Memoirs Of An Antihero

by Drew Blank

  “Ha ha. No really. Why is she here?” Jim was obviously not amused.

  “I need her here. Is that a problem?” I didn’t want it to become an issue, so I made it abundantly clear it was my decision to involve Twisty and the topic was not up for discussion.

  “Nope. No problem. So, here’s what I’m working on.” While Jim may not have been Twisty’s biggest fan, he was not going to let that get in the way of the project at hand. He moved aside some of the scraps from his desk and pulled out a tiny patch of what seemed to be a heavy burlap-like fabric. Holding it between thumb and middle finger he displayed it proudly, as if I was expected to know exactly what it was. “This will be essential.”

  “That square of fabric will be essential? For what?” I was intrigued.

  “It will wipe your ass better than any household toilet paper,” Twisty interjected while laughing.

  “I wouldn’t recommend wiping your ass with this. Well, maybe I would recommend wiping your ass with it, but for Drew it will keep him from dying.” Jim may have been dry and even slightly boring, but his wit was still quick, and when he threw aspersions they were usually pretty funny.

  “How is that going to keep me from getting killed?” I needed to know what this invention was, because so far I was not convinced.

  “I have been telling you guys about this for years. Maybe you will start listening to me now. It is an impact resistant material.”

  “Impact resistant?” It did not ring a bell.

  “Yes. It’s a thinly wired titanium mesh, like a tightly wound chain mail,” Jim explained as Twisty and I simply

  returned blank stares.

  Jim sighed. “Chain mail was an effective armor used in medieval times against swords and other sharp weapons.”

  “I know what chain mail is…” I interrupted.

  “Let him finish. This is awesome.” Having us there had apparently broken Phil from his daze and made him giddy.

  “Well, the main fault with chain mail is while it could deflect attacks from a sharp object or weapon, the wearer could still be killed simply by the blunt impact,” Jim went on, “so, with this I have it bound tighter than chain mail, almost forcing it to bunch up, while still keeping it flowing.” He began waving the swatch. “Titanium is much more malleable, so it will move with its wearer.”

  “So, is it bulletproof?” I asked.

  “No. But the problem with Kevlar, the most common bulletproofing, is the same as chain mail. It can stop a bullet, but the blunt force of the shot can still kill. That is why I will be layering Kevlar under the impact resistance.”

  “Holy shit.” I was already impressed. “So, I’ll basically be indestructible then?”

  “No,” Jim continued his lesson. “Do you know the difference between waterproof and water-resistant?”

  Twisty and I both shrugged. “Not really,” I admitted.

  “It’s simple. Waterproof means whatever the item is it is intended to be taken underwater for extended periods of time at any depth. Water-resistant means the item can be splashed and maybe go under water for a moment without sustaining too much damage. This material will be impact resistant. Could you jump off a thirty story building and walk away unscathed? No. Could you maybe fall out a five story window and limp away without any major bone damage? According to my calculations… possibly.” Jim’s re-assurance was less than inspiring, but I was still exhilarated.

  “So, you have more of this stuff then?” Twisty was

  obviously as curious as I was.

  “Well, no. I was able to make this much by hand today. I may be able to speed up the process by using the machines at work when I go in, but it’s still going to take some time. It will also require some money.” Jim was looking at me when he said that.

  “How much?” I inquired, assuming they had worked up a budget for all their ideas.

  “We are estimating it will take about ten grand to get you up and running to a point where we are comfortable we will not make you dead,” Phil interjected. “But we can use the money from last night to get a good head start.”

  “But guys, that money’s supposed to be going towards Moxie’s bills. I was hoping it would only be a thousand or so bucks to get me fighting ready.” Jim and Phil both looked at me as if I were kidding.

  “Drew, I don’t think you understand what we have here,” Phil defended his previous statement.

  “I guess not.” I shrugged, realizing we were all on two very different pages.

  “Mouse did call today to notify the company of the lost phone. He sounded like shit, by the way. It seems he is in the hospital. Anyway, I have been tooling around with his email, texts and voicemail history. We are onto something huge here.”

  “How huge?” My excitement was slowly coming back.

  “Mouse was definitely a small fish in a very big pond.” Phil began to sound like someone out of a TV crime drama, but I didn’t mind it. “From what I can gather, he has about five or six smaller guys like Randy working for him. There is someone above him, but I can’t get any information on who he is. His emails are always short and cryptic, and either signed Benji or just B.C.”

  “Benji? Like the dog?” Twisty chimed in as she

  finally decided to pull up an antique wooden chair and have a seat. I followed suit.

  “Well, I am certain he isn’t a dog. But other than that, that is about all I can tell you. I even used Dominick’s account through the police database to search any Benjamin C.’s or Benji C.’s that may have a record of some kind that might have business in Cross. Couldn’t find anything throughout the country. Of course, that is grasping at straws because there’s a good chance it is just an alias anyway.”

  “You used Dom’s account?” I was now very curious.

  “It’s not hard to guess his password,” Phil chuckled.

  “Really? What is it?”

  “His license plate. DAGO1” Dom had a great sense of humor about his one hundred percent Italian heritage. The fact that he was as far from the stereotypical Italian guy as you could get is what made it so funny. I made sure to remember the bit of information Phil shared with me in case I ever needed it. “I think we need to hit Benji if we want to see any real money.”

  “And that is going to take some investment,” Jim finished Phil’s thought.

  “But ten grand?” I was still concerned about spending all the money I had gotten.

  “We have seven grand now. I have obtained access to a few of Mouse’s lower end workers’ emails. I think we can do some small time stuff to build up the initial capital pretty quickly. And in the mean time, Jim and I can test out our equipment on the smaller jobs. By the time we move up to the big time, you’ll be ready.” Phil laid out the plans for me.

  “But won’t word spread by the time we get to that point? They’ll be ready for me.”

  “By the time we get to that point, it won’t matter if they are ready.” Phil lived to say lines like that.

  “So what can I do?” Twisty was sharing everyone’s enthusiasm, but clearly feeling left out.

  “It’s funny that you mention that,” Phil grinned. “Jim and I agree we need a costume of some sort. You, having more fashion sense than all of us put together…” he paused, “okay, at least more than Drew and Jim put together,” he adjusted the collar on his designer shirt. “You want to be in charge?”

  “Hell yeah!” It was good to see Twisty totally on board. Now it seemed I was the only one who still needed a little convincing.

  “So, I’ll have a decent amount of armor, which is great and all, but what about weapons? You guys know I’m not into guns, but I gotta have something.” I was hoping my concerns weren’t coming out as whines.

  “Trust us. We have plenty of things planned for you.” I was not sure if Phil was trying to sound ominous, but I assumed it was at least partially intentional. “But first, we need to get you a little practice. What do you have planned for tonight?” Phil’s grin had me more than a little concerned
.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Her name was Lola. She was a blow girl. It was a fitting name for a girl who specialized in selling cocaine to strippers and women in the adult entertainment industry. Phil had intercepted a few emails between her and Mouse and was able to approximate where she would be that particular evening. Head Knockers was not the classiest strip club in town, but what they were rumored to lack in integrity and decent business practices, they seemed to make up for in illegal prostitution and back door drug running. Lola was the middle woman for the club’s supply. It seems she was higher on the food chain than Randy, but still relied on Mouse for product. Lucky for us, Mouse seemed to prefer handling business via email. The emails pretty much laid out everything we needed.

  Mouse,

  Need half a K. Meet Wednesday 1:30am at Knockers. Let me know if there’s any change in price.

  -Lola

  and in Mouse’s sent folder

  L,

  No problem. Same price as always. Buy me a lap dance?

  -M

  The emails were dated from Monday, a day before Mouse came upon the bad luck of getting himself hospitalized. No further correspondence had taken place between Lola and Mouse since then, as far as Phil could tell. There was a possibility that Mouse had called her from the hospital, but we doubted he would discuss anything other than the weather on such a publicly used land line. While we knew there was a chance Lola had heard about Mouse’s unfortunate accident from someone else, we also realized there was a chance she may show up to the strip joint with several thousand dollars on her hoping to do business.

  I honestly wish Phil had picked someone other than a girl to rip off. I understood that she was our best lead so far, and if we wanted to get started with our plan, we couldn’t wait around for an ideal situation. However, I wasn’t really ready to take on a girl.

  Phil and Jim had not only spent the day planning the gear for future use, but also working out something for me to use in the meantime. Jim had purchased a pair of boots from one of the city’s dive punk shops for me to wear; heavy leather combat style boots that laced over the knee. After voicing my concern, he assured me they were men’s boots, pointing out women’s shoes are not so easy to purchase in a size 13. He urged me to be open-minded as he had plans for the boots that required them to run high.

  Over the boots I wore my black work slacks, hiding the rather embarrassing thigh highs Jim had picked out for me. Phil purchased a black turtleneck to be worn under Tom’s bulletproof vest and a pair of tight fitting black leather gloves. To disguise my face, we used the same glasses from the night before. Considering my limited social circle, there was not much concern I would run into anyone I knew, but I also wanted to make it difficult to describe me to a police sketch artist.

  Twisty bandaged my chest tightly, padding it with extra gauze. She was very vocal about how she thought the idea of me going out to do this one night after I got sliced open was a bad idea. I agreed with her and thanked her for her worry. The injury was not bothering me much that night. I am sure that was partially due to the adrenaline running through me, anticipating what was to come.

  Unlike my unplanned attack on Randy and Mouse, I was a little more prepared for my next venture. Besides the bulletproof vest, I had been set up with a few weapons. Luckily, Phil was a regular at the gun shows that came through the city’s convention center and had built up an impressive collection of lethal and non-lethal weaponry. After arguing with Phil for half an hour on why I refused to carry one of his many guns, he hooked me up with some of his less explosive armaments. Attached to my belt I had a collapsible metal police baton. The steel made it a bit heavy, but it was also nearly impossible to not cause damage to a person if used in a fight. Under the right glove, hidden from view, was a set of brass knuckles, giving me the power of surprise with one hell of a right hook. In my pocket I kept a slim lined stun gun, for any up close and personal attacks where I found the need to incapacitate someone with 900,000 volts. Jim rolled a good five feet of industrial chain into a clip and linked it to my belt as well. The bike chain served me well the previous night, so Jim suspected this lighter less bulky chain could come in handy.

  Twisty safety pinned Jim’s prototype swatch of titanium mesh to the center of my chest over the Kevlar vest. She insisted it was for good luck. I think she had watched too many movies where a pocket flask or a thick wallet catching a stray bullet saved someone’s life. Regardless, her concern was sweet. My get up was finished off with a long black trench coat that Phil had retired after coming out of the closet and a newsboy cap we had discovered in the apartment’s front hall. It must have belonged to Jim’s grandfather, back when it was called a Gatsby. The coat and hat may have made me a little conspicuous, and maybe even a tad creepy, but it was certainly less suspicious than a guy walking into a strip club with a police issue bulletproof vest strapped to his chest.

  Phil had set me up with a two-way communication device that fit snugly in my ear. My three business associates would wait in Twisty’s Prelude parked across the street, listening to everything going on inside the club while keeping me apprised of any activity out front.

  “Can you hear me?” I whispered as I pushed open the opaque painted glass door of Head Knockers.

  Crystal clear, good buddy. Twisty enthusiastically replied in my ear.

  Yes Drew. We can hear you. Phil responded with all the seriousness he could muster, obviously strong arming Twisty away from the helm.

  Clouds of smoke immediately attacked me as I breached the threshold and found my way inside. Strip clubs were not really my cup of tea, but this is exactly what I had imagined. The club was dimly lit, except for the dazzling light show over the massive runway style stage. Bulky security guards stood cross-armed at the base waiting to keep any unruly patrons in check.

  I walked in relatively unnoticed and found myself a spot in the back corner next to the bar to get myself acclimated. Unlike most dance clubs, the bar was desolate. Guys obviously preferred to order their drinks from a flirty cocktail waitress than the shifty looking, middle aged bartender. If customers did go to the bar they immediately found their way back to their perches in front of the stage. The thumping from the bass in the music surged through me, making it difficult to even think. The girl on stage was pretty enough. Not my type, but I could certainly see the allure. Long hair, long legs, long face. Everything about her was long except for her obviously augmented breasts, which were round as beach balls. As she strutted down the stage, guys shoved bills in her G-string ranging anywhere from singles to twenties.

  Next to the stage was the only source of white light in the whole club. From the looks of it, Head Knockers must have served some food items, because that door was undeniably access to a kitchen of some sort. My stomach turned just at the thought of eating food at a strip club, but to each his or her own. Other than an emergency exit on the opposite side of the stage, there were no other ways in or out of this room. That would be handy information, but I was hoping this room would not be where the action happened. Now I just had to wait for Lola.

  I arrived a few minutes before 1:30. If Lola had not been tipped off to Mouse’s unfortunate situation, she would be there any minute. How I would pinpoint her I had no idea, but her being a woman, she would stand out in a place like this. Making myself a little less conspicuous, I leaned up against the wall and pretended to be enthralled with the stage show. I did not have to put up my ruse for too long. After a minute of leaning, the front doors swung open and in came Lola.

  Three figures came in, actually, and one was without a doubt my target. The other two figures were obstacles that I had not anticipated. Tall and solid, the girl I assumed was Lola was definitely a knock out. Unlike those strippers, Lola was striking. Spiky platinum blond hair framed her rounded face, which contained features that were strong and dominating. While she seemed to have a permanent scowl on her plump darkly painted lips, her beauty was undeniable. She had broad shoulders that forced her
to carry herself in a tougher manner than most women would prefer, but she pulled it off with a supermodel-like eloquence. Had we been meeting under different circumstances, I think I might have just let her kick my ass for fun. Draped over her shoulders was a red patent leather jacket, covering a black t-shirt that barely reached her navel. She was wearing jeans that hung right off her hips, exposing enough skin to keep me staring maybe a moment longer than I should have. This girl had to be Lola, because she certainly wasn’t here for pleasure. Her face conveyed all business.

  The two unexpected complications, both standing over six foot three and topping the scales at a good two seventy-five, maybe three hundred, remained close to Lola with their arms folded. Upon first glance one could make the assumption these body guards were twins. Both sporting bald heads and goatees, dressed in black slacks, black button down shirts, black leather coats and nice black dress shoes they seemed to be mirror images. The Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum of the drug world.

  Is that her? Phil chirped in my ear.

  “I don’t now.” I whispered loud enough for Phil to hear me through the two-way. “I think so. I didn’t anticipate her bringing backup.”

  Just get out of there, Drew. Those guys are huge! This time it was Twisty’s turn

  “Don’t worry. I think I have a plan,” I tried to reassure them all in a hushed response.

  You think? Drew, I don’t like this. Just get out! Now Twisty was pleading with me.

  “Trust me on this. I got it.” I attemped to sound as positive as possible, while in reality I had no idea what to do next.

  The woman I suspected was Lola and her two man entourage entered the club further, obviously peering around the room looking for someone, not distracted at all by the naked women flaunting themselves on stage. I needed to do something before they decided Mouse was a no-show and left. After a moment of waiting, the threesome made their way to the bar. Even though they were only a few feet from me, over the loud music I could not hear anything that was said as Lola leaned in to exchange words with the bartender. Lola looked displeased as she stepped back from the bar, unhappy with whatever the bartender had to tell her. It was time for me to just follow my instincts. They hadn’t gotten me killed up to that point, so what reason did I have not to trust them?