up in the ceiling, and there was a railing before the steps down. And there were reflective surfaces everywhere. The floor itself flashed with the pulse and tone of the music. It verged on hypnotic. Toss in the alcohol and the half a dozen other chemical stimulants and hallucinogens and bacchanalia is pretty much the only word that made sense here.
The hallway opened up onto a railing that overlooked the dance floor. To the right, tall tables lined the side and ran for several rows then gave way to a few rows of pool tables. Every bit of it was packed with men. Men of various ages, sizes, physical conditions. Much more varied in states of dress than the hallway, too. Thankfully. There apparently was a limit to what my modesty could take.
Peter dragged me off to the left, past a massive U-shaped bar with three bartenders and two helpers. None of the five stopped for a second, constantly moving across their side of the bar, almost throwing drinks and beers and taking cash. I wanted to sit at the bar and watch for a while, but Peter kept dragging me through a set of double swinging doors just past the bar. We turned right immediately in the darkened hallway, barely avoiding one of the helpers coming in behind us with a full trashcan on wheels. He pushed it down a short hall straight back and grabbed an empty one from the left, disappearing out into the bar again.
I had to take a few quick steps to catch up to Peter and wondered how long the bar personnel kept the pace they did. The job’s life expectancy couldn’t have been that long. We rounded the corner to an open elevator, which had only one direction to go: up. Peter faced the back so I did too. The music from the bar still permeated the metal can we rode in, but was stifled considerably, more so as we rose what couldn’t have been more than three flights. The rear of the elevator opened to the brighter but still subdued lighting of what several interior design shows called a power office. For the most part, it flowed like the attorneys’ offices in New York did, big picture window overlooking the domain, a couple of grouping places in the room but always a place of power, a “throne.” It was comfortable in a completely sterile way. The view of the parking garage a block away and the warehouses lining the rest of the vista lent a decidedly urban feel to the room.
Peter moved to a phone that sat on a table nearby, punched a few buttons, then called, “Dillon, I’m here.” A moment later a singsong voice replied, “Be right in, Petey darling.” Peter looked at me and rolled his eyes, as if I couldn’t see the frustration and amusement in his aura already.
“So, how’d’ya like your first look at a high-energy dance bar?” Peter asked plopping down on a couch near the picture window.
“Well, the entrance confused me but the clothing made sense once I saw the dance floor and bar and all,” I answered, leaning over the back of the same couch. “You walked in like you owned the place. You and Dillon were an item for how long, then? More than friends?”
“We tried to be, for about a year, I guess,” he said, with a touch of sorrow in his voice. “Or rather I tried to be. Maybe he did, too, in his own way, but that’s water under the bridge.”
“Will we met your friends here or out in the bar?”
“Out there,” he said, brightening up at the prospect. “They don’t know I’m even here, but Dillon will narc on me if I don’t at least make an appearance.”
“Besides, you want to dance, don’t you?” I asked, smirking down at him as I leaned over the back of the couch. I’d seen the longing look he’d given the dance floor as we passed through.
He threw his head back and laughed, looking up at me.
“He does like to shake his ass,” a new voice offered from behind us. I turned for my first sight of Dillon. His voice was a light baritone and seemed to match his looks. He had dirty blonde hair, cropped short on the sides with razor precision and it fell across his forehead at a sharp angle, giving his round face less of a pudgy appearance and highlighted his penetrating blue eyes. At an inch or two under six feet tall, he wasn’t an imposing man but his arms showed the benefits of gym membership. The short-sleeved shirt he wore gripped his biceps effectively and the light tan slacks showed off his muscled thighs equally well. There was a faint resemblance to Ethan.
“Hello, Dillon,” said Peter standing up from the couch and moving around to my side. “How’s tricks?” There was acid dripping off those last words, but it didn’t look like he meant it as badly as it sounded to me.
“Now Peter, let’s play nice,” Dillon admonished, arching his left eyebrow high. “We agreed.” He set his eyes on me and started across the room, smiling. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“Sure,” Peter answered chuckling, letting go of the coldness he was showing. It wasn’t real anyway. He’d gotten over Dillon months ago. “Seth, Dillon Monroe, owner of this establishment and connected to several members of the more unseemly side of the world. You know, racketeering, illegal drugs, prostitution, smuggling, and all around disreputable character.”
“Oh, come now,” objected Dillon as he held out his hand to me.
“Dillon, this is Seth McClure,” Peter continued, ignoring him. “He is my friend and business partner.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Monroe,” I said, cutting my eyes back at Peter quickly and shaking his hand.
“Dillon, please, and the pleasure is mine,” he said smoothly, holding the handshake a bit too long and squeezing in such a way that I actually felt mildly molested without knowing exactly why. “Hmm, bit young for you, Petey, or have you decided you like breaking them in now?”
I think that comment deserved the small electrical jolt I gave him as I pulled my hand back. Just fifteen or twenty volts, nothing major. It gave off a nice little glow as it arced off of me and he jerked his hand back quickly, shaking his fingers.
“Sorry ‘bout that. Must be a static discharge,” I mumbled politely, still smiling.
“Yes, well,” he said, rubbing his molesting hand gently. He recovered quickly. “And while you’re casting dispersions on my character, why exactly are you coming to me for information on gunrunners? Certainly not your normal lines of interest from what I recall.”
“I didn’t come to you, Dillon,” Peter said coolly. “You came to one of my sources and demanded to speak with me. Her cut, by the way, is still coming out of your side.”
“I only demanded it because you won’t take my calls,” Dillon said defensively. “It’s been over a year and nobody’s heard anything from you. It’s like you disappeared from the face of the earth.”
Peter laughed at him. “Stop with the lost love routine, Dillon. I won’t buy it and if Seth decided to look into it, he could find out far more than you’d want him to know without any input from me. He’s very good that way.”
“I bet he is,” Dillon said, switching his attention back to me. His attitude was coy as he went fishing for information. “The opposite is not true, apparently.” He turned to move back down the hall the way he came, motioning for us to follow. The hallway was short with floor to ceiling panels of glass down the length on both sides. On the right side was his office with a large glass-topped desk with sleek chromed chairs. Sixteen monitors lined one wall, flipping scenes constantly between different positions in the bar below us. Most of them we hadn’t seen yet—some of them I didn’t want to see since I couldn’t figure out what exactly was going on in the murkiness. Dillon sat behind the desk and tapped on a clear inset keyboard, barely visible while standing on this side.
I looked over my shoulder to see Peter throw out a sharp spike of electromagnetic energy in a broad band through the very large screen television monitor on the wall in the other room. Whatever it was had irritated him immensely, because the duration of the projection should have penetrated just about everything on the other side of the wall. I doubted any circuitry remained intact. Peter had murdered some machinery back there. Di
llon regained my attention as Peter turned to us with angelic grace.
“I was able to find precious little about young Mr. McClure in the short time I had since finding out about your new association and even less about your other associates, Ehran and Ethan McClure. I assume they are your brothers, Seth?”
“Yes,” I answered. I didn’t bother to correct him on Ethan’s name, though, or elaborate on those relationships.
“I was able to find out more about your parents than any of their offspring,” he said. “Why might that be?”
“We are a private family,” I said simply. “Why would we broadcast our lives to the world? Why would anyone for that matter?”
“Yet your parents were involved with a number of large charitable organizations; were on the boards, both separately and together, of small and medium-sized corporations; and still there is little biographical information available for either of them. Plenty on her father, though, and not so good, there.” As he talked and typed, a large monitor eased silently out from a cabinet opposite the television monitors and mirrored the information on Dillon’s monitor at the desk. I scanned through the information but I wasn’t planning to elucidate further on or correct anything I saw. I just didn’t think it was any of his business. Well, except for one small tidbit.
“You don’t have my grandfather’s death noted there. He passed away, what, eleven days ago, Peter?” I asked.
“Sounds about right,” he answered, sitting down on the edge of the desk. “All those days seemed to run together with me almost dying in that fight. Dillon, kill the monitors into the back rooms. We don’t want to see the porn channels.”
Dillon’s head snapped up at Peter, shocked. “What do you mean you almost died in that fight? What fight?” He leaned back in his chair, calming himself. He still cared for Peter at some level and that bothered him. I couldn’t tell why that was true but it was. “Who am I kidding. You wouldn’t be in a fight. You love everybody.”
“The porn channels, Dillon. Do something about them or I will,” Peter said dryly.
He reached up and tapped a few keys and a third of the monitors went black. “Satisfied?” he said with a smirk. Peter nodded without looking. Dillon asked me, “So how did Uriah St. Croix supposedly die?”
“I pierced his heart,” I said without emotion, “with a very sharp sword.”
Dillon just stared at me for a moment. Then he started to laugh, deeply and heartily. I went back to reading the information on my parents while he enjoyed himself. There were a few mistakes up there and I was actually curious to know if they were intentionally inserted by my parents or just mistakes. I’d have to research that question at some point.
“Oh come on!” he exclaimed. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Don’t really care,” I said, shrugging. His laughing slowed a little at that.
“Why would you kill your own grandfather?”
“He was trying to kill me at the time. I rather felt justified.”
“And I suppose that there weren’t any witnesses of this grisly family reunion.”
“Few thousand, I think,” I said, turning back to him. “Unfortunately, Peter had already been hurt and didn’t get to see that particular act of violence. I would say, though, that while I agree with you that Peter does pretty much ‘love everybody,’ I’ve seen him in no less than six fights in the last month and he hasn’t backed down from any of them yet. In fact, he only came out poorly in one and that one almost killed him. So I’d suggest you keep your assertions of cowardice to yourself. They are unwarranted.” Peter fluttered his eyes and smiled at Dillon, making him look his way. I don’t think that helped our credibility with him at all.
Again, he laughed and said, “Why should I…” He stopped abruptly when he saw the Night Sword a few inches from his nose.
“Believe me?” I asked, turning the Night around slowly to show the beauty of the blade. “This is the blade that did the deed. She and her sisters have been working hard lately. Probably more than they have in years, but they do seem to be enjoying themselves.”
“Seth, put that away,” Peter admonished mildly with a gleam in his eyes. “I apologize, Dillon, but you know how boys are with their toys.”
I sent Night home the second Dillon looked away.
“Where are you hiding that?” he asked. “How did you get past the metal detectors, anyway?”
Peter snorted and said, “You should see what else he’s hiding in his pants.”
“Peter!” I exclaimed, blushing. Oh, yeah, I was bright red. Peter just kept snickering.
“Gunrunners, Dillon. We’re paying you for information on gunrunners,” Peter said, still snickering at me. “Our history, we already know.”
“Yes,” Dillon said softly, gulping. He tapped a few keys, clearing away my family history and presenting a long column of numbers and three different associated currency figures.
“Sorry, Dillon, but we know about this one already,” Peter said, shaking his head. “It ends up in a Scottish account of a Brazilian coffee grower. Laundered quite effectively.”
“Yes, but did you get the names on the intermediate accounts?” he asked. “Quite a fascinating little romp through familiar territory.” Dillon pulled up a flowchart full of names and amounts in Euros. “These are the amounts retained in the accounts along with the names associated with them, once you wheedle through the red tape.”
“Dillon, isn’t that…” Peter started to say something as he turned to the grinning Dillon.
“Ye-ee-ess,” Dillon said.
“Mind filling me in?” I asked, glancing back and forth between the two of them.
“He is a prominent London solicitor and lobbyist,” said Peter. “Quite an influential man across England and a good part of Europe. His politics are fairly middle of the road or to the Left. Pro family, God, and country, so long as he’s the head of the family, he’s God, and he’s the king.”
“Sounds like Harris,” I offered cheerfully.
Peter grinned. “Who is Rasheed Owens?” he asked.
“A fight promoter, on the face of it,” said Dillon. “He owns several training facilities in England and Ireland and a few across Europe. Reputedly he has ties to Russian mafia as well as Turkish and, interestingly enough, African underworlds.”
“Underworlds?” I asked. Yep, I’m king of the one-word questions tonight.
“He means criminal-type elements, not Hades-type worlds,” Peter answered, grinning at me. I think he was more amused about how confused I was making Dillon than how confused I was actually getting.
“Outside of being on different continents, why would Africa make it more interesting?” I asked.
“Totally different mindsets,” Dillon said. “The Africans are more militaristic. Of course, I say that without knowing exactly to whom those ties lie, being rumors.”
“All right, Dillon,” said Peter, nodding his head. “This is worth it. I’ll pay for this. I must admit to being just as interested in how you came across this as why you thought I’d be interested in it.”
“Good fortune,” said Dillon smiling. He was going for disarming but Peter wasn’t having it. Peter just stared at him stoically. “Initially, I didn’t know it was you, okay? It’s been a tough year and I needed extra cash. I’ve been keeping my ears open for ways to earn a little money. Gedrun mentioned something about a Colonel Barkers looking for local talent and it snowballed from there.”
“Gedrun?” Peter said the name with disgust. “You’re associating with Gedrun again?”
Dillon spread his hands out to the sky and said, “This is the only business I have currently running in the black, Peter. Times are tough.”
“Get a new accountant, Dillon,” Peter said. “Tomorrow.” He pointed to the big screen on the wall. “How you can dredge through those numbers and not see how Max is stealing from you hand over fist is amazing to me.”
“I called him out on that six months ago,” he responded, sighing heavil
y. “I should have listened a year and a half ago, I know. That’s why I’m in this mess to start with, really. I’d strangle him personally if I could find him. Last I heard he was somewhere in Portugal with my money, shifting it to the Bahamas. I’ll find him eventually and steal my money back, if there’s any left.”
“Just follow the trail of D-cups, acne medicine, and the odor of burnt coffee,” said Peter. They looked at each other, shared an “Ewww” and a hearty laugh. While I’ve intellectually understood the phrase “third wheel,” I now had the emotional understanding to back that up. Not only did I feel like it, I felt like a flat third wheel twice the required size, but I still needed to pay attention.
Dillon handed Peter two cds containing the information he showed us and more supporting documents. Peter handed the discs to me and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. I sent the discs to the Pacthome with the rest of my purchases while Peter authorized the transfer of funds via his cell phone. He’d set it up ahead of time so that all he needed was the receiving account number. The transfer would take a couple of hours considering the amount and method, but I don’t think Dillon cared as long as the zeroes arrived.
I watched the bar monitors while Peter and Dillon exchanged the appropriate information. There was a pattern to the cycling which I picked up almost immediately without paying too much attention. I started following the cycle, subconsciously racing it to the dance floor before it started over at the door, just wasting time. The picture fuzzed out just a little at the start of one cycle on a slim man in a leather jacket and jeans, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Couldn’t see his face through the fuzz though. I followed him through the cycling camera shots to see the fuzziness come out of the “shaft” of the entrance to stop at the rail, just as we had.
