Suicide Lounge (Selena Book 3)

by Greg Barth

  “Battery’s about gone,” she said.

  “Could we get a charger for it?”

  “I’m sure we could find one.”

  “Lots of people carry this kind, right?”

  I tapped at the screen and scrolled through the apps. He had some crazy shit on there. One that stood out was simply named, “Tracker.” I tapped on it. The app activated. A map filled the screen. One point was our current location, the location of the phone. But another point on the map flashed, a place far away from where we were.

  “Yeah, it’s a common phone. We could get a charger easy.”

  “That pilot was a smart kid,” I said. “I know where the drugs are.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ray Gun put some kind of tracking device in the bag.”

  “Why?”

  “Probably looking out for his own best interests. It’s not like he had a lot of reason to trust us on his first run. We could have ripped him off. Anything could happen.”

  “Anything did.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you know where the package is from looking at this phone?”

  “Yeah.” I tapped at the blinking dot on the map. “I was there a few days ago.”

  THIRTY

  Selena

  CROWBAR WALKED UP to his apartment carrying a bag from the liquor store. Cheeks pockmarked and eyes dark, dressed in his worn, black windbreaker, his thinning hair blew in the late summer breeze.

  We watched from Enola’s Explorer in the apartment complex across the street as he climbed up the outside staircase to his room.

  We got out of the car. Each of us carried a duffle bag. Enola’s was empty; mine held a shortened version of the 16 gauge, single-shot shotgun, sawed down and filed back at our motel room.

  She took the lead, and I hobbled along behind with my cane as we crossed the street to Crowbar’s apartment. Enola went up the stairs slowly so I could keep up. When we got to his door, I stood off to the side, out of sight.

  Enola knocked. I heard his footsteps approach, then a metallic click as he unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Hey there, girl. How you holding up? I’m so sorry to hear about your club burning down like that.”

  “Can I come in?” Enola said.

  I opened the bag and took out the shotgun.

  “Uh, sure. Come on,” he said.

  Enola stepped through the door.

  I came around the corner and stepped inside right behind her. “Cut the shit.” I pointed the shotgun at Crowbar’s chest.

  His eyes widened.

  Enola stepped to the side. She dropped her bag on the couch.

  “Surprised?” I said. “Sorry to see me?”

  “How did you—”

  “Let’s just say my tolerance is higher than you thought.”

  “Yeah? You don’t look so good.”

  “I’m good.” I gestured toward the table in the dining area between the living room and kitchen. “Sit down.”

  He sat. “You’re not going to kill me.”

  “I just might.”

  “No. You won’t. That would be murder, Amanda.”

  “You really don’t know me, Crowe.”

  “I know you well enough to know you don’t have it in you.”

  I thumbed back the hammer of the shotgun. I took a seat across the table from him. I kept the barrel lined up with his chest. “If you knew who I was, you’d shit yourself right now.”

  “You’re just one of Ragus’ whores.”

  I glared at him from across the table for a good thirty seconds. I held the shotgun steady, pointing it at his chest. I broke the silence with a soft voice. “Bob, I need you to listen carefully. I’m going to tell you a story. You’ll like it. It’s very short, and it has a nice twist at the end. It goes like this: Once upon a time, there was a mighty man named Joe Faranacci. Everyone was afraid of him. That is, until some girl killed him. And I’m that girl. The end.”

  He cocked his head to the side. “You…” he said. He squinted, his face contorted with confusion. “But…” His face paled. “No…no, no…”

  Enola’s jaw dropped. She looked at me and took two steps back. She covered her mouth with one hand. “Selena?”

  “You…just can’t be…”

  “You can say it, Bob. Selena. I’m Selena.”

  “Oh…fuck…oh god.” Crowbar’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

  Enola backed away a couple more steps.

  “You’re fucked, Bob,” I said.

  He swallowed. “What do you want?”

  “That guy that was with you that night. What’s his name again?”

  “Uhm…”

  “It’s better if you tell me.” I knew his name already. Crowbar introduced us that night.

  “Deke. And he was doing you a kindness.”

  “A kindness? Now you’re just being funny, aren’t you? Because it felt like he was choking me out so you could kill me. Where’s the kindness in that?”

  “You don’t understand. He was—”

  “He’s with Mozingo’s crew? Right?”

  “Yeah. Right hand man.”

  “Nice. You’re doing real good, Bob.”

  “Amanda…” He closed his eyes.

  “You can call me Selena. It’s okay. And don’t beg, Bob. We’re not to that part yet. Don’t worry. We’ll get there.”

  “Please…”

  I looked over at Enola. She looked nervous. “Sweetie, could you be a dear and bring Mister Crowe here something to drink?”

  “Uh…sh…sure.” She walked quickly to the kitchen and opened a few overhead cabinets until she found a glass. There was a bottle of Grey Goose on the counter.

  Enola filled the glass and placed it on the table next to Crowbar.

  He opened his eyes. “You don’t…have to do this…Amanda. Please.”

  “Drink,” I said.

  His hand trembled as he raised the glass to his lips. Part of the vodka spilled onto his shirt.

  “Can’t we just—”

  “Where can I find Deke?”

  “Amanda—”

  “It’s Selena, Bob. Remember?”

  “Selena…I…”

  “You can tell me. Be real nice if you did.”

  Tears welled up in his eyes. “I…uh…”

  “Address.”

  He told me the street, the name of the hotel, and the room number. “He stays with his girlfriend there.”

  “And where’s Mozingo staying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Bob. You were doing so good.”

  “I swear to Christ. Nobody knows except Deke. Now please, just—”

  “You did okay, Bob. Thank you for that. Now. Take another drink and steady yourself. You need to clear your mind.”

  “For…for what?”

  “We were good friends, you and me. I gave you handjobs. You gave me shots. It was real nice. Think of the fun we had together.”

  “We were…friends,” he said.

  “So I want you to take a nice long drink and steady yourself. We only have a few minutes left before I have to go, and this next part is important. I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s the most critical moment you’ve ever faced. Because, Bob, this is the part where I’m going to let you beg for your life. Okay? It’s important that you do your very best. You’ve got a lot riding on it.”

  “Amanda—”

  “Selena,” I said.

  “Selena, please. Just…please…don’t…don’t…”

  “Drink, Bob. You have to drink.”

  Tears pooled against his lower eyelids. They overfilled his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. “No,” he said.

  I looked him dead in the eye. “You have to drink.”

  He picked up the glass, looked at the clear liquid, and pressed the glass to his lips. He leaned back in his chair and drained the glass in one gulp.

  I fired the shotgun. He took the full blast in the chest. The chair flipped
backwards, spilled him onto the floor. The smell of burnt gunpowder stung my nostrils. My ears rang from the blast.

  “Enola?” I said.

  She came to my side. “Yes?”

  I broke open the shotgun, put the spent shell in my pocket and reloaded. “Take your bag and fill it with all the drugs and pharmaceutical shit you can find in here. Might as well make this a robbery while we’re at it.”

  “Uhm…yeah…” She grabbed her bag from the sofa and went through the apartment.

  “Make it fast. Everybody heard that shot.”

  I got up and hobbled around to the other side of the table. Crowbar lay on the floor on his back. His unfocused eyes open, seeing nothing. “Know who you’re fucking with now, don’t you old boy,” I said.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Selena

  A YOUNG WOMAN with long dark hair and glasses answered my knock at the hotel room door. She looked vaguely familiar. She opened the door only a crack, her eyes puffy like she’d been crying. Mascara stained her cheeks.

  “Amanda?” she said. She opened the door wider. “I’m sorry, I thought you were…I mean…”

  “You thought I was dead.”

  “Uh, yeah. You…you want to come in?” She stepped to the side.

  “Thank you.” I walked through the door. Her bags were packed and placed in a neat row on the bed. The room smelled of strong cleaning chemicals.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “They’re moving me to another room. This one is…uhm…”

  “Where’s Deke?”

  “What do you want him for?” She sniffled.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sloane. I’m Sloane.

  “Have I seen you somewhere before, Sloane?”

  She grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. “I saw you one night at the club. I accidentally walked in on you and that man in one of those—” Her eyes watered up.

  “That’s right. I was in the VIP room with Crowbar. That was the night I…”

  “Uhm…yeah. You took me to the ladies room and you collapsed. I was terrified. I called 911, then I got your friend behind the bar.”

  “You called 911 for me?”

  She sniffled. “I was worried. I thought…I don’t know. I guess part of me thought it would be better for you to go that way than for Mozingo to get at you, but I just couldn’t…”

  “Thank you, Sloane,” I said. “How do you know Deke?”

  “Deke’s my man. You want to sit down?”

  I took a seat in the armchair in the corner facing the bed. “Deke tried to kill me.”

  “I know.” Fresh tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks. She reached for a tissue, but the box was empty.

  “I need to talk to him about that.”

  “He’s at the hospital. He’s been hurt real bad.” She started sobbing.

  “What happened?”

  Her head dropped, body jerked with sobs. I got up, grabbed a roll of tissue from the bathroom, and brought it to her. She peeled off a piece and dabbed her eyes with it.

  “His boss, John Mozingo. Cut him up with his knife.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “He’s not conscious. May not wake up at all. If he does, he’ll probably go to prison. He just finished his parole, but still…” She blew her nose on the tissue. Her eyes were wet, her cheeks red.

  “Why’d Mozingo do that?”

  She looked up at me. “It had something to do with you. He didn’t like the way Deke handled things with you.”

  “Well, I’d say he did a pretty good job of things, except for the not killing me part. I can see how Mozingo might think that’s a failure.”

  “No. They thought you were dead.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “You don’t know how Mozingo is.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He’s sick. Likes to cut people up and do horrible things to them. I think he wanted to do that to you, and felt Deke…took that from him.”

  “That is sick.”

  “I set the cops on him. Told them everything. Everything. Nothing about Deke, but Mozingo stands no chance. They know who he is, what he’s done, where he’s staying…”

  “Did they get him?”

  “I don’t know..”

  “Will he come back for you?”

  “I don’t know,” Sloane said. “I…I shot Deke’s pistol at him.”

  “You did good.”

  “Think so?”

  “Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, I have a score to settle with Deke, but you…you called 911 for me. You defended your man. You’re good people in my book, Sloane.”

  “That doesn’t stop Mozingo.”

  “I think I know where he’s hiding.”

  “How could you know that?”

  “I’ve been there before.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Well, since I can’t talk to Deke today, I think I’ll go pay a visit to Mozingo.”

  “And do what?”

  “I’m planning on killing him, Sloane.”

  “You need any help?”

  I bit my lower lip. “Maybe. What kind of phone charger do you have?”

  “Excuse me?”

  ***

  “You see how the road winds around here?” The three of us hovered over the display of Ray Gun’s smartphone. We sat at a concrete picnic table by the motel pool, each of us with a cigarette burning in the ashtray.

  “Yeah,” Enola said.

  “It curves around this way, and it’s closest to this flashing dot.”

  “But what’s the flashing dot?” Sloane said. “I mean, I know it’s the shipment and maybe the money too, but what’s the place?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to get closer to find out. It may be their garage. I doubt they’d put it in their clubhouse. But they’ve got a couple trailers back there, some dog kennels. I don’t know what else. I don’t think they cook anything there on the property.”

  “You went there,” Enola said. “What sticks out in your mind?”

  I chuckled. “They’ve done up the walls inside their clubhouse in a whole…I don’t know…let’s just call it a feminine shade of pink.”

  “A what?” Sloane said.

  “You’d have to see it. I mean, there’s a lot of…lady flange in there. Trust me. None of us are butch enough to appreciate it. It’s, well…”

  “What about fences? Guards? That kind of thing.”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “Still, they may have somebody watching the stash,” Sloane said.

  “Not if I draw their attention. Take some bolt cutters just in case there’s a padlock. You’ll go armed. We’ll get some camouflage hunting clothes for you to put on. If you can’t get in, you can’t get in. Worth a try, though.”

  “Of course it’s worth a try,” Enola said. “I’m more worried about you. How are you going to draw their attention, and how will you get out?”

  “I’m not worried about it.”

  “They won’t let you go in there armed. It’d be suicide,” Sloane said.

  “I’m not worried about that either,” I said.

  “She’s not worried about it.” Enola sounded bitchy.

  “I will need to borrow somebody’s car, though.”

  “You can take my convertible,” Sloane said. “We can use the Explorer to haul the stuff in.”

  “You’re only going to get to make one trip,” I said. “The two of you may not be able to carry all of it. Take the car. It’s faster. I’ll be okay in the Explorer.”

  “Then what?” Enola said.

  “I meet you at the airport. I won’t be far behind.”

  “We have to do this tonight?” Enola said.

  “Think about it.”

  “Your guy from Vegas. Shit.”

  I nodded. “Walk with me.” Enola followed me to the awning by the pool. We stood in the shade. I took her hands. “We’re going to be okay,” I said.

  “You mean it? Really mean it?”<
br />
  “Mozingo and the Vegas guys won’t be a problem this time tomorrow. I promise.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “You said ‘we’ are going to be okay.” She looked down a second. She looked back up. “I don’t want you to leave me.”

  “Hey, come here.” I put my arms around her and held her close. She was taller than me so my nose went into that soft place between her collarbone and her neck. Her perfume was intoxicating. More than that. I never wanted to move away from that spot. Not ever.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Selena

  I PULLED OFF at a truck stop to get ready. There wasn’t much that needed to be done. I didn’t want to go into battle sore. I would need to move fast, and I couldn’t have pain slowing me down. I also couldn’t go in fucked up on Percocets.

  There were a couple of reasons I wanted to take the Explorer. For one, I wanted access to Crowbar’s pharmaceuticals in the back. I rifled through them until I found some Oxys and a bag of coke. I cut up one of the pills and snorted it, then sipped from a bottle of water while the powder tickled the soft tissue of my nasal cavity. I gave it a minute to be absorbed into my bloodstream through my sinuses, then piggybacked it with a hit of coke. Just a bump.

  I fixed my hair back in a ponytail to keep my eyes clear and double tied my sneakers. I was wearing a white pullover shirt. If there was blood, I wanted it seen. I wore my denim shorts as well.

  My second reason for wanting to bring the Explorer was in the glove box. It wouldn’t go with my outfit, but I didn’t expect anyone to care.

  “Here we go,” I mumbled, and pulled the truck onto the highway. I didn’t have to go far.

  The road to the clubhouse was unchanged from the day I first saw it from the back of Smokey’s Harley. Ancient, gnarled oaks lined either side; their stout, moss-covered limbs loomed overhead, forming a natural tunnel the dusty road passed through. Sunlight pierced the limbs and sliced long, narrow slits across the shadowed road. Smashed liquor bottles, beer cartons, shit-stained diapers, and tire carnage served in place of guardrails along the ditch. Blackened stone rings, the remnants of campfires from devilish rallies long past, dotted the leaf-covered forest floor. Needles, razors, glass pipes and all the other paraphernalia associated with the lifestyle littering the dirt under the leaves. Cigarette butts. Teeth. Bones. Flaccid condoms, but only if the woman on the receiving end brought her own. Any outlaw biker caught with a rubber would be on the wrong end of a shit kicking in a heartbeat.