by Vicki Delany
No doubt Nicole could find some guy to buy her a couple of drinks, maybe even dinner.
She pulled a dress out of the closet. It was sleek and elegant, expensive, sexy as hell. Time to rock this miserable town.
The bar at the Hudson House Hotel, where she’d gone with Moonlight the other night, would be the best bet.
It seemed like a good place to ply her trade, so to speak. Despite her earlier conversation with Joey, she was beginning to have her doubts that this was a good idea. At home, they picked their clients carefully and pulled them slowly into their web. The escort service front allowed them to filter out anyone who might be single and looking for an easy date or who, worst of all, didn’t have money. Here she’d be as likely to pick up a travelling salesman who considered a casual screw to be a perk of the job as a respectable businessman desperate to avoid scandal.
Nicky Nowak did not take pleasure in sex. She’d never once had an experience she’d genuinely enjoyed. When she left home at sixteen for the streets of Vancouver, she’d serviced one smelly old man after another. Fumbling at his zipper, farting and breathing beer fumes all over her. Accompanied by the occasional punch or slap and more often than not a stream of insults.
She hadn’t spent long on the streets before realizing the life wasn’t for her. Maybe some of her parent’s churchy ways had had an influence on her after all, and she’d avoided the hard drugs pimps used to control their women.
She got caught in a sudden, unexpected rainstorm one day, and sought refuge in a shelter for street kids.
They found her a cheap apartment and a job at a fast food restaurant. It didn’t pay much, but at least no one tried to beat her up. She worked long hours, saved enough money to pay for half-decent clothes and hair and makeup, and started looking good again. Soon as she turned nineteen, she quit tossing burgers, changed her name, and got a job as a stripper in a better-quality “gentlemen’s club.” “Private clients” brought in more money. She started using a bit of cocaine. Then a bit more, until it was costing more than she’d intended.
Five years ago Joey Stewart came into the club. He sat in the back, nursing a beer, watching her dance, every night for two weeks. Then he approached her during her break. She’d already decided he wasn’t worth bothering with. He dressed poorly and was badly groomed; his parents obviously never spent much on dental work or acne medication.
He didn’t want her private services, or even to try to “save her” as some of them claimed was their intention.
Joey presented her with a business offer.
He knew of a man, a prominent politician, who had a thing for tiny white women and visited prostitutes regularly. He wasn’t into children, and Nicole didn’t have a child-like body in any case, but with the right camera angles they should be able to get some pictures that looked like he was having sex with an underage girl.
Joey offered her five thousand dollars.
She dressed in hooker clothes and stood on the street corner. She hadn’t been there for more than five minutes before the man she’d been told to look for drove up. She took him to her room—which Joey had provided.
At first she felt a bit sorry for the politician, but that ended when he chomped down on her nipple and wouldn’t let go. When it was over, he slapped fifty bucks on the dresser and left without saying thank you or good-bye.
A week later she saw his picture on the front page of the paper. He’d resigned in order to devote more time to his family. She never heard of him again.
Only later did Joey tell her it was never about blackmail. Someone wanted the politician’s head on a platter and hired Joey to help him get it.
Joey suggested they try it again. She told him she didn’t want a set fee; she wanted half the profits.
Over the last five years they’d made a lot of money. She rented an apartment in an expensive building overlooking False Creek, had great clothes, jewelry, a new car. She ate in good restaurants and vacationed in the Caribbean. She still liked her coke, but was fortunate enough to be able to keep the habit under control.
She’d never thought about the future, and saved not a cent of her money. No one knew better than Nicky Nowak there was no point in making plans for your life.
After the talk in the park yesterday, she wondered if it was time to break off with Joey. For the first time he’d threatened her. It had frightened her. Badly.
What else could she do? Her résumé wouldn’t exactly get her another job that would give her the standard of living to which she was accustomed.
She pushed the thoughts aside and went into the bar. She decided not to set out to deliberately pick up a sucker, but instead to let the evening fall where it may.
She made it a point of pride never to buy her own drinks or dinner. She made an exception the other night for Moonlight, who, even if Nicky had wanted her to, probably couldn’t afford much on a cop’s salary.
Imagine, Moonlight Legolas Smith, hippie child of hippie parents, a cop.
The room was packed and Nicole made her way through the crowd to the bar. Joey sat in a wingback chair in a dark corner, hunched over a bottle of beer. They did not acknowledge one another.
Men shifted as she approached and a stool suddenly became free. She slid onto it. A group of men surrounded her. She gave them each a smile. There were four of them, reasonably young, fit-looking, clean clothes, short hair, no beards.
She recognized one and her smile widened. “Hello,” she said. “Remember me? I’m Nicky.”
He shifted in his size twelve boots. “Of course, I remember you.”
Of course.
“Buy a girl a drink?” she said, touching the tip of her tongue to the side of her lip and shifting her rump on the stool.
“What you having?” Adam Tocek asked.
***
The world would be a better place, Molly Smith thought sometimes, without alcohol. Then again, she’d probably be out of a job.
She frowned at the young man and placed her hands on her hips and watched him pour the contents of a can of beer into the gutter. He had the grace to look embarrassed at being caught, not necessarily drinking on the street, so she told him she’d let him go if he got rid of it.
He tossed the empty can into the street.
“Pick that up and put it in the garbage,” she said.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he mumbled, scrambling after it.
“Don’t let me catch you again.”
“You won’t.” He deposited the can in a trash container and waited patiently for the light to change before crossing the street.
She walked on.
She’d visit every bar in town, one after the other, and then start all over again. Letting the bouncers know she was around, checking out potential trouble spots, looking for drugs being sold or consumed, letting dispatch know the number of people out.
Boring, routine. Usually. Initially she’d been pleased with herself for handling the man who’d knocked her down the other night. It was only later, in the women’s washroom back in the station, when her hands began to shake and her knees felt weak and she had to hold onto the sink to keep herself from falling. She’d had a very close call.
The next morning she called Dawn Solway and arranged to get together to train on the weekend.
The Potato Famine featured a heavy metal band tonight and motorcycles were beginning to gather in the parking lot. Dave Evans was in the car and they’d been told to concentrate their attention there at closing time.
It was still early, but Smith decided to pop into the Famine and let the nervous new bouncer know they’d be close by. The night air was soft and warm and a large bright moon hung in the sky to the east.
She turned the corner into Tenth Street, intending to walk through the bar at the Hudson House on her way to the Potato Famine. Adam’s truck was
parked near the hotel entrance. He’d told her he was getting together tonight with some of the guys to buy a round for Alan Dobson, a Mountie who’d been promoted and transferred to Ottawa.
No doubt, she thought with a smile, a round would turn into several.
The side door leading to the bar opened in a burst of yellow light and laughter. Two people came out. She was tiny and curvy and he was large and solid. Even in high heels the woman barely reached the center of the man’s chest. She laughed and her heel caught on something and she tripped. His arm shot out to grab her. She took it to steady herself and did not let go.
Smith stopped in her tracks. The couple didn’t see her standing in the deep shadow of a shop doorway.
The man clicked his key and the locks sprang open. They separated to get into the truck. The woman’s bare legs flashed as she stretched to reach the seat and she laughed again. The engine turned over and the truck drove away.
Molly Smith stepped out of the doorway. Her heart pounded and tears rushed into her eyes.
Ryan, the bartender, came outside pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He bent to light one and started when he saw the dark, silent shape in front of him.
“What the… Oh, it’s you, Molly. Scared me there.”
“Everything okay inside?” she asked. Her voice broke and she coughed as though to clear her throat.
“Nice and peaceful. Helps having a bunch of Mounties leaning up against the bar. Adam just left. You must have missed him. The other guys are still inside though.”
“Call us if you need anything.” She ducked her head down so the brim of her hat hid her face and walked past him.
Hopefully the bikers would be making trouble at the Potato Famine and she could smash heads in. It was either that or go home and cry.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The call from the bartender at the Potato Famine came shortly before two.
I didn’t really want to bash heads in, Smith thought as she broke into a jog.
She’d been having a glass of water while chatting to Mike, the bouncer at the Bishop and Nun, where the crowd was thin and everyone behaving themselves. She downed her water, shouted bye to Mike over her shoulder, and ran out the back door. In the alley, the light was poor and a jumble of wooden poles and thick wires stretched overhead. The canopy of a dead jungle. At the last second she saw a pile of dog dirt, a big pile, lying in her path and jumped to one side with a muttered curse.
Ingrid, the night dispatcher, was calling for Dave Evans, in the car, to go to the Potato Famine. He replied that he was on his way, but would be several minutes.
Smith crossed the street at a trot. Away from the bars, the streets were empty. Lights shone from a scattering of homes up the mountainside and from the thin line of civilization on the far side of the river.
She rounded the corner and the Potato Famine came in sight. It was a cheap bar, serving cheap drinks and food with plenty of grease, and attracted those whose idea of a night out was as much looking for a fight as talking to friends.
A crowd had gathered in front. Flashing blue and red lights from beer advertisements in the windows reflected off bald heads, long beards, leather jackets, short tight skirts, and a drugstore’s supply of make-up.
“Kill the faggot,” a man shouted.
Smith glanced up the street, hoping to see the patrol car heading toward her.
“Police,” she shouted. “Break it up.” She radioed to say she’d arrived and needed backup. Fast.
Onlookers shifted aside and she could see the center of attention: four men. Two were grappling with each other, pulling clothes, wild swings, enraged eyes. One man was on the ground, curled into a ball, his arms protecting his head and his legs curled up to defend his groin. A man stood over him, big, ugly, bulging muscles and out of control rage. Steroids, she thought. He pulled his leg back to plant it in the man’s ribs.
“Police,” Smith shouted again. Her heart pounded. She was, under the blue uniform, equipment belt, gun, just a woman. She made a conscious effort to calm her breathing, and reminded herself that she was not just a woman. She was the law, and she was trained to do this.
The big man hesitated. He looked over his shoulder and saw the crowd parting as the policewoman came forward.
“Don’t do it,” she said. He stepped back and lifted his hands in surrender. The other man rolled onto his back with a groan.
The two men on their feet continued to circle each other. The bigger one, heavily muscled with a shaved head and a tattooed snake curled around his right bicep, feigned a jab. His opponent was smaller, lean and fit, with dyed blond hair well cut, expensive jeans and leather boots. His eyes flicked toward Smith, but he kept his hands up and his gaze focused. He acted like a trained fighter whereas the bigger one looked like he got by on muscle and aggression.
Smith dared to toss a glance into the crowd, looking for someone out to make trouble. A sea of faces watched her. Some frightened, some concerned, most amused.
The big man was closest to her, and she spoke to him, careful to keep herself out of striking range. “Step back, sir. This fight is over.” Her hand rested on the pepper spray on her belt.
“Come on, lady, let him give the faggots what they deserve,” a not-at-all-helpful citizen advised.
“Fuckin’ cops,” the big man said. He kept his eyes focused on his opponent, but his shoulders relaxed, his fingers uncurled and he stepped back. “We’re just havin’ us some fun.”
“Great fun.” She looked at the other guy. “Back off,” she ordered. Warily, he did so. He chanced a look to one side, at the man on the ground.
“Help your friend up,” Smith said.
The man on the ground accepted the offered hand and was pulled to his feet. He was small and finely boned, with long thin fingers and neat nails. His beige pants were streaked with dirt, but he didn’t seem to be harmed. “Thanks,” he said to Smith.
Excitement over, onlookers began drifting back into the bar. The man who’d been shouting abuse stood beneath a streetlamp, watching. She couldn’t see his face: he wore a ball cap and the strong light threw his features into shadow. His hands were resting on his hips, and he had his weight balanced casually on one leg. She sensed he wasn’t any sort of a threat, but all it took was one loose word, some inadvertent gesture, to turn an observing crowd into a fighting swarm.
Where the hell was Evans?
“Is this over?” she asked the big man.
“Yeah.” He spat into the gutter. “It’s over.”
She looked at the two men. The one who’d been down dusted himself off. His friend’s eyes were on her. “Is this over?” she repeated.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good,” she said. No one was hurt, no one seemed inclined to want to take matters further. Only a couple of people were still watching hoping, no doubt, for further excitement.
“Get out of here then. All of you. Go home. I don’t want you going back inside.”
“That’s a violation of our rights,” the blond one said. “We can visit a public place if we so desire.”
“Geeze, Buddy. I’ve just saved your ass, don’t give me any lip. If you want to go down to the police station and argue about your rights to a judge tomorrow morning that can be arranged.”
“I doubt you saved any ass, ma’am,” he said, very politely. “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”
He was young, in his early twenties. Well dressed, carefully groomed. She guessed he was a law student. Spare us. “Your friend there didn’t seem all that capable when I arrived.”
“Him? Never seen him before in my life.” He looked at his opponent. “No hard feelings, eh? I’m off, but if I run into you again I’ll buy you a beer.”
“Deal.”
Men.
She reac
hed for the radio at her shoulder. Ready to tell dispatch it was all clear. No need for Evans after all.
She had taken her awareness away from the fourth man. The one ready to put the boot to a person lying defenseless on the ground.
Big mistake.
He was behind her, slightly off to the left. The sudden movement of his arm, swinging around his back, caught her attention. Realizing he’d come close to her, she began to turn.
He pulled a knife out of the waistband of his pants. With an audible click the blade sprang free. It wasn’t a big knife, almost swallowed by the man’s fleshy fist, but big enough. Sharp enough.
“Look out,” someone shouted. “He’s got a knife.” Everyone scrambled to get out of the way.
She pivoted on her heels, came around to face him. He charged, blade held high. Light from the lamp on the far side of the street glistened on steel. She stepped to one side, out of his path. Her right hand struck his arm, shoving him aside. He stumbled and she stepped back, moving her body out of his reach. Without conscious thought, she had her Glock in her hand and she shouted, “Drop it, now.”
At last she heard the sound of a siren, coming toward them, getting closer.
The man stared at her. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. He was on something. Cursing herself for failing to notice, she held her arms steady, the weapon clenched in both hands. “I said drop it.”
He looked at the knife. He looked at Molly Smith. She knew she could stand here all day, waiting. If he came toward her, or moved toward the onlookers, she’d have no compunction about shooting him. She kept her breath steady and controlled.
Blue and red lights washed the street. The police car came to a stop half on the sidewalk. Evans was out, moving, talking into his radio. He saw Smith, holding her weapon, the man with the knife facing her, the shifting nervous crowd of spectators. He pulled his own firearm, and shouted, “Police. Drop the knife.” Far in the distance came the sound of another siren.
