Nobody Move

by Philip Elliott

  “Is that an official opinion?” Frederica said.

  “Here’s your official opinion: Fuck you.”

  Alison unlocked her car and got inside. Music from her Spotify came on with the engine: “People Who Died” by The Jim Carroll Band.

  Yeah, but what about the rest of us?

  Eddie ordered another drink and watched the women writhe on the poles. He wasn’t sure why he came here so often. He didn’t particularly enjoy seeing women sell themselves by the inch. Maybe he was lonely.

  The morning after the catastrophe in the Texan’s apartment, Eddie’s cell phone buzzing on the bedside table had woken him up.

  “Saul,” he’d said, sitting upright against the headboard.

  “Eddie.”

  “Saul,” he’d said again.

  “Heard our friend is no longer with us.”

  “The guy ran at me.”

  “He was unarmed, half-naked.”

  “He shouldn’t have run, what did he expect?”

  “Probably not what you gave him.”

  “Probably not.”

  “He had deep pockets, Eddie, and he was deep in my pocket. I’m gonna need you to come see me, discuss our next steps.”

  “I know.”

  “Good. You’ve always been a smart guy. Let’s keep it that way. You come on in and see me.”

  Eddie had swallowed, and rubbed his palm over his prickly shaved head.

  “And Eddie,” Saul had said, “don’t make me have to come get you. Because I will.”

  Eddie had spent the day pacing around his apartment trying to summon the courage to go see Saul. The following morning he’d woken with a savage thirst and now here he was: drunk in a strip club at 4:00 p.m. with L.A.’s most notorious crime lord after him.

  Red and pink and purple spotlights gyrated on the walls, cutting through the dimness. “Out of Touch” by Hall & Oates pulsed out of hidden speakers—a great song, but the combination of it all was beginning to hurt his head.

  The waitress returned with Eddie’s drink. “Thanks,” he said, glancing at her before noticing that she wasn’t the same woman as before, but one he’d never seen before. If Eddie had ever seen a more beautiful woman, he couldn’t remember it.

  “No problem. Just give me a wave if you want another one,” she said. An earnestness to her voice told him that not only was she new to this joint, but maybe to the career. Her skin was more than tan, maybe Native American, and she was young, maybe twenty-two.

  He grinned stupidly until she floated back to the bar like a dream.

  He had to talk to her.

  He drank in a hurry, and soon a single swallow remained of whatever the hell cocktail he’d ordered—pink and bitter and swirling it had come to him—and he felt as if he was made of air, and the music didn’t seem so harsh now, actually it was pretty nice, energetic, and he was probably overreacting about Saul, he’d worked for the man for almost two years and this was his first fuck-up, Saul would understand.

  But first he had to talk to that woman.

  He downed the last of the cocktail and rose, steadying himself with a hand on the table, and spotted her, back leaned against the bar.

  “How you doin’?” he said when he neared her.

  She pushed away from the bar in a nimble movement, the few garments she wore squeezing her slender body.

  “What can I do for you?” she said.

  “You can tell me your name.”

  To the left, the man behind the bar moved closer.

  “You can call me Angel,” she said.

  “I mean your real name, not that price tag they make you use.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  The barman approached.

  “Hey, you buying a drink or what?” he said, his wall of bottles sparkling behind him.

  “How about you buy me a drink,” Eddie threw back at him. He looked at the waitress. “Goddamn, you’re the most perfect creature I’ve ever laid eyes on, you know that?”

  “All right, buddy,” the barman said, hovering over him like a giant question mark, “it’s time for you to leave.”

  “I don’t recall making that decision,” Eddie said, and the barman looked ready to do something about it until the waitress grabbed Eddie’s arm and led him toward an empty booth.

  “Let’s sit down for a minute,” she said.

  She sat him on a squishy pink sofa. “You should be careful,” she said. “They don’t mess around in here.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t mess around either. It’s fine, I come here all the time. Hey, would you sit with me?”

  She glanced at the barman. “I can’t. They don’t like it when we—”

  “Just for a minute. Please?”

  She smirked, clearly a little flattered, confirming to Eddie that she was indeed new to this world.

  She slid into the seat opposite him and sat with her back straight and her hands beneath the table.

  “Thank you thank you thank you,” he said. “You won’t regret it.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Oh yeah. Trust me. So how new are you to this fine establishment?”

  “This is my first day.”

  He whistled. “I came here on the right day. I always believe in fate.”

  “Didn’t you say you come here all the time? That’s not fate, just inevitable.”

  “When a man finds the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on, trust me, that’s fate.”

  She smiled. He felt encouraged, and although deep down he knew it was because of the alcohol, he felt warm in his soul.

  He said, “So what’s your real name?”

  “Dakota. But let’s keep that between you and me.”

  “That’s a beautiful name. Do you happen to be from Dakota? Either of them.”

  “Do I sound like I am?”

  “I dunno, maybe. You don’t sound like you’re from L.A.”

  “Who is? Are you?”

  “I was born here,” Eddie said, “if that’s what you mean.”

  “I don’t mean anything. It’s you who asked me.”

  “Yeah, I was born here. I’m tired of it. This place is a madhouse.”

  “So why not leave?”

  “No good reason.”

  “There’s always a good reason.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s your reason then, for leaving wherever you came from?”

  “Survival.”

  Eddie looked her over. “What you surviving from?”

  “I never said my survival. I’m looking for someone.”

  “Funny you should say that. I’m hiding from someone. I shouldn’t even be here, I’m on the run.” The cocktail was speaking for him now but there was nothing he could do about it.

  “On the run from what?”

  “I fucked up and now there’s some guys after me. Bad guys.”

  “These men are looking for you right now?”

  “Probably.”

  Dakota leaned closer. “So, some men are looking for you, bad men, and you decided to hide in a place you come to all the time?”

  “Well, I guess ‘hiding’ is a strong word. I just got no place better to go.”

  “So what you gonna do?”

  Eddie thought about it. No matter how pissed Saul was, it would look better to show up by himself than be dragged in by the guys. Much better.

  “I should leave,” he said. “But not until you give me your number.”

  Floyd hated kids, which was unfortunate because his wife wouldn’t stop pestering him to give her one. Every goddamn day recently.

  “Not now, baby,” he said into his cell phone as Sawyer drove the S.U.V. to their destination. He couldn’t catch his wife’s reply over the ’80s trash metal Sawyer insisted on blaring every time he drove, which was every time they went anywhere because Sawyer was unquestionably the better driver of the three of them, Eddie being the third person. One time, after a botched robbery of a San Diego jewelers, Sawyer successfully evaded an entire legion of pursuing
cops, which included a helicopter. Must have been every on-duty cop in the state of California. The man could drive, no doubt, but that fucking music … Once, on a highway near the U.S.-Mexico border, Floyd made the mistake of switching the music off. Without so much as a modicum of warning, Sawyer swerved off the road and slammed on the brakes, the S.U.V. screeching over the dirt. The vehicle came to a halt and Sawyer looked Floyd in the eye. “I ain’t driving without my Pantera,” he said, casual as afternoon tea, while Floyd breathed quickly and deeply, unsure whether to punch Sawyer in the face or apologize. Before he’d come to any kind of decision, Sawyer switched the music back on, pulled onto the road, and continued the journey as if nothing had happened. Floyd was just glad he hadn’t turned the music off on the freeway.

  “I can’t hear you, baby,” he shouted into his cell phone. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?” He hung up and shoved the phone into his pocket.

  “Hey, Sawyer,” he yelled as they passed a decrepit motel, crackheads and prostitutes spilling out of it like a sickness.

  Sawyer turned the music down. “Yup?”

  “I know the cat runs the bar in this place. Says Eddie’s in there right now talking with some new girl. I said we’d be discrete, so we gotta get him out of there quietly, without a fuss. You got that?” He watched Sawyer’s face. “I don’t want security fucking our shit up.”

  “You know what I always found funny?” Sawyer said in that Southern drawl of his.

  “What?”

  “The idea of a fireman sliding down a pole like a stripper. You think they really do that?”

  “Yeah, those niggas love sliding down poles.”

  “I don’t get it. What’s the advantage of sliding down a pole like a stripper? Ain’t goin’ put the fire out any faster.”

  “It does put the fire out faster, though,” Floyd said. “Gets them on the ground and in the truck faster. From their TV room or whatever the fuck they got up there.”

  “But why don’t they just put that room on the ground floor? Why they gotta slide down a pole? Seems to me the whole thing would be a lot more efficient if they didn’t even have an upstairs, stayed beside them trucks the whole time.”

  “Well, shit. You got a point there. Maybe they always wanted to be strippers, settled for the next best thing.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  Floyd looked at him again. “Keep your cool in the club. There’s a reason you the driver.”

  Sawyer glanced at him. “I love your serious face,” he said, and winked. He steered the S.U.V. around a corner. “But you’re always so goddamn serious.”

  Ahead of them, situated at the end of a large and near-empty parking lot like a supermarket from hell, the strip club appeared. A gigantic neon sign that would be switched on when the sun went down read “The Pink Room.” On either side of the sign, holding the corners and facing each other, stood two identical faceless outlines of the female figure, complete with perky nipples and high heels.

  Sawyer parked the S.U.V. near the club and switched the engine off. The music died with it.

  Floyd’s ears rang in the silence. “Quietly—”

  “I’ll behave,” Sawyer said, closing his fingers around Floyd’s forearm, “if you do.”

  “What the fuck you doing?”

  “You know what I’m doing. Just like you knew in that motel—”

  Floyd tore his arm free. “I told you to never bring up that shit again. Jesus fucking Christ.” He punched the dashboard. “I’m serious, nigga, I’ll kill you. Fuck.”

  “Calm down, princess.”

  Floyd’s hands darted to the glove compartment and found his Sig Sauer. He pressed the muzzle into Sawyer’s forehead.

  “Say it again, motherfucker. I dare you.”

  For six seconds nobody said anything.

  Floyd lowered his hand and tucked the pistol into the waist of his light blue suit (“baby blue,” his wife had joked).

  “Let’s go.”

  Dakota peered over Eddie’s shoulder. “I really should get going,” she said. “Couple customers just walked in and I have a job to do.”

  Eddie spun to look. “Fuck. That’s them.”

  “The men looking for you?”

  Eddie nodded.

  “Will they hurt you?”

  “Only if I don’t want to take a ride with them.”

  “What happens if you take a ride with them?”

  “It looks bad they had to come get me, put it that way.”

  “Okay, stay here,” Dakota said. “I have an idea.”

  “An idea? No, don’t—”

  “I’ve had enough of men throwing their weight around. I’ll be back.”

  She rose and strode toward a pair of closed doors beside the bar.

  Eddie watched her leave, wondering what the hell just happened.

  Thirty seconds later, a hand gripped his shoulder.

  “Eddie,” came Floyd’s voice in his ear. “Just the man we’ve been looking for.”

  Floyd brushed past him and sat in the seat Dakota had vacated. Sawyer sat on Eddie’s right, so close their thighs touched.

  Floyd leaned back into the seat, arms spread wide over each side.

  “I got this cousin, Lamar,” he said. “Total fool. And by fool I mean motherfucker wouldn’t find water in a swimming pool. But, like all fools, he once spoke a sentence of true wisdom. We’d been talking about his brother, who had a certain … fondness for the kind of place you and I find ourselves in right now, and Lamar, in the midst of all his usual ignorant bullshit, said, ‘You got to be wary of a man who spends all his time watching titties bounce.’” Floyd threw his head back and laughed. “Shit still gets me.” He laughed some more, wiping his eyes, and watched Eddie, his smile fading like a Polaroid in reverse.

  “You know our friend Bill used to come here?” he said. “Before you made sure he ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  “Might have seen him here couple times, yeah.”

  “What you doin’ in here, man?”

  “It was a mistake, Floyd, what you want me to say?”

  “That ain’t got a god damn thing to do with it. When our employer calls for us, we come running. You know the score.”

  “Maybe I’m tired of doing what I’m told.”

  “We always doing what we told, one way or another. If it ain’t someone else telling us what to do, it’s our urges and impulses, the parts of us we don’t even know. There ain’t no freedom in this world, Eddie. Accepting that is the only way to find some sense of peace.”

  “What the fuck are you even saying?”

  “I’m saying that I prefer my heart when it beats, and I got to bring you in. Get up.”

  “It’s been taken care of, what’s the big deal? I’ll find a way to get Saul the money I cost him.”

  Floyd looked at him funny. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  Floyd glanced at Sawyer.

  “Know what, Floyd?” Eddie said.

  “You ain’t been watching the news, huh? They found them, man.”

  Eddie hesitated. “Who?”

  “Who you think? The cops.”

  It hit Eddie like a slap.

  “No, they couldn’t have, we buried them properly—”

  “Don’t say another word,” Floyd said, glancing around. “Get up, we leaving.”

  Eddie looked at Sawyer.

  “Boss just wants to talk,” Sawyer said. “Explain it to him.”

  Eddie sighed. “Like I have a choice.”

  Sawyer stood up as Dakota appeared carrying a tray of Champagne glasses.

  “Hello boys. It’s happy hour, which means a free glass of bubbly for all our customers.”

  “We was just leaving,” Floyd said.

  “Why not drink it before you leave?” she said. “Since it’s free and all.”

  She lowered the tray toward the table and stumbled. The tray slipped out of her hands and crashed onto the wood, the drinks tumbling into Sawyer�
��s crotch.

  “Goddammit,” Sawyer said, springing backwards.

  “Oh my, I am so sorry,” Dakota said, “let me get that for you.” She already had a cloth in her hand, dabbing at Sawyer’s crotch.

  “What the fuck? Get off me,” Sawyer said.

  “I’m so, so sorry, let me dry that for you,” Dakota said, rubbing the cloth vigorously.

  “Stop stop, for fuck sake stop.”

  Eddie glanced around. The security guys at the door had noticed the commotion, as had the dancer on the stage.

  “Please, just let me fix it,” Dakota said, rubbing faster.

  “I said stop you crazy bitch!” Sawyer said and shoved Dakota; not much of a shove from Eddie’s perspective, but Dakota cried out and flew backwards, hitting the floor on her back. Eyes wide, she pointed at Sawyer.

  “This asshole just attacked me!”

  “Woah, I didn’t attack nobody,” Sawyer said, palms raised.

  The security guards—two bowling balls with muscles—hurried over.

  “Who’s got a problem?” said one of them.

  “The guy with the blond hair attacked me,” Dakota said.

  “He slapped her, I saw it happen,” the dancer yelled from the stage.

  Sawyer shook his head and stepped toward Dakota. “Hey, wait a minute—”

  With shocking agility the security guard closest to Sawyer leapt at him like a panther, sweeping Sawyer’s feet out from under him and pinning him to the floor, a thick arm wrapped around his neck.

  “Woah woah woah,” Floyd said, standing up, “there’s been a misunderstanding here.”

  Eddie looked at Dakota, who met his gaze, a subtle smirk on her lips.

  “One more step and I’ll take you down too,” said the other security guard.

  Floyd sighed. “Can’t take this motherfucker anywhere.” He reached into his waist and pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the guard.

  “Tell him to get his gorilla ass off my friend,” he said.

  Behind Floyd the barman approached with a twelve-gauge. He pumped it behind Floyd’s head.

  “Drop it,” he said.

  Floyd grimaced, but did not lower the weapon. “That you, Mark?”

  “Yep,” the barman said.

  “How’s the wife?”