Kill Tone

by Lance Winkless

  Jack gives the bartender a nod as he passes him on the way out of the bar and receives a knowing wink and a nod back. He wonders if the woman, who has just bent over for him in a toilet cubicle, is a regular at the bar and her behaviour is known to the bar’s staff? The only words Jack has uttered to the woman were ‘thanks, that was great’, to the back of her head as he pulled out of her. He is suddenly relieved to have used a condom.

  Long shadows stretch across the street outside as the sun continues its unstoppable journey. Jack thinks he feels a slight chill in the air. Maybe the sun’s stranglehold on the city is finally breaking or maybe Jack is just cooling down after his exercise. He has just over half an hour until he is due to meet Daryl, and he decides to get some more exercise by taking a slow stroll to Molly’s Bar, over on the other side of the city centre.

  People-watching is an enjoyable pastime for Jack, and early evening is probably the best time to do it. At that time of the day, there is usually a wide variety of people out on the streets, living their lives. The workers who have finished work late and are starting their commute home or going to the nearest bar or gym. Couples and families who live in the city wander around, out for an evening walk. And then there are the groups of people, out at the start of a night out ‘on the town’. Men dressed in their best shirts, who have only just started drinking and so are loud but not drunk enough to cause trouble, yet. Then there are, of course, Jack’s favourite, the ladies, dressed to the nines as they start their nights out, many teetering along in their dangerously high footwear.

  He strolls along the streets, not rushing, but watching and listening to the bustle of the city that’s always there, even on a Wednesday.

  Jack has time to spare when he sees the sign for Molly’s Bar poking out from the buildings just ahead of him. The bright neon sign lit in Irish green to identify the bar's roots, or probably, more accurately its theme, is quite familiar to Jack. He has stumbled out of there on many occasions at all hours of the day and night, but those times have become much less frequent of late. At one time, he was on first-name terms with the majority of the staff. They were his adopted drinking buddies, and he still is pals with one or two of them, but the rest have moved on, as has Jack for the most part.

  He doesn’t hang around. Early or not, he goes straight in when his stroll comes to its conclusion. The bar has, as always, plenty of patrons spending their ill-gotten gains on the relatively cheap drinks the establishment is dispensing. Jack heads straight to the bar and sits on a stool to be served. The combination of his walk and the astounding rendezvous in the ladies’ after his meal has left him with a quite a thirst. Molly’s staff don’t hang around when it comes to taking your money, so he is served quickly and has taken the first sip of his pint of Guinness before the stool he is sitting on has warmed. Jack moves away from the bar as soon as he’s been given his change. Cheap drinks or not, he doesn’t want to be caught at the bar when Daryl arrives and get stung into buying him a drink. Jack has had his fill of buying drinks for people who have deeper pockets than their short arms when it’s their turn to get the drinks in.

  Jack sees familiar faces as he crosses the narrow room to take a booth next to the wall opposite the bar. One of the faces is Connor, one of the few people Jack knows who drink in Molly’s and is actually Irish. Connor doesn’t see him though and Jack slides in the booth before he does. The last thing Jack needs now is a drunk Conner babbling on about his beloved Emerald Isle again.

  Daryl is late, Jack thinks as he takes another sip of his pint. He is getting a taste for the booze and could quite easily make short work of his pint but he forces himself to take it easy. Under normal circumstances, he would have had a chaser with his Guinness, but not tonight; tonight he will be steering clear of the top shelf.

  Just as Jack is starting to think Daryl is going to be a no-show and fuck his plans up, he sees him approach the glass-doored entrance. Butterflies rise in his stomach, as part of him wanted Daryl not to arrive, to give him an excuse to down his pint and forget the whole thing. In the end, Jack knows that if he doesn’t see this through, he is going to be stuck in the life he already has and that only leads in one direction.

  Jack met Daryl on a particularly heavy night at Molly’s some months ago. Daryl had come in to see a girl he was dating at the time, who had worked behind the bar, and to have a drink while she finished her shift. Daryl is black and he’d turned some heads when he walked into the almost exclusively white Irish bar. One of the bar's regulars, steaming drunk, had made a derogatory comment towards Daryl and an altercation started. Before any fists were thrown, Jack, who was tipsy himself, had stepped in and calmed the situation down. Daryl bought Jack a drink, which turned into a long drinking session. And they’d known each other ever since. They were hardly friends though, just met for drinks now and then, and on occasion, Daryl hooked Jack up when he was in the market for some coke.

  Daryl sees Jack and then points to the bar to see if he wants a drink. Finally, someone buying him a drink for a change, Jack thinks, holding his pint aloft to confirm that he does.

  “Hey, Jack,” Daryl says as he puts two drinks onto the table and slides into the booth to join him.

  “Alright, Daryl, are we still on for tonight?” Jack asks, getting straight to the point.

  “Yes, our meeting’s at nine-thirty.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “Are you sure you are ready to go through with this, Jack?” Daryl asks with a stern look. “These East Europeans aren’t the type of people you fuck around with, so you had better be sure.”

  “I am, but thanks for the warning,” Jack replies, trying to sound confident.

  “Have you got the down-payment?”

  “Yes, it’s in my pocket,” Jack says as his hand inadvertently goes down to his front pocket where a roll of cash sits.

  “Remember, I am only making the introductions, this is your show.”

  “I understand,” Jack confirms.

  “Good, because if you fuck it up, they will kill you, and it won’t be quick.”

  “I’ve got this, Daryl; as long as you and your brother are still helping me at the weekend?”

  “It’s a good plan, so yes, we are still helping.”

  “Okay then. We had better get going, it’s about a twenty minute walk to the club.”

  The two men take a minute to finish their drinks in silence, their thoughts consumed by the meeting ahead. Finally, they give each other a look, get up in unison and make their way out of Molly’s Bar. The streets outside are now almost overtaken by darkness as evening turns into night and the lights of the city replace the sun whose light has all but vanished.

  Chapter 3

  Not only has the light changed for Jack as he and Daryl walk through the city to their destination. Suddenly, he is oblivious to the other people moving around on the streets. There is no people-watching; they are just objects who happen to be in his vicinity or in his way. Jack’s head is down, his walk on autopilot as his concentration is used up playing through versions of how he thinks his meeting will play out. Daryl walks beside him, saying nothing.

  This night has been in the back of Jack’s mind since the arrangements were made a few weeks back. He is good at compartmentalising things in his head and not worrying about them until he has to, kind of locking them away. Now, all at once, the lock is open and the door to that part of his brain is gaping wide. Jack’s apprehension builds with every step he takes, Daryl’s warnings about the people he is about to meet hitting home. He wonders how well Daryl really knows these people, how deep he is in with them. Jack has known since he met Daryl that he deals in drugs. Daryl had told him he just sells to his friends to make a bit of money on the side. Was that true or was Jack being naïve? He’s seen no evidence of other work that Daryl does to make a living.

  “Are you sure that you are sure about this?” Daryl asks as the club draws closer.

  Daryl’s question snaps Jack out of himself. “Yes, I am sure,�
�� he answers.

  Jack is aware of his surrounding once more, and he feels he could be in a completely different city. Molly’s Bar is perched on the edge of the main business district and shopping centre of the city. They have transitioned into the ‘Old Town’ while Jack’s head was elsewhere. The shiny tall buildings are behind them, their lights stretching into the night sky and peering down on the two men like robot wardens of the city.

  The entrance to the aptly named Secret Club is situated in a side street off the main drag. Numerous streets branch out into the Old Town from here and most have at least one late night bar or nightclub to choose from, some of the streets overflowing with them. There is a bar or club for the taste of every discerning customer and the area is fairly busy, even on a Wednesday with customers out in search of their favoured fix.

  Secret Club is an ‘upmarket’ dance club, where only the latest banging tunes are played for an exclusive clientele of the most glamorous people, or that’s what the club would have you believe. On a quiet night, they will let most people in as long as you are presentable and have money to spend.

  The only time Jack has frequented the club, that he can remember, was last night. He knew the meeting was going to be here and he had wanted to check it out beforehand. Despite the high entrance fee and the fact he’d had to queue to get in, he had only planned to spend a short amount of time inside to get a feel for the place. Now, he has to admit to himself, he can’t remember leaving.

  Jack knows from Daryl that the club is basically a front for the Russian mob, some of whom he will be meeting shortly. From what he can remember from last night’s visit, he didn’t see any evidence of that. He only recalls that the club is very swanky, with beautiful people, big tunes and big prices.

  Daryl takes the lead as they turn right off the main road and into the side street. The entrance to Secret Club is on the right-hand side, about halfway down. People are gathered outside the entrance, some standing looking at the club’s brightly lit façade, deciding whether or not to join the queue to get in while others have already taken the plunge and joined the queue, as Jack had last night.

  Dressed more casually than Jack, Daryl doesn’t look like the target customer the club is going for and Jack is suddenly afraid he will be refused entry. The large bearded doorman, however, is already unhooking the thick red rope for him to enter as he walks past the people in the queue and Jack goes to follow him through.

  “Not tonight,” the doorman says in a Russian sounding accent to Jack, as he replaces the polished brass hook at the end of the rope into its ring and holds up his hand.

  “But I have a meeting inside,” Jack says pathetically.

  “Not after last night,” the doorman says standing straight and crossing his hands in front of his groin area.

  Jack’s mind swirls as he tries to remember what happened here last night and how he is going to get past the fierce-looking bouncer.

  Daryl, who has almost gone through and into the club, comes back over, rolling his eyes and he speaks into the doorman’s ear from by the side of him. The doorman looks Jack up and down before reaching for the hook and opening the entrance for him.

  “You behave,” is all the doorman says before moving to the side and letting Jack through. Jack keeps his mouth shut and walks past the man before he changes his mind.

  “Oh maaan, were you here last night?” Daryl protests above the booming bass that is vibrating out of the club's doors.

  “I just came to check it out.”

  “You could have fucked things up, Jack. What did you do to piss them off?”

  “Honestly, I can’t remember,” Jack confesses.

  “Well play it cool tonight. Hopefully, it was only the door staff you pissed off and not the management. Okay?”

  “I’m cool,” Jack says unconvincingly.

  Daryl walks straight past the ticket booth and Jack follows suit, thankful for not having to pay. The issue at the entrance has flustered Jack. He is still trying to figure out what happened last night; was there an altercation or was he just banging into people, drunk? If he had to guess, it would be the latter, as Jack doesn’t like trouble when he is out, the days of him getting into drunken fights are well in the past, he thinks.

  “I need to use the men’s before we go through,” Jack informs Daryl and heads for the entrance to it.

  “Be quick, it’s nearly time,” Daryl shouts above the din as Jack goes.

  When Jack emerges a couple of minutes later, he has put his confusion over last night out of his mind and is concentrating on the task ahead. Daryl is chatting to someone as Jack goes over to rejoin him nervously.

  “This is Jack,” Daryl says to a young good-looking man dressed in a sharp expensive suit with an open-necked shirt beneath and slicked-back hair. “Jack, this is Rouben; he will take us to the meeting.”

  “Excellent, good to meet you, Rouben.” Jack tries to sound confident, as he does with the firm handshake he gives the young gangster.

  “Shall we?” Rouben offers, extending his arm towards the main club room to show them the way.

  There is only a faint Russian ring to Rouben’s accent, but it is unmistakable. Jack wonders where the meeting will be taking place as he starts to follow his new acquaintance, who is heading for the main club room. Surely, the meeting won’t be taking place in there, under the flashing lights and in front of the revellers? The volume of the music won’t allow discussion either; you can barely hear yourself think, never mind hold a conversation.

  Rouben pushes the door to the main club room open and he is immediately bathed in a rainbow of colours. The kaleidoscope of light flashes to the beat of the house music that washes over Jack as he passes over the threshold and into the club. He can feel the bass vibrate into his chest and a feeling of euphoria builds within him, triggered by the music. It brings back memories of the states of bliss he has experienced with this type of music, times when anything seemed possible.

  Jack suppresses the feeling, pushing it back down inside himself. He is here on business, serious business, and this is no time for feelings of love for your fellow man, and for togetherness.

  The room is bright. This is not a club you come to, to lose yourself on the dancefloor and be at one with the music. You come here to be seen like a mannequin in a shop window, to show everybody how beautiful and sophisticated you are. And there are plenty of opportunities to show yourself off, this room is designed for it. The main dance floor is surrounded by raised areas with bars at the rear and podiums under the spotlight at the front for customers to strut their stuff on. There is even a podium in the middle of the dancefloor for the extra special people, or the ones who have had one drink too many. The holy grail, however, for any wannabe, is the VIP area. It’s a large roped-off section at the back of the dancefloor that is always guarded by a bouncer; you are not getting in unless you know the right person or have a wad of cash to spend, preferably both.

  Rouben leads Daryl and Jack all the way around the main room and towards the hallowed VIP area. The club is just starting to fill up, the dancefloor is still quiet, and only a few brave souls have ventured onto it so far, all of them females. Jack is aware of people looking at them as they arrive at the entrance to the VIP area and the bouncer opens up the entry for Rouben. If they are looking to see if a celebrity has arrived, they are going to be sorely disappointed.

  The VIP area is still empty and Rouben shows them to a table at the front that overlooks the whole room. No sooner have they sat down than a seductively dressed waitress brings over a tall bottle and three shot glasses. “Enjoy, gentlemen,” she says as she places the bottle and glasses on the table in front of them. Jack doesn’t recognise the bottle of spirits, but he would put money on that it is a premium vodka. So much for not going near the top shelf tonight, Jack thinks as Rouben picks up the bottle.

  “Gentleman, while we wait for our other guests to arrive, I thought we would have a drink. This is the best Russian vodka, I wish you to t
ry.” Rouben half shouts over the music as he pours the clear innocent-looking liquid into the glasses.

  Jack dubiously takes the glass that Rouben hands to him. He used to drink a lot of vodka, but lately, he has tried to stay away from it since it tends to get him very drunk, very quickly and that’s when he has a mixer with it. Perhaps it is Rouben’s intention to soften him up with a few drinks before the meeting.

  “Your health, gentlemen. Zazdarovje,” Rouben exclaims before swiftly raising his glass and snapping it back to pour the vodka into his mouth.

  I’m sitting at a table with the Russian mob drinking shots of vodka; what could possibly go wrong? Jack thinks as he too downs his shot. The liquid bites into his mouth and burns down into his gut as it travels. He has to admit, however, that the premium vodka is worth whatever it costs; it goes down smoothly, leaving his tongue tingling.

  “Very good,” Jack announces as Daryl looks at him, concerned.

  “Excellent,” Rouben agrees. Now if you will excuse me for a moment, I will see where our other guests are, but please, help yourselves to another drink.”

  Rouben rises from his chair and instead of going back to the VIP entrance they arrived through, he walks towards the back of the VIP area. Only then does Jack notice another bouncer at the back of the area, guarding a door that he opens for Rouben.

  “You know these people well?” Jack asks Daryl.

  “I’ve had dealings with them and I’ve met Rouben at a couple of parties. Don’t let his young good looks and accommodating persona fool you, Jack. Under that expensive suit, he is covered in tattoos. I’ve seen them and I’ve seen him beat the shit out of someone who made a comment about his accent.”

  “I got that feeling. Don’t worry, I’ll play it cool,” Jack responds, the vodka doing its job.

  “The meeting will be through that door,” Daryl says, indicating to the door Rouben just went through. “It leads to the back of the club, the storerooms and offices.”