by Graham Smith
A hammer blow to the back of my head has me reeling forward. The guy I turn to face is the one who thinks he’s a boxer. Tempted as I am to prove him wrong with a sustained series of punches, I just want to get this over with.
His right hand snakes towards my head, I duck back and use the toe of my boot to lift his kneecap upwards. He yelps, and hops on his good leg with both hands wrapped around his broken knee.
One quick punch to his temple crumples him into an unconscious heap.
It’s taken me no more than ten seconds to drop these three, and it takes me another twenty to search them. I get the best part of five hundred bucks for charity, one gun, and a collapsible baton.
The collapsible baton goes in my pocket as I walk towards the entrance of the alleyway – I need more light for my next task.
I position myself where I can’t be ambushed and check out the gun. It’s an automatic. Guns are not my area of interest and as such I don’t know a lot about them.
I fiddle with it and find a lever that releases the magazine. I count the bullets in it. All seven of them.
There’s another lever, which I presume is a safety catch, but in this light, I can’t see which way is on and which is off.
I return to the three bozos and reach into the right pocket of Gunman’s hoodie for the lighter I’d felt earlier.
It sparks on the first flick of the wheel, and illuminates the gun enough for me to ensure the safety catch is on. I stuff the gun into the waistband of my jeans, cover it with my shirt and, for the first time in my life, set off to commit murder.
58
I dump my hoodie in a trash can and cross the street. The neon lights of The Elite Club flash in a cursive script that suggests familiarity and welcome.
Like titty bars everywhere, there’s a person on the door who resembles a gorilla that’s been levered into a suit, and fed a regular diet of steroids until the suit bulges at every seam.
There’s red rope hanging from brass pedestals to give the illusion of class. As if class can be associated with disillusioned women painting on fake smiles and stripping for men they would normally cross the street to avoid.
A bunch of guys wander towards The Elite Club and the gorilla lets them in. I might be a half block away, but I can tell from the way they’re shouting and laughing that they’re liquored up.
I approach the door and wait for the gorilla to step aside. He gives me a long, hard look; I know he’s looking at my scar, trying to work out how much trouble I might be. I keep my face neutral and voice polite when I ask what the entrance fee is. The last thing I need is for him to refuse me.
The gorilla moves out of my way, so I pay the bored-looking woman in the kiosk and walk into the strip club.
It’s as bad as I’d expected. All the tropes are there in evidence. Red flocked wallpaper adorned with pictures of models who’d refuse to set foot in here, let alone perform a strip.
The bar is long and in need of some maintenance, let alone a thorough cleaning. When I look at the seats I see a synthetic covering that may, just may, have resembled leather when it was installed.
Bad music is blasting out with an emphasis on the bass. I guess it’s that way to give the dancers a rhythm, or it would be if any of them were actually in time with the music. Every one of them is dancing to a different beat with a fixed smile and a marked lack of sensuality.
I buy a soda and take a seat at the back of the room to observe things. The girls range from nearly pretty to somewhat attractive. They aren’t ugly, they’ve just buried their true selves beneath a thick layer of cosmetics.
An inspection of the security arrangements confirms two roving doormen, six CCTV domes, and a pair of doors with electronic keypads.
Another look at the bar makes me reassess my count of the doormen – two of the bartenders are also big enough to stop most patrons who decide to act out.
I take a sip of my soda and ponder on the cliché that is organised crime and strip clubs. It’s like one can’t exist without the other. I guess it’s because they are a good way to launder money, and recruit girls into prostitution, while providing criminals with a steady income.
Whatever the case may be, The Elite Club is owned by Cameron’s employer and is the place he was always summoned to when his boss wanted him.
Alfonse has done a thorough search on the name Cameron gave me. Olly Kingston features on a few business pages here and there but, even when Alfonse had dug deep, he’d found nothing to suggest that Kingston was anything other than a self-made man. This tells me he’s clever, well-connected, and has enough steel about him to hold an elevated position in a very dangerous industry.
The one thing Alfonse couldn’t find, was an address. Cameron was no use on that front either – he’d always met Kingston at one of his businesses. He may have been trusted – wrongly, as he proved – but he either wasn’t close enough, or liked enough, to be invited to his boss’s home.
Cameron’s insistence that Kingston likes to be known as The King, implies delusion regarding his status, or a serious obsession with Elvis Presley.
I see one of the girls wander among the rows of seats. Her eyes flit back and forth as she seeks out a likely target. I’m given a half-second glance as she moves on to the bunch of guys I’d seen entering before me.
A moment later she’s leading one of them by the hand towards the private booths.
They emerge a song later with him grinning like someone who’s just been promoted from village to town idiot, and her already looking for her next mark.
59
A dancer approaches me and introduces herself as Mandi-with-one-I. Despite her having two eyes, I can’t help but think of her as Cyclops.
‘You okay, sugar? You been sat here all on your lonesome and you ain’t had no company.’
‘I’m fine.’ I give her a tight smile.
‘Sure you are.’ The hand she lays on my leg is warm and has false nails that resemble talons. ‘A twenty buck dance from me will make you even better.’
If I let her dance for me, I’ll blend in.
‘Thanks, but no thanks.’
Not only do I want to stand out, but strip bars have never been my thing. I have no interest in paying a woman to take her clothes off for me. Even less so when I’m avenging a murdered girlfriend.
I watch Cyclops as she walks away. She turns her head to the barman and gives it a little shake.
The barman plays it cool, but two minutes later he’s chatting to one of the roving doormen.
It takes a few minutes, but the roving doorman eventually speaks to a dancer who is wearing a long silky dress.
She doesn’t look my way, but she does work her way round the room until she’s heading in my direction.
As she approaches me, I give her a thorough appraisal. She’s the most attractive girl in here by a considerable distance. She moves with a seductive sway and she has the quiet confidence of a woman who’s used to manipulating men. In another time and place, I know I’d find myself attracted to her.
When a guy goes into a titty bar and doesn’t engage with the titties, or the bar, people notice. When the right people in a bar notice something, they get antsy. When people get antsy, they react. Sending the best-looking girl in the place over here, is their reaction.
She takes the same seat that Cyclops had and crosses one leg over the other, causing the slit in her dress to part enough to give me a good view of her upper thigh.
She doesn’t speak as she returns my appraisal. Her eyes lock on to my new scar; that’s the reason the scar is there.
It’s a focal point, not just for the eyes, but also the memory. Anyone I encounter tonight will be able to describe my scar in detail, but when pressed about the shape of my nose and jaw, or the colour of my eyes, they’ll struggle to recall details.
She curls her lips apart and uses a forefinger to caress them, before dropping her hand back in her lap. ‘You’ve got us puzzled, mister.’
Her words are an
opening gambit, in what I’m sure will become a discussion about why I’m not having any dances. Or why I’m not sitting near enough to gawp at the girls doing lazy gyrations on the stage. Perhaps she wants to know why I’m not drinking alcohol.
‘I’m a puzzling kind of guy.’
‘You sure are. You’re not interested in the girls, and you’re not hitting the beer – despite stinking of whisky.’ She slides her tongue from left to right between plump lips. ‘So, Mr Puzzle, why are you here?’
‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘Who?’
‘Nobody you know.’ That might be a lie, but while I have no cares about henchmen and muggers getting hurt, I don’t want to see any innocents harmed.
‘Are they meeting you here?’
‘Possibly.’ I give a nonchalant shrug and adjust my position so the gun isn’t digging into my back. ‘I’m waiting to see what happens.’
She gives a nervous smile. ‘Can I interest you in a dance?’
I shake my head.
The girl stands and leans over me. At first, I think she’s trying to use the view I’m getting down her dress to change my mind about the dance, until she opens her mouth. ‘Please leave. They’ll hurt you if you don’t.’ Her words are little more than a breathy whisper.
‘Thanks.’
I wait until she’s crossed the room then haul myself to my feet. It’s time I got another soda.
60
I watch as one of the bartenders leaves the bar and speaks to a roving doorman. As soon as the bartender pulls back a half step, the doorman walks to the entrance.
The suited gorilla walks in and scans the room. His eyes find the bartender, who’s standing by the DJ’s booth.
A moment later the bartender is walking my way, with the gorilla following at his heel like a well-trained puppy.
He stops a respectful distance away and gives me the once over. It’s nothing more than a show. He’s sent two dancers my way, so he’s aware of what I look like and has the information I want him to have.
The gorilla at his heel is also for show. He wants me to feel intimidated. If he thinks that King Kong’s baby brother is going to scare me, he’s very much mistaken.
‘Good evening, sir.’ The bartender motions at the seat opposite mine. ‘Do you mind if I join you for a brief chat?’
‘Be my guest.’ I slump back in my seat to show how unconcerned I am. ‘What would you like to chat about?’
‘Your presence here. You’ve told my colleague that you’re waiting for someone. May I enquire as to whom it is you’re waiting for?’
Like his polite words, the tone used by the bartender is neutral and respectful. This informs me that I’m not yet deemed a threat. The gorilla is there to make sure I don’t become one. Or at least, that’s what he expects to happen.
‘Actually, he’s just arrived.’
The bartender looks over his shoulder, then back at me with a puzzled expression.
I clear up the confusion by pointing at him. I’m still mostly prone on the fake leather couch so he gives a thin smile.
‘If you were looking for me, then you coulda just asked someone. The guys here know who I am.’
I nod. ‘True. Problem is, I didn’t know your name. Still don’t. Didn’t even know it would be you that I wanted to speak to.’
‘I’m sorry, but you’ve lost me. Is it me you’re looking for or not?’
‘I’m looking for the person in charge of this place. If it’s you, then I’ve found who I’m looking for. If not, I’ll have to ask you to lead me to them.’
His expression darkens, and he straightens up. ‘I’m in charge. What do you want me for?’
‘To see how much this place is selling for.’
He throws back his head and guffaws. The gorilla laughs too, although I doubt he’s bright enough to have understood the conversation.
‘You’ve had a wasted trip, buddy. The Elite Club. Is not. For sale.’
I figure he’s emphasised those last four words for the gorilla’s benefit rather than mine.
My eyes never leave his as I give a series of slow nods. ‘I think you’ll find that it is for sale. The people I represent have decided that they would like to buy The Elite Club. Therefore, it is for sale.’
‘And exactly who do you represent?’
I toss him a name. It’s amazing what you can find on the internet when you have a friend who’s as good at running searches as Alfonse is.
The bartender blanches and I don’t blame him. He works for a guy who runs a sizeable portion of Queens. The name I’ve just given him controls all the Bronx.
There’s a change in the bartender’s expression. All pretence of politeness is gone as he looks at me with a shrewder focus.
‘You’re not one of their men. There’s no way they would employ an Englishman.’
I raise a hand in a halting gesture. ‘I’m Scottish. And if you ever call me English again, I’ll pour a pint of gasoline down your throat and throw lit matches at you.’
The gorilla takes a step forward, but the bartender waves him back. ‘I apologise. I took a guess. No offence was intended.’
His words would be mollifying were it not for the look in his eyes. He doesn’t trust me.
‘I am who I say I am, and if you want to sit there insulting me, then I won’t bother suggesting that we buy this place.’ For the first time in the conversation, I add a snarl to my voice. ‘Instead, I’ll prepare a hostile takeover.’
The bartender doesn’t flinch.
‘Nice try, buddy, but I’m not buying what you’re shovelling. There isn’t going to be a sale, or a hostile takeover. This place isn’t on the market. If it were, I’d know.’
I hand him my cell. ‘Call The King and tell him what I’ve just told you. Then we’ll find out if this place is for sale.’
‘I’ll call him, but not here.’ He stands. ‘I’ll call him from the office; you’re welcome to listen.’
His words are a direct challenge. If I were who I’m implying, I wouldn’t fear going somewhere private with him and his pet gorilla. On the other hand, if I’m some random chancer, there’s no way I’d be stupid enough to take that level of risk.
It’s a lot of years since I backed down from a challenge.
I stand and put a happy expression on my face. ‘Finally, we’re getting somewhere.’ I gesture towards the two key-padded doors. ‘After you.’
He leads, I follow. The gorilla follows me.
By the time we get to the office, one of the roving doormen has fallen in behind the gorilla.
Three against one isn’t the worst odds I’ve faced but, in a cramped office, there isn’t a lot of room for manoeuvre when one of the room’s occupants fills almost half the space.
I lean nonchalantly against a wall as the bartender goes towards the cluttered desk. The office is a functional one. It has painted block walls and a number of filing cabinets. Cameron told me about a second office, which has a boardroom table, where he would meet Kingston and his lackeys whenever a face-to-face was required.
As soon as the barman hears the click of the door closing behind the roving doorman, he whirls and throws a shot at me.
He connects.
But not with me.
I’m wise enough to anticipate a sudden attack, so I push myself backwards in time for him to miss me, and thump his fist into the block wall.
The crack of his knuckles breaking is followed by a yelp of pain.
As the bartender is cursing I throw a kick at his knee and an elbow towards the gorilla.
The kick connects but the elbow doesn’t.
Something akin to a freight train collides with my ribs, and I see a cheerful smile on the gorilla’s ugly face. This is what he likes: attacking smaller men and inflicting pain on them. He’s even got a buddy as backup should he need any help. Perhaps the buddy is just here to observe the beating so the gorilla has someone who can support his retelling of the event.
I bounce
off the wall and back towards the gorilla. Using my forward momentum, I arch my back and plant my forehead on his chin. Head-butts are best aimed at the nose but, short of jumping, there’s no way I’m tall enough to connect.
He roars and comes at me with his arms held wide.
I don’t have time to do much but drop to my knees. As the gorilla’s arms swoop over my head, I throw an uppercut at his balls.
He grunts and doubles over. I repeat the blow and force my way up between him and the wall.
I push the gorilla and he falls over the prone bartender.
With them both vulnerable, I whip the sharpening steel from my sleeve. I’m just about to crash it down on their limbs when the roving doorman speaks.
‘That’s enough!’ His voice isn’t quite a yell, but it’s not far off. ‘Drop the weapon.’
I glance at him and decide to do what he says. After all, he’s the one with the gun.
There are soft moans coming from the gorilla, and curses from the bartender, but it’s the roving doorman I’m listening to.
I think about the gun nestling in the small of my back. It’s accessible, but I don’t for one minute think I can whip it out, take aim, and shoot the doorman before he pulls his trigger.
He motions for me to sit in the office’s chair.
I sit.
He throws a left cross at me that reopens the split on my lip and loosens a tooth. Considering it’s his weak hand, it’s a good solid punch.
I straighten my head and look at him. ‘Is there any need? Your buddies jumped me. I defended myself. Now you’re waving a gun around like you’re John Wayne.’ I shake my head and make sure I have eye contact with him. ‘The people I represent will not be happy about this. You can make it easy on yourself by putting that gun down right now.’
‘No way.’
There’s uncertainty in his tone, so I try again. ‘I’m telling you. Keeping that gun on me is a very bad idea. Either you’ll shoot me, which will start a turf war, or you’ll miss me, and I’ll kill you before I leave this room. The longer you have that gun aimed at me, the shorter your life expectancy gets.’