by David Berens
He flung the dark cloth away and stomped toward the girl. She leaned back so suddenly that she fell backward, chair and all. She whimpered as her head hit the concrete floor, but that didn’t stop him.
He leaned over her, his nose inches from hers. Blood droplets flew from his mouth and splattered on her cheeks. She jerked her head back and forth trying to avoid the spray.
“You see,” his voice got louder with every word. “Frank McCorker is that sword and he will deliver liberty. He may have to sell a few guns and maybe some blow to get there, but he will be the next governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. And when he does, he will be the man we so desperately need to set us free from the filth and scum that is so prevalent in our fair state. Don’t you see it?”
The girl nodded her head vigorously. She didn’t damn get it, but that’s okay, he’d have plenty more time to convince her.
He reached down and grabbed her shoulders. She winced and let out a muffled yelp. He jerked her upright on her chair and scooted her against the wall.
“Quit yer dang cryin’, woman.” He stomped away from her. “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
He reached down and pulled the blanket back from the dead woman. He grabbed the hem of her skirt and tore a strip away from it with one jerk. He rolled it up and wiped his chin with it and then stuffed it into his mouth. He dragged the blanket back over the woman and turned to glare at Prosperity.
“Unless you give me reason to.”
She shook her head.
“Good. Now, like I was sayin’, if it weren’t for the likes of Senator Boonesborough and Governor-elect McCorker, I don’t know if we’d last much longer. Thank God the election is just a couple of weeks away.”
He pulled his keys out of his pocket and touched his lucky finger keychain that his mama had given him before she died. It was all that he had to remember her by, except for the virtues she had instilled in him. He was thankful that she had kept it after the doctor removed it from his right hand when he was just a toddler. When they had discovered that his puny sixth digit wasn’t going to be active and would likely cause him trouble just dangling there, they took it off. There wasn’t much more than a flap of skin holding it on, so removing it was a simple cut and a few stitches.
God bless his mama, she had the foresight to have it preserved by a local taxidermist. She had it put on a keychain like some people had with a rabbit’s foot attached. Ever since she’d given it to him on his sixteenth birthday, he’d had the best luck. He got good grades in high school before dropping out, his second choice for junior prom had said yes and drank Budweiser with him all night, and he’d gotten the good job working for Winchester Boonesborough down at the Tail Spinner.
Working as a bouncer at the strip club, he’d made more cash and seen more boobies than any man could hope for by the time he was twenty-one. After that, when the Sharks decided he was trustworthy, he was brought in to be a mule. And he’d been so good at that, they brought him even closer and let him run some deals of his own.
Winchester had worked this latest deal because it was so big, but Country thought maybe the next one would come to him. He rolled the finger around in his hand and stared at Prosperity. She was a looker for sure. Auburn hair, green eyes, slim figure. Quite the woman indeed. She worked at the club as a waitress, and though she wore revealing outfits, he had never seen her naked—a fact that made him want her even more.
She blinked her eyes and he realized he’d been staring at her for a long while. There were lots of emotions there, but none of them was recognition. She didn’t seem to recognize him even though he’d watched her work many times.
“Don’t know me, do ya?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“That’s just as well. I’m s’posed to be invisible.”
Her head tilted slightly to the side.
“I work at the club, or at least I used to.” He sniffed and stood taller. “Course now I’ve moved up on the ladder. I’m one of The Sharks now.”
He leaned over toward her again. He could smell her perfume through her sweat and fear. He inhaled deeply. Intoxicating.
“You’re probably thinking you could use a man like me in your life.”
She shook her head quickly, her loose ponytail flapping behind her. He cackled and waved his arm around the room.
“Well, ya better get used to me, cause from now on, I’m all you got.”
He grabbed the back of her neck and smashed his lips on the duct tape over her mouth. Pain lanced into his tongue again and he jerked back. He raised his hand to find a fresh spout of blood pouring out of his mouth.
“Dammit,” he said, stomping toward the door. “We’ll finish this when I get this to stop bleedin’. I ain’t through with you by a long shot.”
10
Campaign Central
Troy woke to find the sun streaming in through the window of the small room he’d rented late last night. It was an apartment above an office, and for a hundred bucks the night janitor had let him in on the condition that he’d be gone before daybreak. Oops.
He put on his clothes—the same ones he’d had on yesterday—and gently opened the door. The stairway leading down from the tiny apartment echoed with the voices of an office that sounded crowded. Dangit. He crept out the door and decided to play it cool. Just walk right through like I belong there, he thought. It’s all in the purposeful walk.
When he poked his head through the door at the bottom of the stairs, he was surprised he hadn’t noticed it was what appeared to be a campaign office. Red, white, and blue banners, signs, and flyers covered every available square inch of everything. Each one proclaimed the virtue of a man named Frank McCorker.
MCCORKER FOR GOVERNOR
BANK ON FRANK FOR GOVERNOR OF MASSACHUSETTS
LET ME BE FRANK
FRANK THE TANK
MCCORKER LOVES MASS
And many others.
Fresh, excited faces of most likely unpaid interns and volunteers scurried to and fro, making copies, handing out coffee cups, and answering phones. Everyone in the room had to be under thirty. Hell, they might all be under twenty.
Most of the millennials on the phone were saying how important it was that Frank could count on their support and they knew how tight money was, but every dollar counted.
“Can I put you down for a thousand? The future governor of Massachusetts thanks you,” he heard one teenage girl say.
She hung up the phone and held a slip of paper up in the air. “Add a thousand to the board!”
Everyone else in the office stopped what they were doing, applauded, and cheered.
“Great job, Susie!” a voice that was clearly older called above the din.
Troy followed the sound to find a man standing at the back of the room, watching it all unfold. He wore a crisp white dress shirt—sleeves rolled up past his elbows—and a bright blue tie. His face was slightly red and carried a light sheen of sweat. His hair was Robert Redford circa 1990. His chest stuck out over a slight paunch and his back was ramrod straight. Troy was surprised to find that he almost wanted to salute the man. Must have a military background.
The thought swirled around in his head, and he suddenly had the impression that he knew this guy. But try as he might, he couldn’t place where he knew him from. He certainly didn’t recognize the name.
“Sir?” A voice nearby interrupted his thoughts. “Are you here to make a donation?”
He looked down to see a young man looking through dark, fifties-style glasses. His hair was thick and brown with a touch of red. He looked like John Kennedy, but younger and with pimples.
“Who, me?” Troy pointed at his chest. “Oh, well, sure. Uh, put me down for five.”
“Wow! Really? Five thousand?” The kid was practically drooling as he scribbled the number on a slip of paper on his desk.
Troy opened his mouth to correct the intern, but then decided to have a little fun with him.
“That’s right. Five lar
ge. Five big ones.”
“Thank you so much, Mister ... ?” He paused with his pen hovering over the name blank on his form.
“Bill,” Troy said. “Bill Clinton.”
The pimple-faced kid was scribbling eagerly but then stopped as he realized that he recognized the name.
“Hey, wait a minute. Bill Clinton?”
“Yup. Mama was a big fan.”
Troy was pretty sure the kid wouldn’t be able to do the math and figure out that he would be too old for his mother to name him after the forty-second president of the United States.
“We all love him around here, too.” He said gleefully.
The front door of the office jangled open, interrupting the transaction. Troy watched a man with a chin full of facial hair that didn’t quite meet in the middle saunter in like he owned the place. The man had a big bandage wrapped around his tongue but seemed oblivious to the odd look it gave him.
He walked up to the desk where the girl named Susie was sitting and slapped his hand down. She jumped, and he choked out a laugh around the bandage.
“Where’s the big man, chickee dee?” he asked.
The only problem was, with the bandage, it came out more like, “Wheyahzbithmehn thickydee?”
She stared blankly at him and shrugged her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mister Cooper. I can’t understand you.”
“Thrank,” he said, exasperation already tinting his tone. “Wheyaz Thrank?”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re asking me. I can’t—”
He slammed his hand down again on the desk and she jumped in her chair.
“Thrank, dannit. I thneed to thee Thrank.”
She chirped, but couldn’t form any complete words. Fear had paralyzed her. Troy took two steps toward her to come to her defense, but before he could get there, a booming voice rang out behind him.
“Dammit, Country, get your ass into my office. Pronto.”
The man with the sideburns, who Troy gathered must be named Country, sniffed at Susie over a curled, mustachioed lip.
“Sthcrew you.” He jabbed his finger at her as he walked away.
Troy turned to see where the voice had come from. It was the same man that had recognized Susie for her big donation get a few minutes ago. The man oozed authority. He was standing outside his office door with his hands on his hips in an obviously militaristic stance. Frank McCorker had obviously served his country in some way. Again, Troy felt the need to salute. The dude named Country walked toward Frank as if he were an equal—head high and proud. But as soon as he got within range, the man with the rolled-up shirt sleeves and blue power tie reached out and grabbed him by the ear. He pulled Country into his office, and Troy was stunned by how familiar the action looked. He had seen this before. But that didn’t make any sense.
He tried to put the puzzle together in his mind as to why he felt like he knew Frank, but it never came into focus. Maybe it was just a déjà vu thing. He wandered toward the office careful not to linger near any of the money-hungry volunteers manning the phones. The door to McCorker’s office had a large glass window with the residue of lettering long gone still clinging to it.
Inside, Troy could see that Country was getting a dressing-down about something. He looked like a little puppy getting scolded for peeing on the carpet. The two men’s voices carried through the glass, but was muffled enough that Troy couldn’t make out what they were talking about. Suddenly, Country turned toward the door. Troy ducked down and waited a few seconds. Before he could waddle away from the door, it opened and Country came out in an anxious flurry.
Troy’s shoulder bumped Country’s chest on the right side causing him to spin around.
“Buddy, I don’t know what yer deal is.” Country glared at him as he said it. “But right now ain’t the time to be picking a fight.”
The bandages were gone from the man’s mouth, and blood stained his front teeth. When he bared them, he looked like a vampire from a bad B movie.
“Beg pardon, sir.” Troy held up his hands. “I’m just here to see what I can do to help the honorable Mister McCorker get elected.”
Country rolled an imaginary toothpick around between his front teeth considering this.
“You live around here?” he finally asked.
“Not far at all.” Troy replied.
“Gimme yer number. I might need some help with a big ... um ... a big ... situation ... comin’ up soon. Can you handle heavy weight, say a hundred pounds or so?”
Troy ignored the ache in his bad knee from sleeping in a strange bed and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth.
“Within reason.”
He grabbed a yellow pad and pen from the nearest desk and scratched out his phone number.
“Come back here tomorrow around lunch,” Country said, stuffing the note into Troy’s shirt pocket and brushing past him. “We’ll talk about what you might be able to do to help.”
“Much obliged.” Troy tipped his hat.
Something in the back of his mind urged him to the coincidental point that Prosperity—petite thing she was—probably weighed about a hundred pounds. He tried not to jump to conclusions, but his danger sense was pegged on high alert.
11
Dance With The Devil
The opening riff of AC/DC’s song “Shook Me All Night Long” rang through the club to the cheers of the late night patrons of the Tail Spinner strip club. Daisy Mae always started her set with this one, and it usually made her a few bucks from the baby boomer businessmen holding onto the fact that they used to have really long hair. They loved it when she lip-synced the lines and pouted her lips. Tonight, she was wearing a lipstick color she loved to call whore red.
She watched all of them fidget around, trying to make up their minds whether or not she was worth a buck, but when the boobies came out, so did the dollars. A table full of loose neckties started whooping and hollering and throwing folded ones at her. They were passing around a bottle in a brown bag they’d brought in with them. With the club’s “package fee,” it must have cost them fifty bucks to bring that in. She’d be hitting them up when the song was over. Most times, those were the kinds of tables that would pass her around, paying for each other’s private dances.
As she air-guitared the last fading chords, she had the whole place standing at attention in more ways than one. Gonna be a hell of a good night, she thought as she pranced to the back of the stage.
Ellie Mae was up next and greeted her with a scowl as she saw the wads of money coming out of Daisy Mae’s garter.
“What the hell? What’d you do? Find a table full of nearsighted dimwits?” she demanded.
“I don’t care if they’re blind,” Daisy Mae said with a snicker. “They’re blind guys with a whole bunch of money, and I aim to git it all.”
The D.J. was announcing that Ellie Mae—who used the stage name Cinnamon because it’s sweet but has a kick to it—was up next. Bon Jovi singing their seminal “Shot Through The Heart” blared out as Ellie Mae burst through the curtain. Some of the men at the table must have thought it was still Daisy Mae, because they immediately started the shower of ones again. She circled the pole and winked at Ellie Mae.
“Git down there and keep ’em warm,” she whispered. “I’ll be over in a jiffy. These boys are ready to party.”
Before the next girl took the stage, the Gallop sisters each had a man on the couches at the back of the room, grinding away his morals. Apparently, there was an insurance convention down the street and these boys were here to butter each other up for business.
“Now, if you boys want a real good time,” Ellie Mae said, sliding up and down her mark’s legs, “you should go for the shower dance.”
The man almost looked like a golden retriever. His tongue wagged and he nodded his head so hard, his toupee fell into his lap.
Strangely, this was not the first time a man had lost his hair to a stripper at the Tail Spinner club. Ellie Mae hid her smile, reached do
wn, and picked up the hairpiece. She pressed it down on the man’s head and combed it with her fingers.
“Don’t worry, darlin’,” she said. “Your secret’s safe with me. Now, where were we?”
“Shower dance,” the man said. “You said something about a shower dance.”
“Mmhmm.” Ellie Mae traced her finger down the side of the man’s face. “That’s where me and my sister jump into that shower up there beside the stage—buck nekkid of course—and there’s lots of soap and bubbles and oil and rubbin’ and—”
“Yeah yeah,” the man interrupted her eagerly. “Let’s do that! How much? And do I get a towel?”
Daisy Mae, who was counting her money on the next couch over, having sent her man back to the table, blurted out a laugh.
“And you thought I got all the stupid ones!”
“Shut it, Daisy Mae,” Ellie Mae hissed and then turned back to the man. “You ain’t in there with us, sugar. It’s just me and my sister. But donchu worry none, it’ll be the best fifty bucks you ever spent.”
She leaned down and pecked the man on the nose.
“Fifty bucks?” He reached for his wallet. “That’s it?”
“Each,” Daisy Mae added. “Fifty bucks each.”
“Done.” The man handed a crisp hundred dollar bill to the twin sisters and clapped his hands together. “What now?”
“You go get yer fellers and bring ’em on up to the table in front of that shower up there,” Ellie Mae said as she took Daisy Mae by the hand and led her away. “We’ll do the rest.”
The table behind the two-way mirror was a rickety card table with three men sitting in folding chairs. Frank McCorker, Winchester Boonesborough, and Country Cooper. The Sharks. They each had a glass with ice and yellow liquor. They spoke in hushed voices, even though the music made it tough to hear each other.
Winchester Boonesborough took a sip of his whiskey and scowled. “What the hell is this swill you’re making me drink.”
