by Ash Parsons
Inside the club, music punched my ears.
On the stage, a girl twirled around a pole as red lights pulsed. A bar curved around the stage, where five men sat and watched her with the empty gazes of habitual drunks. Almost like they weren’t looking at anything at all.
Beast was already at the stage, pulling up a chair, eyes transfixed on the girl.
Music throbbed in time with the lights. To the left was a bar. I walked around it and found the others already sprawled in the recessed space Cesare had described.
“Ice!” Michael yelled over the thumping music. He whapped a hand on the seat beside him.
I threaded around the small cocktail table and chairs. Sat down next to him.
“See? Just like he said.” Michael nodded up at the camera bubbles on the ceiling.
“Impossible to tell if we’re on it or not,” I yelled over the music.
Michael shook his head. “We’re clear.” He checked his watch. “Just don’t get comfortable.”
“I never do.”
I glanced around again. Apart from the girl onstage and her paltry audience, there was a burly bartender and a waitress. Two doors in the opposite corner. One hung with beaded fringe, the other painted black like the walls.
The beaded one led backstage, no doubt. Private dance room, maybe, or a row of cheap mirrors and a bathroom. The black door led to the office. Where the safe was. And the security computer.
The bartender was another security type. Thickset with blunt fingers. The kind of guy you imagined would start panting after climbing a flight of stairs.
So all we had to worry about was everything we couldn’t see. How many girls in the back? How many workers in the kitchen? Who sat in the office? How many guns under the bar or tucked into waistbands?
Who was it, exactly, we were about to fuck with?
The waitress sauntered over to us. One of the guys at the stage tried to flag her down, but she’d already made us as the better tippers.
“What can I get you?” She licked her teeth at Michael.
Cyndra tracked her body in one glance. Dismissed her just as quickly.
The waitress’s eyes narrowed.
“We want a bottle of Jack.” Michael dug more bills out of his pocket. “And some shot glasses.”
“I can pour the shots, honey. You don’t need the bottle.”
“We want the bottle.” Michael’s voice hardened. “You can carry a shot to my friend at the stage, if that makes you happy.” He pointed at Beast, still slack-jawed and sitting near the pole.
“We’re not allowed to sell the bottle.”
Michael waved at her in a run-along gesture. “Go get the bartender. Let me talk to someone in charge.”
The bartender came over. Michael murmured in his ear and slapped bills in his palm.
The waitress came back, laid out some shot glasses and the unopened bottle of whiskey.
Everyone did shots.
I left mine on the table.
The waitress touched my bicep. “You want a dance, handsome?”
Something in Cyndra’s face made the waitress smile and move closer to me. “I’ll give you a dance if you want.”
Another person for sale.
“No thanks.” I picked up my shot glass.
The waitress pouted and turned to T-Man.
The music crescendoed. The girl onstage picked up her clothes and sway-walked off. Fog blew down from the ceiling as a new song started. A redhead, maroon-dark hair almost black in the dim light, stalked out.
The burst-balloon scent of chemical fog wafted over the tables.
The redhead attacked the pole like it could fight back. She looped around it, swung upside down.
“I want a dance!” Michael yelled over the music. “It’s my birthday!”
The waitress smiled at him and edged away from T-Man.
“Not you.” Michael tipped his head at the stage. “Her.”
The redhead righted herself, slid around the pole.
“She’s dancing,” the waitress said.
Michael snapped his fingers, an intentionally rude dismissal. “Go get her.”
The waitress stalked away and spoke to the bartender. He waved the bouncer over. Michael smiled at them when they looked at us. Waved another bill in the air.
The bouncer nodded and spoke to the waitress. She slammed her tray down on the bar. Stomped onto the stage, where the redhead froze in surprise.
The waitress spoke, gesturing to our corner.
Michael held up a bill for the redhead to see. She smiled, collected her dollars slowly, and came over. The waitress stayed on the stage and started to dance.
“I’m Blaze.” The redhead tossed burgundy hair over a shoulder.
“Michael,” he said. “It’s my birthday.”
Blaze nodded. “You want a special present?”
“Indeed I do.” Michael held out the money. Then leaned back, legs splayed, holding the whiskey bottle by the neck. A drunken grin spread across his face.
Blaze tucked the money away and stepped into the space between Michael’s legs. She started undulating, slow-twitching her hips and shoulders in time with the music.
Michael reached his free hand out.
Blaze leaned back, took his hand away. “No touching, Birthday Boy.”
Michael just smiled. Reached out and caressed her again.
“No touching,” Blaze began, moving to stand away from him. Michael’s hand shot out and fisted her long hair. Yanked her down. She fell across his lap, jostling into Dwight.
“Hey!” I stood and took one of Blaze’s arms to help her up.
“Let go!” Blaze screamed. The thumping music didn’t come close to covering it. She kicked out, foot connecting with Cyndra’s leg.
Cyndra yelled and grabbed her calf. The bouncer rushed over from his place by the door.
Michael shoved Blaze away as I pulled her up. She fell against me, knocking me back against the side of the bar.
“What the—” she yelled, pulling her arm away and shoving me hard. I held my hands up. The bouncer barreled in, grabbed Michael’s collar.
“You’re out, kid.”
Michael didn’t fight, just sat there, laughing. A dead weight as the bouncer hauled on him.
“She kicked me,” Cyndra yelled.
“Let go of him!” Dwight pressed in between Michael and the bouncer. They shoved each other.
“Cole!” the bouncer shouted. The bartender came around the bar, closing in on Dwight.
“You dick!” Blaze yelled at Michael. She picked a glass off the bar to hurl at his head. I pushed her arm up and back, twisting the glass out of her hand. Corralled her back with the force of the block. Opened my hands out at my sides.
Blaze’s eyes cut between the fighters and me. I turned aside slightly, put Blaze and the bar to my back.
The bartender took a swing at Dwight. Michael jumped up, his drunken-kid act disintegrating in a burst of clear-headed movement. He swung the whiskey bottle at the bartender’s head. It connected with a loud clunk but didn’t shatter.
The bartender fell in an unconscious heap. Michael swung on the bouncer. The bottle bashed his arm. The bouncer stumbled back, grabbing at the waistband of his pants.
T-Man tackled him, slamming him against the bar.
The bouncer screamed and fell to the ground grabbing at his back.
T-Man snatched a gun out of the bouncer’s waistband. Swung it between the bouncer and the unconscious bartender.
Michael pulled his gun out and fired a shot into the ceiling. Plaster and wood chips showered down.
The music thumped and roared, but everyone froze.
Michael hurled the whiskey bottle at the stage. The waitress ducked as it exploded against the cinder block wall behind her.
<
br /> Michael twitched the gun at the men seated beside the stage. “Get out,” he shouted.
They spilled out of their seats and dashed to the door. The waitress scooped up her clothes from the stage and followed.
Beast hurried to the door after them, knocking over a chair on the way. He locked the door after the last one left. Stood looking out the spy hole into the parking lot.
Dwight fished a gun off the unconscious bartender and gave it to LaShonda. She held it gingerly, like it would go off if she squeezed too hard. She ran to the kitchen. A moment later she reappeared, shook her head to show the room was empty, and disappeared behind the beaded curtain. The music cut off with a squawk.
She came back. “Anyone back there left when the gun went off. I locked the outside door.”
She moved to the black door and tried the knob. It was locked.
Blaze stood beside me, statue still.
“Dwight.” Michael gestured at the bouncer, rolling on the floor and clutching his back.
Dwight yanked the front of the bouncer’s shirt, pulling him half up. “We need the key and the combination.”
“What?” the bouncer gasped.
Dwight backhanded him. The crack of it echoed in the silent room.
The bouncer sobbed and began fumbling at his pocket. Dwight held a finger in his face. “Ah-ah. Hold it.” Dwight dug in the pocket. Brought out a ring of keys. He handed it to the bouncer.
“Which one?”
The bouncer fumbled, held up a single key. Dwight gave it to Cyndra and turned back to the bouncer. “Now. The combination to the safe.” He looped a finger into an ear gauge and yanked down.
The bouncer shouted, putting a hand to his ear.
“It’s not like it’s your money,” Dwight said. He ripped the gauge out. The bouncer screamed and clapped his hands to his torn ear.
“Twenty, seven, three, thirty-one, nineteen, four!” he screamed the numbers.
Dwight stood up. He pulled the backpack out of LaShonda’s purse. Then he strode across to where she stood by the black door. Taking the gun back from her, he fitted the key, and disappeared inside, gun drawn like a cop storming a room.
LaShonda followed him inside.
Michael smiled at me. He kept his gun pointed at the men on the floor. “See? You haven’t even had to do anything.”
Cyndra stood and moved a little closer. “It’s working.” Her voice was disbelieving. “It’s going to be all right.”
After a moment, LaShonda came out from the office. She ran to us. “No one else is here. And I trashed it. Just like you said. Dwight’s unloading the safe.”
Michael tipped his head at me.
I ignored him. Let my eyes flick around the empty club instead.
Dwight came out carrying the now-bulky backpack. He crossed the club and gave the pack to Michael.
“Nearly done here,” Michael said.
On the floor, the bartender moaned as he regained consciousness.
“T-Man, LaShonda, go out the kitchen. Get the van started.”
They left. Michael moved closer to the stage.
Dwight walked into the alcove. Waited near the bartender and bouncer, gun drawn.
“See, Jason?” Michael asked, flicking the gun at me, or Blaze beside me. “Almost done.”
On the floor, the bouncer curled, grabbing at his ankle. He pulled up the cuff of his pants leg. A second gun was strapped there.
“Get down!” I screamed. I twisted and lifted Blaze onto the bar. Pushed her over.
Shots boomed through the room. I ducked beneath the front of the bar.
The acrid tang of gunpowder mingled with the fading scent of club fog.
A groan and the crash of something big falling near the door behind me.
“Jason!” Cyndra screamed. I edged forward, around the corner of the bar where she crouched.
Cyndra’s eyes wavered between me and the bouncer lying facedown on the floor. A dark stain spread from his torso. His gun lay on the floor beside his hand.
Dwight stared at the motionless bouncer. He didn’t blink. The gun in his hand started to shake.
The bartender rolled and grabbed the bouncer’s gun. Lifting his shoulders off the floor, he aimed at Michael.
Michael shot first, and the bartender’s shot went wide. Cyndra screamed and fell sideways.
Something clawed my throat as I lunged for her. I pulled her to me, trying to twist her away from the next shot. She hissed as my hand gripped her upper arm.
Another shot rang out. The bartender howled and dropped the gun, clutching at his thigh. Red-black blood spurted between his fingers.
Michael lowered his gun and kicked the bartender’s away. “Blaze?” he yelled. “Have you called the cops yet?”
Silence from the other side of the bar.
Cyndra’s arm was bloody, but not serious. The bullet had either grazed her, or passed right through—close enough to the surface to avoid bone and artery.
I pulled my T-shirt off and ripped it. Tied a strip around her arm and helped her up off the floor.
Michael nodded. “Put her in my car.”
“I’m all right,” Cyndra said.
“That’s my girl,” Michael said.
My arm around her, we wove through tables and the swinging kitchen door into the grease-splattered kitchen. Kicked open the back door and helped her into Michael’s car.
In the distance, sirens howled.
T-Man and LaShonda watched me from the van. Their eyes were saucers.
“Have to get the keys,” I told her. “Be right back.”
I shivered and glanced at the gray-lit sky. Dawn was coming.
I shut the car door and ran back to the kitchen. As I opened the entrance, Dwight stumbled out. Michael pushed him forcefully toward the van. Dwight moved like a panicked sleepwalker—disoriented and unsure what was real.
Michael tucked the gun into his back waistband with one hand. The other held the backpack loosely.
Instinct made me grab the backpack. I hoisted it on my bare shoulder.
Michael’s lips twitched like he knew what I was doing and was trying not to smile about it.
“We got to GO!” T-Man yelled from the van. He grabbed Dwight’s arm and hauled him inside.
“Where’s Beast?” I asked Michael.
“Not coming.” He ran to his car.
“What?” Cyndra called from the passenger’s seat. “We can’t leave him!”
“Wait—just wait,” I told Michael. “I’ll get him. And if you leave without me, you’ll lose this.” I settled the backpack on both shoulders. Backed up, pivoting on my heel.
Inside, the building was silent. I ran through the kitchen.
Beast lay against the front door. His massive arms clutched over his wide stomach, a bloodstain widening beneath.
“Beast, come on.” I helped him sit up. Dragged his arm over my shoulder and pulled him to his feet.
“Michael shot me,” Beast panted as we staggered into the kitchen. “He said our guns weren’t even loaded. Blanks.”
“Shut up. Help me, will you?”
“Why’d he shoot me?” Beast sounded more mystified than hurt. As if he couldn’t process it—couldn’t believe that Michael had done it.
Needles prickled along my skin. The user and the used.
Beast fell suddenly, swerving onto me so hard that he knocked me to the ground. The air rushed out of my lungs. Beast propped himself up against the stove, groaning.
My ears rang from when my head hit the floor. I rose on my hands and knees. “Come on. Get up.” We struggled to our feet and staggered to the door. Beast wheezed.
I kicked the door open and hauled Beast out beside the Dumpster.
The van was gone.
So was the Mustang.
<
br /> CHAPTER THIRTY
For some reason, part of me was surprised. I stood there, swiveling my head around like a lost kid at a carnival, certain that Mom was just ahead, right there where I left her, and that she’d be right back for me.
I let Beast down, easing him against the wall until he was lying on the ramp.
I resettled the backpack against my bare skin.
“Knew it,” Beast said. “You should’ve left me, too.”
“Shut up.”
I scanned the parking lot, empty except for a few cars, knowing she wasn’t going to circle back.
“Seriously.” He kept talking even though you could tell it hurt. “Leave. I’m dead meat anyway.” He stopped, took a few deep breaths.
A siren screamed closer.
Getting caught wouldn’t be that bad. I wouldn’t have to worry about my father. I could just go to a juvie detention center—and that would be a piece of cake. But I couldn’t do that to Janie.
“Sorry, Beast,” I said, easing toward the scrubland behind the club.
He started coughing, slid backward until he lay flat. Then didn’t move.
My foot was already on the curb. I stopped, watching him.
“Beast?”
He didn’t answer. I stepped back from the curb, huddling close to the Dumpster.
“Beast!”
I took a step closer.
A cop car screamed into view, its siren echoing off the building. In just a minute, they’d find Beast. He’d get help soon.
Predawn light seeped slowly into the sky.
Janie.
I took off into the woods.
Knee-high grass whipped my legs. The crackle of dead leaves and the stomping of my feet felt like percussion blasts announcing where I was.
I waited for a shout behind me, for a warning shot. I waited for a bullet to catch me between the shoulders, knocking me to the ground and stopping my heart.
Nothing happened, except more sirens gathered in the stillness of the morning.
I came to a large creek. Splashed through the water, slipping on algae and cruddy sediment. The backpack grew heavier, pulling me off balance as I stumbled up the bank.
The sky grew lighter.