Instead of replying to me, he turns to Laney. “I need to see you in my office,” he tells her in a clipped voice. “Now.”
Laney shoots me a look, rolling her eyes. Keep things calm, she mouths at me as she turns away.
As I watch them go, Yoda comes up beside me.
“So, that asshole was Mickey, eh?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Piece of shit.”
“Yeah.”
“I got the intel you asked for.”
“Oh yeah?” I turn to him. “Good deal. You find out anything interesting?”
He nods. “Full name’s Michael King. No job that I can tell. Looks like Paisley’s mom supports him. She’s an exotic dancer at that strip joint over in Kendrick.”
My ears perk up. “The one owned by Jimmy Mazur?”
“Yup.”
Huh. Interesting. Mazur runs a protection racket and loan shark biz. His one legitimate business, the strip club, is a front for a small-time prostitution operation. Not to mention an illegal gambling casino in the back of the place.
If Paisley’s mom works there, she’s either just stripping or hooking, too. Either way, it’s gotta be because she’s desperate for money, or she’s hooked on drugs.
From the looks of her, she’s not strung out. I’d say it’s probably the former. Which makes sense if she’s supporting Mickey.
“Mickey got any association with Jimmy Mazur?” I ask.
“Oh yeah.” Yoda snorts. “Apparently our buddy Mickey’s got a gambling problem. I guess he met Paisley’s ma at the club. I hear he’s also got a nose for the snow, when he can get it. And rock when he can’t.”
“Fuck.” It does not make me happy to hear that the man who spends time around Paisley has a drug habit.
“Yeah,” Yoda says drily. “My source over at Mazur’s said Mickey did a good job of charming Paisley’s mom at first. Talked a big game about how he was gonna make it big off bein’ a professional poker player.” He eyes me. “They’re living at the Sunrise Motel right now. Got kicked out of the place they were living in a couple weeks ago.”
“Why’d they get kicked out?”
“According to my source at Mazur’s place, Paisley’s ma told her Mickey got drunk and disorderly one too many times.”
“That ain’t hard to believe,” I remark. “You talk to Mazur yourself while you where there?”
“Nah. Just to Amber, one of the dancers there,” Yoda shrugs.
“Huh.” I pause for a couple of seconds, lost in thought. “Yoda,” I finally say, “why don’t you and me take a ride back down to Mazur’s place tomorrow?” I suggest. “I got some questions I wanna ask Jimmy myself.”
“Fine by me,” he says with a leering grin. “The scenery’s always good, at least.”
I laugh and tell him to get hold of Mazur on the phone in the meantime, to make sure he’s gonna be around when we stop by.
I decide I need to start keeping closer tabs on Mickey King. Who he hangs around with. Who might be out to get him for an unpaid debt.
And most of all, how likely it is Paisley and her mom might end up caught in the middle of it all.
8
Laney
I know I’m in for a dressing down from Blake Barber even before we get to his office. All the way there, I’m arguing with him in my mind, preparing my defense. Explaining how I had no control over the crowd of bikers in the hallway outside Paisley’s room.
So I’m taken a little by surprise when, once his office door closes behind me, Blake turns around with an indulgent smile on his face.
“Laney, Laney,” he begins, leaning back against his desk and crossing his arms. “You need to learn how to let me, help you.”
“I’m sorry?” I stammer.
With a soft chuckle, he continues. “I understand that you lost control of the situation down there. That in itself isn’t a crime. But where you went wrong is not calling security, or me.”
I stare at him. With his expensive, well-tailored suit, he looks every inch the hospital executive. I know from what he’s told me — repeatedly — that he has a master’s degree in health care administration from the University of Denver. What he’s doing as an administrator in a small-town hospital like this, I don’t know. But he acts for all the world like he’s some hyper-important businessman. Like Christian Grey or something. Without the playroom.
At least, I hope so. Gross.
I tamp down my impulse to tell him I did not lose control of one damn thing. Being confrontational with my boss isn’t likely to do me much good here.
“Blake,” I say instead, keeping my tone reasonable. “As I said before, those bikers did nothing wrong. They were merely visiting their friend. The only problem we had down there was the boyfriend of that mom of the patient across the hall. He created the disruption, not them.”
I consciously use his word, working hard to keep any hint of mockery out of my voice.
“I reserve the right to make my own judgment about what I saw,” Blake responds with a tinge of irritation. “The point is, in the future, I expect you to do a better job of being proactive.”
Blake moves behind his desk and sits down, motioning for me to take the chair across from him. He leans forward, elbows on his desk, his long, thin fingers laced in front of him. His nails are cut perfectly straight across, professionally manicured and buffed to a polish. Distracted, I notice how pale and soft-looking the skin of his hands is. How different they are from Rourke’s — strong, rough, and square. The two men couldn’t be more different, really. Blake’s power comes from his title, and his position behind this desk in an office with his name on the door. Rourke’s strength comes from himself. From some inner force inside him. He doesn’t need fancy clothes or titles to hide behind.
Blake clears his throat. I look up guiltily, realizing I was practically daydreaming. When my eyes find his face, I suppress a moue of disgust.
“Now.” Blake hunches forward a little more, giving me a direct look. “Enough about those bikers.” His lip curls at the word. “I need to know what the situation is with the patient and her mother. Is there any reason to believe your professional involvement is needed here?”
I need to tread lightly here. Blake has been known to override my decisions in the past. And as the hospital’s CEO, he’s brought a single-minded focus on Morningside’s financial bottom line that means he’ll choose saving a little money over patient care every time. “The little girl — Paisley — came in with a broken arm and head trauma. I was brought in just to make sure there was no evidence of abuse.”
He purses his lips. “How much longer until the girl is released?”
“I’m not sure,” I hesitate. “I know the admitting doctor wanted to run some tests on her. To make sure the symptoms of concussion aren’t an indication of something more serious.”
“Does the mother have insurance?” Blake asks pointedly.
“I…” My brain races for an answer that will satisfy him, but I know there isn’t one. The truth is, Bethany is uninsured, and I’m sure he suspects this.
“We are not a charity organization,” he snaps. “And the girl is not in any immediate danger, is she?”
“No, but—”
“Who’s the attending doctor on staff?” he asks. “No, don’t bother answering that. I’ll find out myself.” Blake pushes himself up to a stand and turns away. “I think it’s time for her to be discharged.”
“Blake, please…” I begin. Belatedly, I curse myself for not trying the catch-more-flies-with-honey approach with him from the outset. I know from experience how much he loves being flattered — loves having his ego stroked. But I’ve been careful not to do anything that could be construed as leading him on, afraid of what the consequences might be. Because Blake has been trying to get me to go out with him — or at least to sleep with him — since before I was even hired here.
I didn’t realize how bad it would be at first. Oh, sure, he was a little creepy during the int
erview. But call me naive, I brushed it off. And I really wanted this job, so I told myself I was probably imagining things.
Turns out, I definitely was not.
The memory of the first few months of my employment here at Morningside Hospital makes a cold lump of ice form in my stomach. Blake has never quite forgiven me for turning him down when he asked me out on a date a few days after I was hired at Morningside. Ever since then, it’s been a delicate dance to keep pretending I don’t notice or understand the obvious signals he’s been sending me. To pretend I don’t notice when he brushes up against me in close quarters. To act like I think it’s funny when he makes jokes that are really just thinly-veiled sexual innuendoes.
I’ve worked hard to prove myself at this job. But the longer I’m here, the more I realize that doesn’t matter. Because Blake Barber didn’t hire me for my qualifications.
The fact is, even though I’m damn good at what I do, that’s not why Blake hired me. He hired me because he thought I would put out.
I love my job. I do. But the longer I’m at Morningside, the more I have the sense that I’m on probation with him, and that I’m not measuring up to his expectations. I’ve been as businesslike as possible, hoping to win him over with my professionalism and work ethic. Beyond that, I try to avoid him as much as possible, figuring the less I’m on his radar, the better. Because my job, no matter how well I do it, depends on Blake’s good opinion of me.
The longer I’m here, the more convinced I am that his opinion of me will never be good, because I’ll never give him the one thing he wants. As much as I try not to think about it, the reality is clear.
Professionally, I’m on borrowed time.
But right now, none of that really matters. Right now, the most important thing is that I do my best by Paisley. I need to talk to her mom about Mickey. I need to find out whether he’s a danger to either one of them. To try to help them.
But in order to do that, I need for Paisley to still be in the hospital, where she’s safe. I need to buy myself some time. Even if it’s only another day.
So, knowing I’ll probably pay for it later, I take a step forward and lean over his desk.
“Blake,” I breathe, letting my voice go husky. I lower my eyes submissively — despising myself for stooping this low — and make sure I’m bent over just enough that he can see the swell of my breasts through the opening of my blouse. “Could we give it just a little longer? I’m really worried about Paisley. And I know Doctor Methaney said he felt she needs more time under observation. Just to make sure.”
You would think that a stunt so blatant would never work.
That Blake would see right through what I’m trying to do.
But instead, he takes a good, long look at my boobs, while I pretend not to notice.
Then, with a sigh, he gives me a teasing what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you shake of his head.
“All right” he tells me, with a smirk that stops just short of a leer. “I’ll let it go for now. But Laney, I expect you to check in with me daily and let me know what her progress is. I need reports on when the doctors plan to discharge her.”
“Understood.”
“And make sure those bikers stop congregating in the hallway,” he says, his lip curling in distaste. “I’m relying on you to call security if they won’t comply.”
I want to argue with him. But at this point, I figure I should quit while I’m ahead.
So instead, I assure him I will.
“Thank you, Blake,” I say breathily.
Then I duck out of there before he can say anything else.
I just bought myself a few more days. I’d better make it count.
I guess it doesn’t matter that I hate myself for the way I did it.
And more than anything, I hope what I did back there won’t come back to bite me in the ass.
9
Rourke
Yoda comes with me on a ride down to Mazur’s place, the Lucky Strike. It’s early in the day, so there’s hardly anyone in the place when we get there, but there’s no windows, so once you’re inside it could be midnight or noon and you’d never know it.
I’ve been to the Strike a few times. It’s not really my scene — too depressing — but it serves a purpose, I guess. The interior’s like the inside of a fuckin’ vagina, all done up in pinks and satin. The place smells like booze and cigarettes. Usually, there’s music booming, and women workin’ the stage, but right now the sound system is on low, and it looks like the performers are taking a break.
Yoda and I belly up to the bar in the back. I signal to the bartender for a shot, and Yoda gets the same. A couple of girls come over, squeezed into tiny little outfits that put their tits and ass on full display. A chestnut-haired beauty immediately slides halfway onto Yoda’s lap — as far as she can as he sits on the bar stool, anyway.
“You came back for me!” she coos, nuzzling his ear. “I missed you.”
Yoda grins at me. “This is Amber.”
“I’m Daisy,” the blond with her announces. She’s less stacked than Amber, but her face is prettier. She sidles up to me, wraps one arm around my neck, and looks up at me with her painted doe eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”
I can’t say I’m not tempted. More out of habit than anything, I realize. Daisy ain’t got nothin’ on display I haven’t seen before. I could take her into a back room and spend a little time with her, but it doesn’t really sound all that appealing, in the end. It’d be more like takin’ a handful of chips because the bag’s sitting there in front of you, not because you’re hungry.
“I hate to tell you darlin,’ but you’re gonna have to wait a little longer,” I tell her, peeling her arm off me. “I need to talk to your boss. He around?”
Daisy gives me a pout and looks like she wants to argue with me, but she must see in my eyes that I’m not buyin’ what she’s sellin’. Shooting her friend a look, she disappears into the back, swishing her tail feathers as she goes.
A minute later, Jimmy Mazur comes out, flanked by a big, lunking monstrosity of a man standing almost seven feet tall. Mazur introduces him as Dewey. There’s no mistaking him as anything other than Mazur’s bodyguard. Mazur himself is almost as wide as he is tall. He’s like a goddamn Polish meatball: beefy, completely round, and smelling like onions.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he booms, raising his arms wide. He gives us a yellow-toothed grin, and claps Yoda on the back. “The girls tol’ me you stopped by yesterday, too.”
“Yeah. I came by to get a lap dance and some intel.” Yoda lifts his chin toward me. “Rourke wanted to come back and follow up on some shit.”
Jimmy eyes our empty shot glasses. “You want another drink? On the house! Then we go sit over there and talk,” he announces, pointing to a low, round table off to one side of the stage.
Yoda and I let the bartender grab us a couple of beers, and we go sit down with Mazur. Dewey lurches behind us, standing like Frankenstein’s fuckin’ monster off to one side.
“Does he talk?” I ask, jerking my thumb toward him.
“He talks when I want him to.” Jimmy raises his voice. “Say somethin,’ Dewey.”
“Hello,” glowers Dewey.
“So, whaddya wanna talk to me about?” Mazur asks. “Yoda said somethin’ about Mickey King?”
“Yeah. What’s the story with him? You’ve known him a while?”
“Yeah. He comes around here a lot. His girl, Bethany works here as a dancer.”
“How long as she worked here?”
“About… six months, maybe?” Mazur shrugs. “More or less. Mickey’s been comin’ here a lot longer than that, though.”
“He come here for the girls?” I press. “Or to gamble?”
“Both, I guess. But more for the gamblin’. And he don’t really go with the girls anymore.” Mazur lowers his voice. “Except when Bethany ain’t around, that is.”
Yoda’s nostrils flare. “He any good at gambling?”
<
br /> Mazur barks out a laugh. “Mickey? Nah. He sucks at it. He wins just enough to keep him comin’ back. His M.O. is, he comes in with a wad of money, loses it, goes in the hole, borrows more money from me, and loses that. Then he disappears for a few days, or a few weeks, ’til he can scrape up the money and pay me back. Then the cycle starts all over again.” His expression turns sour. “Only lately he ain’t been payin’ me back.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Mazur exhales in disgust, wafting onion breath across the table. “Fuckin’ Mickey. He’s been gambling back there, losin’ his shirt to the Vietnamese. I bailed his stupid ass out more times… The asshole used to pay me back. Now lately, I ain’t hardly seen him. Because he owes me, you know? He keeps tellin’ me Bethany will pay me.”
“How’s she gonna do that?” Yoda asks. “She ain’t got a pot to piss in, from what I understand.”
Mazur shoots him a leer. “Bethany’s a dancer here. But she could do a lot more, if you know what I mean. Lotsa guys here would pay good money to get with that. She could pay off his debts pretty fast, if she wanted to work overtime.”
Next to me, Yoda tenses, to my surprise. “That’s a hell of a fucked up thing, Mazur, expectin’ her to pay for his debt like that,” he spits out.
Mazur shrugs and shows his palms. “Hey, I ain’t forcin’ anyone. She don’t wanna do it, she doesn’t do it.”
“Does Mickey have any other sources of income that you know of?” I ask.
Mazur scoffs. “He’s mostly a petty thug. Always running some low-level scam or another. You know the type. Stealin’ stuff off the backs of trucks and selling it, shit like that. Never hangs onto it for long. Mickey is the kind of guy who’d be easy to talk into any dumbass scheme to make some fast cash. That dumb shit always thinks he’s one step away from the big break that’s gonna make him a millionaire.”
“That sounds about right,” I say filing that away for later. “You got anything else you can tell us?”
Iron Will: Lords of Carnage: Ironwood MC Page 6