Fight or Die

by James Hilton

  The Locos entered a door marked Private, guarded by another bouncer dressed in black trousers and a white dress shirt. The bridge of his nose was flat and wide; the guy looked like he’d fought more than a few boxing matches.

  Danny bobbed his head to the music as he considered his options. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. He cupped the phone tight to his mouth. “Clay, I need a diversion at the front door. Two minutes. The bigger the better.”

  28

  “Sure thing. Your wish is my command.”

  Inside the car, Clay listened to the music reverberating from the phone. He knew that Danny would leave the connection open. It was an old trick but a useful one. He removed the pistol from his waistband and placed it beneath the car seat. He got out of the vehicle and, with arms loosely crossed, he leaned on the roof of the Toyota and studied the club doormen.

  Clay counted off two minutes in his head, then moved towards the club. He leaned slightly to one side and exaggerated his steps. Not the first time he’d played drunk.

  The two doormen eyed him with apparent disdain. He’d bypassed the entire queue and was trying to slip his bulk between the advertising podium and the main entrance.

  The larger of the two doormen moved to intercept him. He spoke in heavily accented English. “Hey, you can’t come in that way. There’s a line. Get to the back of it.”

  Clay slurred his words. “An asshole says qué?”

  The bouncer shook his head. “Qué?”

  Clay repeated the joke.

  “Qué?”

  “Exactly.”

  Laughing, one of the bystanders explained it to the doorman.

  “Get lost before I rearrange your face for you,” said the doorman. The second bouncer stepped forward in support. Both men looked like they could do the business.

  Clay carried on, one eye half closed. “One drink?”

  The bouncer pushed a meaty hand against Clay’s chest. He looked like he lived on steroids and protein shakes. One of those men whose shoulders meet his ears; no neck to speak of. His dark hair was cropped close to his skull and a vein stood out on his left temple. Only his pencil-thin Errol Flynn moustache and plucked eyebrows sullied his tough-guy image.

  Clay allowed himself to be pushed back a step, his arms windmilling. “Whoa, easy, dude. I nearly fell over.”

  The second bouncer mumbled something unpleasant about his foot and Clay’s genitals.

  Clay gave them both a lopsided grin. “Say, have you guys heard the old story about the Three Billy Goats Gruff?”

  Errol curled his lip, the moustache moving like a caterpillar.

  Clay slapped his open palm onto the podium. The sound was akin to a pistol shot. “There was a troll, a mean sonofabitch, that lived under a bridge, see, and whenever anyone tried to cross the bridge, the troll would jump up and threaten to eat them. Well now, there were also three goats who lived nearby. First the youngest goat tried to cross, but the troll scared him off.”

  Errol shook his head and glanced at the line of customers.

  “Then the second goat tried to cross the bridge, but the troll scared him away too. Then the oldest Billy Goat Gruff went to cross the bridge. When the troll appeared he told the monster that he wasn’t scared of him and butted the troll right off the bridge and into the river.” Clay clapped his hands together and began laughing like it was the funniest story ever.

  Errol shook his head. “You crazy American shit. Fuck off and stop wasting my time.”

  “You don’t get it do you? See you’re the troll and—” Clay headbutted Errol full in the face. “I’m the goat. Pah, it’s no fun when you have to explain it.”

  The second bouncer hastily flicked a switch on the podium even as Errol fell to the ground. Then he launched himself at Clay.

  * * *

  Inside the club, Danny watched three bouncers respond to the alert call from the front entrance. They moved swiftly, pushing their way through the throng of partygoers. The boxer moved quickly too as he received the alarm call over his comms-unit. Danny knew that his brother would keep them all gainfully occupied for the next few minutes. As soon as the private door was left unguarded, Danny slipped into the room beyond.

  The music was muffled by the thickness of the door. Danny took a deep breath. The air was much cooler back here. He could hear yelling from his phone. He smiled as he heard Clay’s deep voice followed by the unmistakable sound of impact. “That’s one for you.” Slap! “And one for you.” Crack!

  Danny turned the volume to a lower setting. Clay sounded like he was having a ball. Danny looked around his new surroundings. He had expected storerooms, maybe an office, but he was surprised to find himself in a corridor lined with six doors, three on either side. He pushed one open and grimaced. It didn’t take a genius to deduce this must be where the rich and shameless came for extra services. He’d seen similar setups in a few strip clubs, though it was more unusual in a regular dance club. The décor of each room was identical, dark pink walls with soft vinyl seats spread along two walls. A series of large mirrors took up most of the third wall and ceiling.

  The six rooms all proved empty apart from room number four. The door stood slightly open and as he passed by, Danny saw a mop of auburn hair bobbing with a steady tempo in a man’s lap. The woman had a tattoo of a coiling serpent that traced the length of her spine. The serpent’s tail disappeared beneath a pair of purple hot pants. The guy had his eyes closed, his head tilted towards the ceiling.

  Danny moved on down the corridor, and round a corner. Beyond were more doors. He pushed open the first, and looked inside. A table was set with four glasses and two bottles of spirits, one vodka and one whisky.

  “Now where have you fuckers got to?” Danny whispered.

  A loud slap and a yell of pain pointed him in the right direction. Another doorway lay off to his left. Danny edged up to the door, angling himself to the side of the circular window set in it. Inside he saw stark white tiles and chrome racking. Crates of Cruzcampo, San Miguel, Heineken and Smirnoff were stacked from floor to ceiling.

  He ducked under the window and moved to the other side of the doorway. The new angle revealed that the storeroom was divided by a steel mesh fence that ran from floor to ceiling. It looked to be a secure lock-up that would be more in keeping with a warehouse than a club storeroom. Then he understood; this side of the room contained a very different kind of stock.

  A group of seven women huddled in front of Barcelo. One of them had a bright-red mark on her cheek, obviously the recipient of the slap. The other three Locos stood with their backs to the door. A sensation like ice water rapidly spread into the pit of Danny’s stomach.

  The oldest of the women must have been no more than twenty but most looked closer to fifteen. All of them had the same skinny, long-faced look to them. One of them was speaking in a language Danny didn’t understand, but the accent sounded Eastern European to his ears. It made a kind of screwed-up sense to him. Due to radical changes within the Eastern bloc countries, more and more women were lured west by the promise of a better life. It was a harsh reality check when they reached their destination. Instead of the honest job that had been promised, some women ended up in the hands of criminal syndicates.

  Cowering behind the woman who’d been slapped was a child. Her baggy T-shirt and jeans couldn’t hide the fact she was pre-pubescent. Her dark-rimmed eyes were filled with tears. She was repeating the same silent words over and over: maybe a prayer for help, maybe the woman’s name. She gripped the woman’s waist with both arms.

  If Danny had brought his pistol, the solution would have been four rapid shots. One round to the back of each Loco’s head, then another set of four just to be sure. He had a Buck Bantam knife discreetly tucked into the inside of his waistband but no firearm. There was a very strong chance that at least the two drivers would be armed, probably all four. Not acceptable odds. Gunn was never one to take a knife to a gunfight.

  The sound of another harsh slap follow
ed by the collective wail from the women made Danny’s lip curl in anger. Forcing himself not to kick the door open and charge in, he retraced his steps to the cubicles. He entered room number two and found what he was looking for within seconds.

  29

  The plastic cover of the air vent ripped away from the wall with a shower of flaked plaster but little noise. Inhaling the luxurious chilled air as it swept over him, Danny pulled one of the slim tubes from his pocket. The cardboard roll contained a mix of four simple powders. Ground sugar, baking soda, potassium nitrate and coloured dye powder. He’d found the first three in the kitchen of the Woo Hoo. The potassium nitrate was the meat-curing compound more commonly known as saltpetre. Dez the cook had told him he rubbed it into pork loin just as his mother had taught him. The black dye he had purchased along with various other items at the home improvement store.

  Mixed together into a paste and allowed to dry, they made a crude but very effective smoke bomb. The fuse was a shoelace soaked in petrol. The mixture he’d prepared had an intense sixty-second burn time. Long enough. He lit the fuse and rolled the tube deep into the open vent. The acrid plumes of smoke were swept into the air-conditioning system.

  He moved to the three opposite rooms and repeated the action. Within seconds streams of black smoke were pumping back through the vents into each adjacent room. Danny hit the fire alarm near the door that led back into the club. The couple from room four came out at a run. The hooker was first out and wasted no time on Danny. The guy followed, bent at the waist, still trying to button up his pants. As he passed he looked at Danny with wide eyes.

  “Coitus interruptus?” asked Danny.

  “Shit! I want my money back,” said the john.

  Danny quickly checked that the phone was still connected and gave a brief smile as he heard more howls of pain and loud curses in Spanish. Clay was keeping them entertained out front.

  Time to move.

  Even as he slipped back into the main nightclub, Danny heard the shouts of alarm go up. The thick smoke gusted into the club and achieved the desired response. Cries of “Fire!” soon rang out. Danny followed the crowds into the street.

  Outside, the bouncers had stopped trying to corner Clay who had been using the wooden podium as a battering ram. If the music had seemed loud it was nothing against the ear-splitting shrill of the fire alarm. A wide-eyed dancer, nearly naked, crossed her arms across her breasts as she declared, “El servicio de incendios esta viniendo!”

  And the fire service was indeed on its way.

  Danny pushed his way through the milling crowd. He passed the bleeding doormen, now ushering the Hot Pink patrons into the street. When he glanced over to the Toyota, Clay gave him a jovial wave from the front seat.

  “Did someone have the toaster set too high?”

  Danny spoke into the phone. “Something like that. I’ll be over in a minute.”

  The crowds parted as two fire engines arrived, their sirens at full pitch, adding to the cacophony of noise. No chance of sleep for anyone within a quarter of a mile. The fire crews surged out of the vehicles. Several girls crowded around the firemen while their friends used their phones to take pictures. The firemen didn’t seem too upset about the attention either. One of the older men spoke briefly with the bouncers and then entered the club followed by three of his team.

  Clay was chewing on a Valor chocolate bar when Danny returned to the Toyota. “The fire teams are speedy around here, I’ll give them that,” Danny said. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” Clay replied. “This is the best candy bar I’ve ever tasted. Spanish chocolate. Who knew?”

  “I meant after your tussle with the goon squad.”

  Clay just waved the chocolate in the air. “Friggin’ amateurs. A real bouncer from back home like Buffalo Joe would eat these guys for breakfast.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Clay swallowed. “What did you see in there?”

  “They had a back room full of young girls. I’m guessing skin trade. They were all just kids really. This lot are evil bastards, so whatever happens to them now is just karma.”

  “They come out yet?” asked Clay. “I haven’t seen them.”

  “Not out this way.”

  “Well maybe these guys will have something to say about it.” Clay pointed to the car now parking next to the fire engine. Two Guardia Civil troopers climbed out and began to move the crowd back from the club. They looked mean and businesslike. Unlike the firemen, the cops received no wolf whistles or offers of marriage.

  Five minutes later a firefighter emerged from the doorway holding one of the smoke bombs. The canister was spent. He shook his head and after a brief conversation, walked back inside with the police officers.

  “Exit stage right.” Danny pointed to Barcelo and his driver. They were hurrying back to the convertible Mercedes. The two other Locos were close behind, heading for the saloon. “Elvis has left the building. You can bet he won’t want to be around to answer questions if the cops find those girls.”

  “Oh, he won’t be going anywhere in the next half hour,” offered Clay.

  “Why not?”

  “It seems that someone stuck a knife into his tyres. It’s shocking, the blatant disregard some people have for the property of others.”

  “Cryin’ shame.”

  “I know. Man, I can hardly eat, I’m so upset. I’m thinking about sending him a condolence card; maybe something with puppies on.”

  “Gee, Clay, you’re so thoughtful.”

  “I know. Sometimes I amaze myself.”

  One of the police officers emerged from the club, a handkerchief pressed over the lower half of his face. He motioned to one of the men who’d fought with Clay and started speaking. The doorman began waving his hands in apparent denial and the cop stepped forward and grabbed him by the collar. The bouncer looked around the crowd and pointed reluctantly over at the two parked Mercedes.

  The second officer appeared and was busy talking into his radio.

  “I guess they may have found the girls after all,” said Danny.

  The policeman stiff-armed the doorman and stalked over to Barcelo. The officer looked like he recognised the boss and wasn’t impressed. As he moved, his hand hovered close to his service pistol.

  “Well, that cop doesn’t look like he’s a friend of the Locos,” said Danny.

  “Nice to know there are still good police on the job.”

  “There’re good men all over, just in shorter supply these days.”

  The cop had cornered Barcelo and his driver and was now barking questions at them both. The driver tried to object but was forced to raise his hands and sat back against the side of the car in defeat. Barcelo was talking fast and shaking his head, all the while pointing at the ruined tyres. His face increasingly reddened as he realised that the cop was less than concerned about the vehicles.

  A police riot van arrived within a few minutes. The Guardia Civil looked like they meant business as they moved the crowd back without much in the way of courtesy. After a few minutes of jostling the dancers away from the club entrance, a pair of cops entered the club once more and re-emerged minutes later with the group of young women that Danny had seen earlier. One cop led the way at the front of the group while the other acted like a sheepdog at the rear, hustling them forward. However, the cops hadn’t anticipated that as soon as the girls were outside they would all set off running in different directions. The cop at the rear had the youngest of the girls in his arms and held her tight. The trooper at the front of the line turned on his heel and quickly grabbed one of the other women but the majority were off down the street at a pace that would have made Usain Bolt nod in appreciation.

  Danny and Clay shared a smile. The girls were free, at least for a little while.

  “Well damn it. It’s just getting worse and worse for Spanish Elvis over there.”

  “Yeah, I can feel the tears startin’ to come,” laughed Clay. He produced another of the chocolate
bars and began eating.

  “Hey, I think Elvis is about to leave the building.” Danny pointed at Barcelo and the three other Locos who were being escorted by the first cop on the scene towards the waiting police van. The look on Barcelo’s face was one of unbridled fury.

  “That should keep him occupied for the night. The Spanish cops are stubborn bastards and they don’t kowtow to the lawyers like they have to in the States. I’m sure he’ll be in the lock-up for at least a couple of days while they try to sort out the case with those girls.”

  Clay looked at the child cradled in the cop’s arms. Her dark eyes were wide with fear. His stomach soured at the thought of her intended fate. “It’s the same all over the world. Same shit, different country.”

  “At least she’s safe tonight,” said Danny, his gaze never leaving Barcelo.

  “Ay-men to that, little brother.”

  “I should have just waited for those fuckers when the smoke started to blow. I could probably have taken all four with my knife. Left them bleeding out on the stockroom floor.”

  Clay popped another chunk of chocolate into his mouth. “Nah, you played it right, for now. I think you may have blood on your blade before this is done.”

  “Those fuckers have it coming.”

  “And ay-men to that too.”

  30

  Only once the police had left did Clay steer his vehicle away from the Hot Pink Club.

  Danny used the map app on his cell phone and directed Clay to the desired location a ten-minute drive from town. The perimeter roads around Ultima were almost deserted and they reached their destination without any problems. Clay positioned the car on a corner angle to avoid being spotted from the nearest two sides of the building.

  Danny slid out of the vehicle. “The club should be quiet by the time we get back, but just in case, you go first and let me know the coast is clear.”

  Clay ticked a finger to his forehead in a short salute and drove back the way they had come.