Gideon

by Grant Rosenberg

  What next move? This was insanity! It wasn’t too late to turn back, to forget this crazy idea. Once again, she considered dropping this whole thing in Pete’s lap. He’d figure how to deal with Moretti and, at the same time, somehow keep her father’s reputation clean. Pete was smart and he loved her. He’d move heaven and earth to make this all work.

  As Kelly dug her phone out of her purse, she heard someone yell, “Yo, T!” She turned to see Moretti give the doorman a fist bump, slip him some cash, and glide into the club. Her blood instantly ran cold. A tremor rippled through her body and her hands began to shake. She’d been fooling herself thinking she could go through with this.

  She was about to call Pete, but was momentarily distracted by the photo on her home screen. A twelve-year-old Kelly with her arm around her sister Jess, mugging for the camera. It was her favorite picture of the two of them. Less than a year later, their mother would be raped and bludgeoned and Jess would be bashed into a vegetative state.

  The memory steeled Kelly’s resolve. Moretti didn’t commit those acts of violence, but if guilty, his crime was equally heinous… the death of her father.

  She slipped her phone back into her purse.

  Every journey, even one as insane as this, began with a single step.

  Kelly took hers.

  46

  The Patch ticked every box of the things Kelly hated about dance clubs: the aggressive darkness split by blinding shafts of ever-moving colored beams of light; the blasting, mega-amped pounding bass notes that made her physically nauseous; and the tightly packed bodies that triggered an intense feeling of claustrophobia, or worse, being buried alive. The legal capacity of The Patch was four hundred, but like most clubs, they squeezed in twenty percent more customers. The owners were happy to roll the dice that the City Fire Marshal wasn’t going to cruise in on a Monday night and do a head count.

  The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, weed (even though smoking was strictly prohibited) and pheromones. Of the five hundred people in the club, four hundred and fifty of them were hoping to get laid that night. It was like being in a warehouse teeming with over-sexed, salivating male dogs and flirtatious bitches in heat, all doing a ritualistic mating dance that involved watered-down cocktails and inane conversation shouted over thunderous music.

  Kelly was unsuccessfully attempting to navigate her way though an undulating throng of bodies moving en masse to mind-numbing House Music. She had something called a Spaniel Spritzer in her hand. One taste of the bitter concoction was all she could stomach, but she carried it as a prop.

  She hadn’t known what to expect once she was inside, but with the passing of each second she felt more out of her depth. How was she going to find Moretti? Between the cacophony, the noxious smell of Paco Rabanne, and the sweaty horde, Kelly became disoriented.

  As she shuffled forward, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun around, imagining Tommy Moretti at the other end of the hand, but instead she was face to face with Josh Friedman, the man she’d met at the restaurant with Alexa. Damn it! If Josh were to tell Alexa that he’d spotted Kelly at The Patch, it would raise a plethora of questions, none of which Kelly was ready to answer. Questions she’d never be ready to answer.

  Josh wore a broad sloppy smile and was doing a yeoman’s job keeping his shit together, even though he was clearly loaded. “You look really familiar,” he slurred.

  It suddenly dawned on Kelly that she was in disguise. She’d only met Josh the one time and she’d looked completely different. Plus, Josh’s mind was currently blanketed by a layer of dense fog that showed no indications of lifting any time soon. With a little luck, she’d be able to pull this off without any collateral damage.

  Kelly lowered her voice an octave or two and drew upon her time in Boston to speak in a semi-believable Massachusetts accent. “I don’t think so. Anyway, I’m here with somebody.” As she spoke, she wondered if her voice sounded as ridiculous to Josh as it did to her.

  Josh bobbed his head up and down. “That’s cool. So am I.” He nodded toward the bar and Kelly caught sight of a woman with wavy brown hair that contravened the rules of science by lustrously shining in the dim light. The woman was facing away from them, but Kelly didn’t need to see her face to know it was Alexa. Things had just gotten much more complicated. While Josh wouldn’t equate this dark-haired Goth chick to the blonde doctor he met a week ago, Alexa would see through her makeup in less time than it took to say, “what the hell are you doing here?”

  At that very moment, Alexa turned toward her. Kelly immediately reversed direction, swimming against the stream of clubbers who were herding toward the bar like a slice of suicidal lemmings marching for the cliff’s edge.

  As she struggled to put some distance between herself and Alexa, Kelly thought she heard her name being called. It couldn’t be. It was impossible to hear anything above the music, but there it was again. A woman calling out “Kelly?”

  Curiosity got the better of her. She had to know if she’d been made. Kelly kept moving, but risked a single glance over her shoulder to see if her oldest friend was knifing through the legion of revelers like an icebreaker in the Antarctic. If so, she’d have to call the whole thing off.

  Kelly was angry at herself for not anticipating this scenario. Why hadn’t she done more preparation? Why hadn’t she devised a smarter plan? Fortunately, Alexa wasn’t heading in her direction. In fact, Kelly couldn’t see her at all. She sighed her relief. Maybe she could pull this off. Maybe her plan wasn’t…

  And that’s when she slammed directly into Tommy Moretti.

  47

  Kelly froze.

  All of her carefully rehearsed lines instantly vanished into thin air. Her mind and body were overcome with a boiling rage that stultified her.

  She snapped out of her stupor and realized that Moretti was saying something to her; leaning in close to speak into her ear over the music. “Are you okay?”

  Kelly nodded. She felt his breath on her neck. He smelled of cigarettes and patchouli oil. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “First time,” Kelly said. There was no reason to disguise her real voice, but she still hid behind her quasi-Boston accent like it was an extra layer of protection.

  “You here by yourself?”

  Kelly managed a smile. Normally a simple task that she now struggled to perform. “I was supposed to meet a friend here, but I don’t think she made it.”

  Moretti grinned, brimming with confidence. He was handsome and he knew it. He used it. Kelly saw past the charming façade to the lascivious wolf behind the mask and wondered how many women fell for his act.

  He looked at the glass in her hand and shook his head. “That shit is nasty. You like Dom?”

  Kelly shrugged, pointed to her ear. She didn’t understand what he was talking about. Who was Dom?

  Moretti raised his voice. “Dom Perignon.” He mimed drinking a glass of champagne, then raised his brows expectantly.

  “Oh. Sure. I mean, I guess. Never had it.”

  Moretti laughed. “Tonight’s your lucky night!”

  Would it be, she wondered?

  He took Kelly’s hand in his. The moment was electric, but not in a sexual way. It was like grabbing hold of a live eel. She fought the urge to rip her hand out of his grasp, but the die was cast. She’d leapt into the turgid water, and now it was time to swim.

  The crowd magically parted, creating a narrow alley for the two of them to make their way upstream toward Moretti’s reserved table.

  A few minutes later, they were seated side by side at a table for six that was nestled in a claret-colored leather booth. The booth was one of two dozen that lined three walls of the VIP room. The fourth wall was three inches thick, floor-to-ceiling glass that looked into the club’s main room. The observation wall was designed to bring the vibe of the club into the exclusive lounge, and to show the riff-raff on the other side what they were missing by not being a “VIP”.

  A “Patch V
IP” was anyone who shelled out $250 for the privilege of buying premium alcohol at double mark-up and having it delivered to the table by a scantily dressed waitress. The fact that all of the tables were full on a Monday night spoke volumes about the disposable wealth among the Bay Area millennials.

  The music from the dance club was muted inside this sanctuary, allowing conversation to be conducted at a reasonable level.

  “This is sweet,” said Kelly, doing her best to sound impressed.

  Moretti filled two flutes of champagne and replaced the bottle into the nearby ice bucket. Kelly couldn’t have hoped for a better drink selection: carbonation opened the pyloric valve, allowing alcohol to enter the blood stream faster; the bubbles would dissolve the Ambien quicker; and the pale color would hide any residue.

  Moretti raised his glass to Kelly and she responded in kind. “To new friends,” he said, with a look that some might interpret as heartfelt. Not Kelly.

  They clinked and sipped. She wasn’t a champagne drinker, but she knew quality when she tasted it, so she was sincere when she remarked, “It’s really good.”

  “It’ll do.”

  “Where are your friends?” she asked.

  Moretti was puzzled. “What friends?”

  “You have a table for six. Are you meeting some people here?”

  “I met you.”

  “So, what… you come in every night and reserve a table and then cruise the club, hoping to get lucky?”

  Anger transmogrified Moretti’s face into something ugly for an instant. A moment later he flawlessly shifted gears and got himself under control and back to his normal charming self. It was frightening and fascinating to watch and happened so quickly that if you weren’t looking for it you’d have missed it.

  Tommy smiled with a self-assurance reserved for people who were firmly rooted in a position of power. “This table is permanently reserved for me. Has been since they opened. And I only come a few times a week to take in the scene. I know the people here who are worth knowing, so there’s never a shortage of friends stopping by. When I see a beautiful woman who’s clearly out of her element, I like to courteously extend a hometown welcome. Where’s the problem with that?”

  Kelly shrugged. “Nothing, if that’s the way you roll in Frisco.”

  Moretti held up his hand and stopped her.

  Kelly reacted, worrying that she’d already somehow screwed this up. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Tragically wrong. Never, ever say ‘Frisco’. That’s a place in Texas. You can call it San Francisco, SF or The City… capital T… capital C.”

  “I didn’t know you people were so touchy.”

  “Only about that. Anything else goes around here. Anything. So, how do you ‘roll’ at clubs in Beantown?”

  “Beantown. Touché. It depends where you go. If you hit the blue-collar clubs like the Whiskey, guys are looking to spend as little as possible and get laid. The uptown clubs, like The Grand, are thick with Harvard grads and BU trust-funders that throw around cash but bore the fuck out of you with stories about their summers in the Hamptons. And at the end of the night, hope to get laid.”

  “Not everyone is looking to get laid.”

  Kelly gave him a look that clearly translated to “gimme a fucking break”.

  “No longshoremen, no corporate attorneys. I get it. What are you into?”

  She shrugged. “Having a good time. No strings.”

  Moretti refilled their glasses. “You came to the right place. I’m Tommy, by the way. I promise no stories about the Hamptons.”

  Kelly didn’t realize she’d almost finished the first glass of champagne. She had to be careful to limit her intake. It was critical she kept her senses sharp. “I’m Sofie.” She raised her glass and they toasted. “Nice to meet you, Tommy.”

  Moretti tipped back his glass and effortlessly drained its contents. He was clearly well practiced. As he refilled his flute, he looked over to Kelly, who put her hand atop her glass. “Still working on it.”

  “We’re not going to run out. I’ve got an open tab.”

  “I’m not surprised, but I’ve got a big day tomorrow and I can’t stagger in with a hangover.”

  “Top-shelf champagne doesn’t give you a hangover.”

  “Bullshit. Too much of anything with ethanol leads to dehydration and a decrease of glucose in your system. Then bam! You feel like shit.”

  “What are you? A doctor?”

  “A doctor?” Kelly had given considerable thought to her cover story and knew that the best lies were those that cleaved closest to the truth. Talk about what you know, but give it a spin. “I teach high school bio.”

  “You’re a high school science teacher?”

  She nodded. “I’m here for a science teachers’ convention that starts tomorrow morning. There are about two hundred of us from all around the country.”

  “I never had a teacher that looked like you.”

  Kelly shrugged. “Different times; and I don’t look like this in class. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m self-employed.”

  “That tells me nothing. A total cop out.”

  “You said no strings, so what’s it matter?”

  Kelly shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t. It’s just that you remind me a lot of this guy I use to hang with.”

  “Yeah? What did ‘this guy’ do for a living?”

  “He was a fixer. If you had a problem, he made it go away. For a price. Always had a lotta flash cash.”

  Moretti finished his champagne and no sooner had he plunged it upside down into the ice bucket, than a cute waitress with a skirt that was too short and breasts that were too large appeared with a new bottle, a fresh ice bucket, and two sparkling glasses. She smiled at Moretti, flashing a mouthful of porcelain veneers that looked like they’d been applied by a first year dental student.

  He slipped the waitress a ten, and she silently retreated back from whence she came. Kelly sipped her drink as Moretti peeled away the foil on bottle number two, then worked out the cork with the efficiency of a seasoned pro.

  “That’s what you think I am? A fixer?”

  “Just saying you remind me of him. Same good looks, same smooth moves.”

  “Looks and moves. Nice. What happened to him?”

  “No one knows. One day he was around and the next day, gone. Rumor was he was overdue on payments to some people who had a low tolerance for excuses.”

  “Gotta pay to play. How long were you with him?”

  “About a year.”

  “You didn’t mind that he was hooked up?”

  She shrugged. “It was never boring. Besides, everyone’s got their dirty little secrets. I’m sure you do.”

  “Can’t make it in this town by following all the rules. You just have to be creative as to which ones to bend and which ones to break.”

  She took a sip. “This is finally starting to get interesting.”

  As he leaned closer, he put his hand on Kelly’s thigh. It took every ounce of willpower she had not to rip it away.

  “Bad boys turn you on,” he whispered into her ear with a hot, boozy breath.

  She gently removed his hand, a teasing smile on her face. “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On how bad they are.”

  The hook was in the water… now to get him to bite.

  Just then, a hoarse voice asked, “Tommy?”

  A short, stocky man in his late twenties stood in front of their table. He wore black jeans and a semi-sheer black T that was two sizes too small for his broad, muscular frame. His shaved head was almost a perfect circle. Kelly thought he looked like Charlie Brown on steroids.

  Moretti was not at all pleased with the interruption, and if looks could kill, Charlie Brown would’ve been sent out of the club in a body bag, which was still a realistic possibility.

  “Do I know you?” Moretti asked, his voice ripe with disdain.

  At that moment, Charlie Brown realiz
ed that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t have crashed this party. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and he was desperate.

  “Sorry to bother you, Bro, but…”

  “Then why the fuck are you?”

  A single bead of sweat formed on Charlie’s shiny dome. Kelly watched in fascination, waiting for the droplet to succumb to gravity and begin its slide down his face.

  “I’m a friend of Rasheem Pine. He said you could hook me up.”

  Kelly couldn’t believe her luck. She knew about Moretti’s drug dealings, but now that the lid to Pandora’s box was publicly cracked open, it would make her segue into his darker secrets that much easier.

  For his part, Moretti was doing what he could to nail the lid shut again. “I don’t know anyone named Rasheem Pine. Leave us the fuck alone.”

  The sweat bead finally found its way down Charlie’s face, and was joined by others. He was either jonesing, nervous, or scared shitless. Probably all three, which is why he had the temerity to shoot out a beefy hand and grab Moretti’s arm.

  Moretti was stunned into silence. He couldn’t believe that this roided piece of shit would dare touch him, let alone in the middle of the club, and while he was working a woman.