by Vivi Paige
It’s hardly the most outrageous thing he demands of me.
My dad used to have this gig, cooking the books for Crenshaw Hook and maintaining the day-to-day operations of the Jolly Roger—both its above board and off-the-books business.
I wanted to join the New York City Ballet and had trained for ten years to do just that. But then my dad grew ill and asked me to pitch in while he recovered. So, little by little, I danced less and worked more until the day my father passed on and I officially inherited his job. After that, I made too much money—and was in way too deep with dangerous people—to even consider pursuing my dreams.
Besides, it’s nice to have skin on my toes and eat a cookie once in a while.
I wasn’t bitter about my station in life. In point of fact, I enjoyed it. I was good at my job, had the loyalty and respect of my employees, and as for those dangerous people I mentioned earlier… they all adored me.
Even Crenshaw Hook, a notorious sour puss, smiled whenever he stopped by, which was quite frequently.
The Jolly Roger had been here on Bloomsbury Street for over a hundred years, though its current iteration was rebuilt a decade ago and still underwent continuous renovations. It was imperative the lower half—the legit half—remained the trendy, crowded nightclub it’d been my entire life. It made the ideal cover for our shady dealings because a lot of our VIP bidders tended to arrive in style. Stretch limos, Lamborghinis, Shelby Cobras, and a plethora of stately luxury sedans were the norm for them.
Or at least they were until those asshole Mayhem Brothers built their own club right across the street. And started running their own illegal auctions.
Crenshaw had been furious ever since. He seethed with rage toward the Mayne brothers, but most of it was directed toward the current head of Club Lost, Peter.
I’d never met Peter. I only knew him by reputation. On one hand, he was part of the Mayne Brothers LLC firm, which means his hands were likely sullied with all kinds of dirty dealings. His party-hard lifestyle and “who gives a shit” attitude struck me as attributes possessed by someone who refused to grow up.
Still, it took a lot of nerve to do the things he did. For example, last month Club Lost held a Crenshaw Hook look-alike contest. The winner arrived in a clever costume in which “Hook”—my boss—lay in a coffin.
I had to talk Crenshaw out of firebombing Club Lost, and believe me when I say it wasn’t easy.
Hook had a reputation—the media dubbed him “the Pirate Prince” because of his tendency to engage in hostile takeovers of companies financially hitting their stride. He gutted, looted, and shut down those companies, oftentimes not bothering to replace them with his own iteration. It was done to eliminate competition and, in some cases, out of sheer spite. Hook once bought out and closed down a firm specializing in oil spill clean-up because their CEO slighted him in an interview with a financial trade magazine.
Crenshaw Hook was a dangerous man, in more ways than one. He preferred to use the legal system to his advantage, applying pressure through his own brand of crony capitalism. Yet, if that failed, he would readily, eagerly resort to more “aggressive” measures.
He was not scheduled to attend the auction tonight since he was scheduled at an event across town. But his presence would be keenly felt everywhere—from the first gavel bang until the last guest headed out with their purchases.
I came down to the third floor VIP lounge. Plush seats that seemed to soak up stress, stately hardwood floors covered in strategic areas by Persian rugs, and just the right amount of illumination made it a place where most folks wouldn’t mind spending a good deal of time.
The lounge was filled tonight with the usual assortment of sheiks, trust fund babies, Eurotrash royalty, and nouveau riche out to spend money on something they thought would cement their status as one of the elites.
I worked the room, speaking to each of them in turn—schmoozing, as my dad used to call it. It was an important function, and I used my assets to their utmost advantage. There was a reason I’d chosen to wear this revealing, backless dress in front of our mostly male clientele.
Everyone seemed fine with the delay. Everyone, that is, except for the man who caused it—Sheik Vaziri.
“What is going on?” he demanded, his jowls shaking. I tried not to look at the seafood crusted in his bushy mustache. His son, a far more fastidious and pleasant man, looked absolutely mortified. “I am here for auction, not jabroni conversation with small tit girl.”
I let a smile spread over my face, my hands clasped behind my back so he wouldn’t see how I’d clenched them into fists.
For God’s sake, I’m on the cusp of a C cup. They’re not tiny.
“I’m sorry, Sheik Vaziri. We’ll begin soon, I promise.”
“You better. This is why Iran number one. USA, ach tooey.” He spat, but his son caught the white foamy projectile in his own wineglass, shooting me a sheepish expression by way of apology.
I just smiled and dashed back upstairs to check on Smee’s progress. Thankfully, he was finished, and I helped him drag away the plastic tarp before summoning the guests.
I slipped on a pair of leather holsters containing Inky and Blinky, my custom 9mm semi-automatic pistols. One used to be my father’s, and the other he gifted to me when I first took over his duties.
Well, gifted is a stretch. More like shoved the weapon in my hand and made me swear to wear it at all times—particularly when Crenshaw was present. I tried to honor him, but walking around my own club armed seemed pretty over the top.
During an auction, however… I’ve never had to shoot anyone, but I’m glad to have the option available.
My function was to be auctioneer. Wendy and Smee acted as bid assistants, which helped a lot when the room was packed, as it was tonight.
Things went smoothly for the first hour or so. My gavel banged a dozen times, solidifying deals on expressionist paintings and working-condition antique Indian motorcycles.
But when a set of Russian nesting dolls came up for grabs, two idiots near the front row started trouble. They swiftly became the only bidders, the price reaching an astronomical level out of sheer masculine pride.
Good news for the auction house, so long as they remained civil.
There came a point when those two preening wannabe alpha males stood up and faced off across the two rows separating them.
“You got a problem, asshole? Bidding one dollar over me every time?” blustered the tall, skinny former professional basketball player.
“It’s called being smart. You might want to look it up,” answered the thirtyish former teen scene heartthrob and tabloid icon.
“You wanna repeat that, little man?” asked the tall man, pulling open his blazer to reveal a piece.
“Oh, you think that’s something?” The actor opened his own coat. “Mine’s bigger.”
I drew my pistols, aimed at each of them, and then cleared my throat. “Gentlemen,” I rumbled in a rough voice. “Sit down. Now.”
They turned to see the weapons pointed their way. Silence reigned over the auction house.
“Shoot them.” The sheik released a hearty laugh. “Shoot them now. Jabronies.”
They lifted their hands in the air—wisely, since I wasn’t bluffing—and sat. I holstered my weapons and picked up the most powerful one of all—the gavel. “The gentleman in the Armani has bid sixteen million and one dollars. Do I hear an answering bid?”
Silence.
“Sold, to the man in the Armani. Next, we have a carving from the Mongol region of ancient China…”
The rest of the auction went off without a hitch.
Unfortunately, as I finished my ledger, Wendy came to my side and whispered in my ear. “We’ve got a problem downstairs.”
I searched her face for clues. She didn’t seem upset, or even frightened, so I figured it wasn’t anything serious—lethal. But she wouldn’t have spoken up if it wasn’t something important.
We ducked into a small office o
ff the auction room and shut the door.
“What’s the situation?” I asked.
“Peter Mayne is outside,” she said flatly.
“Mayne?” I chuckled and shook my head. “I’m sure he’s here to cause trouble. Don’t let him in.”
“I haven’t, but he’s raising a ruckus all the same. He’s paid the cover charge of the last twenty people we’ve let in the door. What are we going to do? He says he’s not leaving until we let him inside.”
I sighed and put my pistols away. I was afraid if I had them on me when I confronted the Mayne boy, I would be tempted to use them.
“No worries, Wendy,” I sighed. “Get out there and schmooze the clients. I’ll go downstairs and deal with the boy who never grew up.”
Chapter Three
I wasn’t about to go crashing a party I was most emphatically not invited to without dressing sharper than a samurai sword. The tracksuit I wore hunting in Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t going to cut it, not even close.
So, we didn’t head right across the street. Instead the Boyz and me headed downtown to pick up some new threads. We hit up Vito’s, an ultra-exclusive clothier where the low-range items will set someone back more than what most folks make in a month.
As soon as me and the Boyz rolled into the lobby, the manager recognized us on sight and dropped what he was doing to come and attend to our needs. His manner was attentive without being sycophantic, which is a delicate art and doesn’t get near the appreciation it deserves.
“How ya doing, Melvin?” Nibs shook hands with the diminutive bespectacled man.
“Fine and dandy, thank you for asking, sir.” Melvin’s pencil-thin mustache twitched. “I would inquire as to your own state, but I can already see you are far from dandiness.”
“Ain’t that the truth, Mel?” I whipped out my uranium card. You’re probably wondering how to get one. You can’t, so just bask in my glory. “We’re in a sad state, as you can see. Can you help us out? I know it’s short notice…”
My card disappeared in a flash, and Melvin nodded without being obsequious. “Of course, sir. Anything we can do to help the firm.”
In case you were wondering, Mel doesn’t tailor suits on the fly for any schlump who struts in the door and lays down a credit card with a six-figure limit. Me and the Boyz get preferential treatment on account of a favor Lucian did for Mel. Nobody ever told me what the favor was, but Mel has been nothing but gracious toward anyone who works for the firm or belongs to the family.
Me and the Boyz turned ourselves over to Mel’s capable staff. I used to try and pick my own stuff out, but I’ve learned better. I don’t service my Rolls myself—I let the professionals handle things. If I needed surgery, I wouldn’t cut myself open with a—
You see where this is going, right? I make a point never to interfere with a professional and their work.
I wound up with a green silk business casual number paired with a light brown shirt, which according to Mel brought out the color in my eyes. The cut was designed to accentuate my broad shoulders and long limbs, or so Mel told me. All I knew was that when I stood in front of those triple mirrors after Mel’s team had finished the alterations, I looked like a million bucks.
Toots tried to convince us to stop and get our hair styled too, but it was going on nine in the evening at that point. There’s fashionably late, and then there’s too late to the party. One had to find the right balance.
We rolled up to that club strutting like we owned the place. Normally, when me and the Boyz go anywhere, they unhook the velvet rope and usher us right on in. But this wasn’t anywhere. It was the establishment of our turf rival, and we couldn’t expect such treatment.
It was fine, though. We chilled in the line, a new experience for us, and it was actually pretty pleasant. We talked to interesting people, shared some investment tips, bullshitted about whether the Yanks were gonna take the pennant.
And then there were the ladies. You ever seen those hip-hop videos where it’s just wall to wall amazing woman flesh? Well, that’s how the Jolly Roger looked that night. The Boyz were all ‘bout trying to get a hookup, but none of the women, though they were beautiful, tickled my fancy.
The problem with being a Mayne brother is that you’re used to the best of everything—the best clothes, best food, and best seats in the house, every time. So naturally, when you’ve got those kinds of trappings, you wind up with hangers on, many of whom happen to be gorgeous ladies.
So, I ain’t no blushing virgin, if you get my drift. But at that point in my life, I’d never been in love. Maybe I just attracted brain-dead floozies, or maybe I was too lazy to try for anything better. Maybe, just maybe, I even thought I didn’t need or deserve better. I mean, not to pussyfoot around it, but the firm doesn’t always engage in the most legal of activities. Quite the opposite most of the time, in fact.
Even when we do legit jobs for folks, we do them our own way. Sure, we could file the paperwork and hope a judge signs off on the deposition before his long golf weekend… or we could send Navajo Joe around to the aggrieved party and straighten them the fuck out right away.
I knew my life was dangerous, and I didn’t figure any of the women I hooked up with would be able to handle that danger or possibly even understand what was really at stake. I dunno.
What I do know is I remained aloof and apart from the Boyz as they hit up the ladies for their digits and what have you. When we got to the front of the line at last, the bouncer wasn’t about to let us in.
“Quit screwing around, Mayne,” growled the massive block of a man. Peaches used to box professionally in the heavyweight division, but he got blackballed from the ring for taking dives. Now he works as the doorman for the Jolly Roger, and he’s about as pleasant as a bag of rabid weasels. “You know I can’t let you in here. Mr. Hook would fit me for concrete shoes.”
“Aw, come on, Peaches.” I stuffed a hundred-dollar bill into his lapel pocket. “Old man Crenshaw’s over in Jersey.”
“How do you know that?” He made the money disappear even though he still blocked my path.
“Oh, you know, I hear things.” I shrugged. “Come on, Peaches. We won’t cause any trouble. I swear.”
“I don’t believe you. Why else would you be here?”
“To check out the competition, of course. We hear you guys roll big and hard over here, and we wanted to see it for ourselves. Surely you’re not embarrassed to show us your club? You got rats in there or what?”
“Hey, keep your voice down.” Peaches winced. “Don’t say the R word. You’ll start a panic.”
“The R word? You mean rats?” I spoke from my diaphragm, adding extra emphasis to my voice.
“Is there a problem here, Peaches?” It was a woman’s voice, with that kind of impish lilt that suggested youth and innocence but tinged with a husky sexual heat that smoldered on the way through my eardrums. Not often does a woman turn my crank just by talking, you know what I mean?
“Ms. Barrie?” Peaches swallowed hard. “Don’t worry. I ain’t letting them in.”
Peaches stepped to the side, and that’s when I saw the owner of that amazing, otherworldly voice for the first time. My mouth went dry as a desert, and my tongue felt like lead. I knew I stared, but I couldn’t stop. I just drank in the sight of her with my thirsty eyes.
The dame stood about five foot nothing, slender but with just the right amount of curves, which were on full display in the skin-tight mini dress hugging her form. The apparent Ms. Barrie was possessed of high, plump cheekbones and a small, pointed nose and pouty lips. Again, I was struck by the impression of an imp, but for the expression in her gorgeous sepia eyes.
Those eyes lanced out at me like primitive Stone Age weapons, boiling with contempt and just daring me to cross her. Hell, I had no intention of doing any such thing. My eyes danced up and down her body, focusing on shapely legs—Was she a dancer?—before moving up across her plump hips and just a little more than a handful breasts. Finally, my gaze
rested upon her none-too-pleased face.
“I’ll handle this, Peaches,” she said in that husky, pouty imp voice. I remember thinking at the time, oh I just bet you could.
Ms. Barrie had fire and moxie to spare. I decided right then and there that this dame was dangerous. Crenshaw Hook was even more ruthless than Mayhem Brothers. Basically, like a godfather, if rumors are true. And this little doll grew up around him.
She stepped down the shallow stairs, just to the edge of the awning, and put her hands on her hips. Ms. Barrie’s eyes scanned each of us in turn before settling on me.
“So, I take it you’re in charge?” Her lithe finger made a wriggling gesture toward the Boyz, as if they were motes of dust she sought to redirect away from her person.
I smiled ear to ear and turned on that old Mayne boy charm. Stepping up to the bottom stair, which put us roughly on eye level, I fired my opening salvo, as it were.
“How’d you know, doll? You noticed my natural charisma and aura of dominance?”
She arched an eyebrow, and I do believe she struggled not to smile. “The name’s Belle, not doll, and no, you just look like a pompous ass with an undeserved sense of self-importance.”
I’ll admit, that one stung. A lot. Seduction is a lot like a fencing match. There’s always that point when you test your opponent’s defenses. Belle’s defense, let’s just say, was a masterwork of practiced unsubtle brutality.
“Ouch, dayum.” Toots laughed his ass off.
Curly pantomimed a fighter jet being shot down, “crashing” one hand into the other complete with sound effects both creative and evocative.
“Pete, bro, we need to take you to the burn ward or what?” Nibs teased.
I didn’t let it get me down. I’d tried to feint on Belle, and she’d riposted and scored the first advantage. So what? As far as I was concerned, the match just started.