Ray's Hell: A Crime Action Thriller

by Matt Rass

  The hooker clopped through the parking lot, stopping under the glow of a single lamp post to wipe the inside of both her legs from ankles to ass. She was a shorty, even with the big afro, looked around twenty-two years old, small breasts, and had an hourglass figure. Cute.

  A white ol’ timer, naked from the waist up, yelled down at her from a second-floor window: “Room two-oh-four. Second floor.”

  “I can see what floor it’s on, ya dumbass,” she yelled back.

  Ray pulled his suitcase from the trunk. The hooker shook her head and muttered, “I can’t believe I’m doin’ this shit.” She was looking straight at Ray as she said it.

  “You gotta do what ya gotta do, baby,” he said.

  Her head jerked back as if she had walked face first into a glass door. “The fuck you talkin’ to?”

  “I’m just sayin’ is all.”

  “What is you sayin’, nigga?”

  “You gotta do what you gotta do, girl. Chill.”

  “You my daddy now?”

  Ray shook his head. “No.”

  “Then don’t tell me to chill, asshole.”

  The bitch had balls. Ray was super-sized, and if he looked like a bomb about to go off just stewing in his Caddy, then he was a full-on mushroom cloud standing there in front of her. But he just put his hands up in mock surrender and said, “I apologize. I just thought you could use a little encouragement is all.”

  “Encouragement. Pssh.” She shooed him away with her hand. “Encourage yourself, motherfucker.”

  Ray stopped and swept his arm across the hooker’s path like an usher so she could walk ahead of him. “After you,” he said. He didn’t need be fighting with no ho from the corner, pulling fingernails out of his eyes. Not again.

  She peered back and turned her nose up at him. Then, strutting like a preening queen, she grumbled, “Asshole.”

  There it was again. The way she said “asshole” was the most degrading way Ray had ever heard it said before. Dragging it out like that: aaaassss-hole.

  “Crazy,” he said under his breath. But what in the hell was she saying about how she couldn’t believe she was doing this? Doing what? Hookin’? A person would have to be deaf, dumb, and from another planet if they thought she were anything but a hooker. If they sold prostitute at Wal-Mart, she’s what the mannequin would look like.

  A car honked and Ray turned to see a soaking wet, rat-looking pimp leaning out the window of his crisp, new Monte Carlo. His wet, 1980’s styled Jerry curls made him look like a ghetto Medusa. He wore thick gold rings on his long fingers and ropes of gold were slung around his skinny neck. Both of his ears were pierced with diamond studs. The dude was a jewelry store all by himself.

  “Move your square ass, bitch,” he hollered at the hooker. “You ain’t delivering no Domino’s.”

  “I am, Andre,” she whined, hopping up the steps and pulling the door open wide. She shook her tush at him and then gave him the finger.

  The pimp tilted his head back to look and see if Ray had witnessed her middle finger gesture toward him.

  “What happened to you?” Ray asked, pointing to Andre’s eye.

  The pimp had a scar like a lightning bolt down the right side of his face. The eye behind it was milky white and glowed like snow on an old TV. Andre looked Ray up and down, removed the toothpick from the side of his mouth, and pointed it at him. “Ya, I get it,” he said, wisps of his curls twirled in the wind from his air conditioning. “You a big nigga. But you best mind your own business on this one, brotha.”

  “I ain’t your brother, and you best watch where you point that toothpick ’fore you lose your other eye.”

  The pimp put the pick back in his mouth and shook his head. “Everyone always bringin’ up the eye…”

  He leaned back, pressed a single button on his phone, and raised it up to a diamond-pierced ear. As the Monte Carlo crept back onto the quiet street, Ray heard the pimp say, “She inside now.”

  Ray saw an old Crown Vic pull up to his side of the street a half block down the road and kill its lights before rolling to a quiet stop. Cops? He could see the buzzcut silhouette of a lone driver behind the wheel. Detectives would be in pairs. Maybe not in a small town like Benson Bridge. Feds? Ray turned back to watch the Monte Carlo slip down the silent street, the car’s rear lights glowing a fiery red. Like devil’s eyes. Ray hated pimps. Didn’t understand why chicks got mixed up with them in the first place. Women had nothing to gain and everything to lose.

  LIKE OLD TIMES

  Once inside the hotel, Ray stood at the podium-like counter, comparing the inside of the lobby today against his memory. The place was a ghost from his past: old, dusty, gray. Just like himself. He would be forty soon.

  A Chinese woman in her fifties slunk out of an anteroom and slipped behind the podium. “How many night?” she asked.

  “Just one,” he said.

  “Forty dollar. Cash only. Machine broken.”

  “I used to stay here with my ol’ man when I was a kid,” Ray said, pulling two twenties from his wallet. “Was a white woman owned the place. Ms. Mable.”

  The woman’s eyes were black, blank, and uncaring.

  “My dad used to knock on my door in the morning on his way to work to check to see if I was gone to school.” Ray laughed to himself.

  The Chinese woman was as cold as granite. She didn’t give a shit. Fuck it. He’d finish the story anyhow. Who else did he have to share it with?

  “I’d stay real quiet,” he continued, “and pretend like I had already gone, but he knew I was hidin’ in there…” He passed her the two twenties. “He would keep knocking till I opened up. Was the first room right up here, facing the street. ”

  “Five-dollar key deposit.”

  “For fuh… Can I get the same room?”

  Without saying a word, she handed him a key to room 100. He smiled. “That’s it. Thanks.”

  But she was done with him.

  “No receipt?”

  “Forty dollar is price with no receipt. Normal, forty-five.”

  Ray waved it off. “Forget it then. I ain’t on business. This is strictly personal.” He patted his pockets and cursed himself for forgetting his badge and Sam’s picture in the Caddy. His gun was back in Detroit, but he didn’t miss having that. He pulled out his phone instead and swiped to reveal Sam’s picture. “You seen this dude by any chance? His name is Sam.” He showed the woman the photo.

  “No. I tell the police already. I no see nothing.”

  “Awright. I didn’t know the police had come by. Did they leave a card?”

  “Check out eleven o’clock. No later. And no smoking. Not even e-cigarette.”

  Ray picked up his suitcase and pointed to the sign behind her that read: No Smoking and Check Out 11:00. “I can read,” he said, but she had already turned her back to him and was entering the anteroom.

  Ray walked over to the heavy oak door leading from the hotel lobby into the tavern and pulled it open.

  It was a typical white people’s bar with ice hockey shit on the walls and hip-hop over the speakers. Everyone looked up from their phones to see Ray enter; not surprising since he was a big, black SOB with a chip the size of a stove on his shoulder. They all unconsciously—or consciously—slid phones off the tables, sat on top of wallets, and pushed purses farther under seats. You could almost hear the boys’ assholes suck wind as Ray walked toward them, and whistle as he passed.

  He headed for the bar, following the waitress and staring down at her ass where it looked as if two cats were fighting inside a paper bag. She was the only other black person in the joint.

  A chubby, thirtysomething-year-old male bartender with long, freshly shampooed hair the color of wet beach sand, turned to Ray and asked, “What’s shaking, brother?”

  “I am,” Ray said, setting down his suitcase. “Two shots of bourbon and a cold beer, please.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Also sitting at the bar were the only other patrons near Ray�
��s age. Barflies. They were lined up like Russian dolls, the one on the end the largest and the one near Ray the smallest. They were so different in their appearance—a house painter, a cook, and a paper salesman—Ray imagined that they must’ve been friends since middle school. He thought about how easy it was for white people to be left alone to live their lives, not having to struggle like black folk, but how most of ’em seemed to just end up here, bellied-up to the bar, finding no purpose nor drive in life but to drink. Misters Woulda been, Coulda been, and Shoulda been.

  The TV above Ray’s head flashed his picture. Shit. Was it nine o’clock already? The sound was muted, but the bottom ticker spelled it out: Detroit Police Department release the name of police officer involved in fatal shooting… sonuvabitch. He turned to face the Russian Dolls and in unison, they looked from the TV to him as each took a drink, their arms cocked as if lifting solo trophies; Miller Lite, Coors light, and Corona. They gulped hard, each looking to Ray like they hadn’t had such a hard time swallowing since their first drink over thirty years ago.

  He turned to the seated crowd of kids and picked out a reefer dealer near the side entrance: a hipster kid with glassy, red eyes. His hands were in his pockets, ready to bolt if needed. Ray turned back to face the bar. “Make that four shots. I’m on vacation.”

  The bartender nodded, set down two more shot glasses, and passed the whisky bottle over all four. Ray watched the chubby man’s eyes float up to the TV screen as he set the bottle back in its rack. The bartender had sailor-type tattoos stamped in irregular patterns on his arms as if he’d gotten ’em separately and at different ports all around the globe, but Ray would be surprised if the dude had been anywhere farther than Chicago or Detroit.

  Ray looked up and read the ticker for the second time: Detroit police officer Ray Price placed on leave as DA investigates…

  The bartender placed the cold beer and shots on the bar. “Twenty-one even,” he said.

  Ray set a fifty down, then knocked back two of the shots and breathed fire. “Mother.”

  “How’s that for the shakes?”

  “I’ll let you know after the next two.” He put his big hand over the bill when the bartender reached for it and took a long, slow drink of beer. The bartender patiently waited for him to set his beer back down, half-full.

  “Ahh,” Ray exhaled. “That’s a lovely, cold beer.”

  “I’m glad,” the bartender said. “Would you like to start a tab?”

  “You know Sam Beck?” Ray asked.

  The bartender looked surprised. “Who are you?”

  “I’m his brother and I was told this was the last place he was seen before he went missing.”

  “We told the Deputies all we know about it.”

  “Which was?”

  “Which was nothing. He comes here every other weekend, stays for a few drinks, then leaves.”

  “Maybe you can help me understand why someone like Sam would be kickin’ it in a place like this for?”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “I mean, Sam’s black, and this place looks like it’s just for lily-ass white folks. And I see you already have a local reefer dealer.” Ray directed a thumb toward the shifty-eyed hipster. The kid flipped up his hoodie, stood, and walked toward the side door. “So what gives? What was he slingin’ here?”

  The bartender squirmed. He looked around for help to get out from under the question but the Russian Dolls were turned toward the opposite televisions. “I don’t know. He would always be here with a girl from the club.”

  “Listen, man,” Ray said. “What’s your name?”

  “Mark.”

  “Mark the shark. Listen, Mark, I ain’t here on business and I ain’t gonna repeat anything you say to me to no one. This is me.” He nodded toward the TV. “A soon-to-be ex-cop looking for his missing brother, and I need some help to get this shit straight. Whaddaya say? Why was Sam a regular here and why was this the last place he was seen?”

  “I can tell you what I know personally but nothing else,” Mark began. “And I’m not speaking for the people who own this bar…”

  “Who owns the bar?”

  Mark sighed. He’d gone and given it away with the first thing that came out his mouth.

  “Don’t worry, Mark. Spit it out, brother,” Ray urged.

  “I’m sorry, man. I really can’t say anymore.”

  Ray lifted his hand off the fifty and Mark eyed him cautiously. The money lay there like a dare. Mark reached for it, and Ray grabbed the bartender’s hand and clamped it closed with his own.

  “Hey!” one of the Russian Dolls said.

  “Shut your mouth,” Ray said.

  Mark tried to use his other hand to free the one that was pinned and Ray grabbed that one, too, and applied pressure to both. The Russian Dolls picked up their beer and Ray watched them walk away to the pool table. Ray turned back to Mark. “You don’t tell me what I asked and you’ll be pouring beer with your lips and serving with your elbows.”

  Mark couldn’t move. Ray had paralysed him by pinning each hand with just his two fingers and thumbs.

  “Okay, okay,” Mark squeaked. “Stop.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Sam dealt pills, and the other stuff, but he wouldn’t be doing it here unless, you know, like, the owners knew he was doing it.”

  “What other stuff? Nose candy? Booger sugar? Crack, glass, ice, OC?”

  Mark nodded vigorously and Ray released his grip. Mark shook and fanned his hands, trying to return life to his appendages, moving his fingers to see if they still worked the way they were supposed to.

  “So, Sam cuts the boss into what he’s dealing so he can sling here, is that it? Who’s the owner?” Ray demanded.

  Mark looked like a balloon with a slow leak. He sagged. “One of the Silvers. I don’t know which one, exactly. I think the youngest son pretty much deals with it himself. Mike Silver. He’s a big guy like you, a former Marine.”

  “How many Silvers are there?”

  “There’s Frank, the congressman. Tony owns the strip club. He’s Mike’s father. And the rest are just, like, second cousins. I don’t know any of them by name.”

  “They own the big dealership in town, right? Silver Motors? Used to own Silver City?”

  “And a buncha other shit, yeah.”

  Ray remembered the name, of course. Every town has its richest and rottnest family, and the Silvers were Benson Bridge’s, but Ray had only ever heard stories from a friend of a friend; never personally had any experience with them. Frank Silver must have been the mayor of Benson when Ray was growing up, ’cos he’d read that the man had since graduated to state congress.

  “You haven’t been here in a while?” Mark asked.

  “Fifteen years,” Ray said.

  “Well, the Silvers are on their way to owning most of the town now.”

  “How come you don’t seem too sure on who owns this joint?”

  “I mean, Mike probably owns it. He’s only been back himself for about a year. But this place practically runs itself so he’s never around. I got a manager who just deals with inventory. Sometimes the Silver teens come in and act as if they own the place. We have to serve them even if they’re not of age. Cops don’t come around here unless we call ’em.” Mark nodded toward an old rotary phone under the bar.

  “How’d the Silvers get to know Sam in the first place?” Ray asked.

  “Sam was the DJ at the strip club downtown.”

  “Which club is that?”

  “Fillies.”

  “As in the Philadelphia Phillies?”

  “As in young, female horses. It’s spelled with an F.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “The spelling?”

  “No, that they would associate young women to female horses.”

  “Oh yeah. I guess so. Whatever.”

  “How ’bout your waitress, What’s-her-name? Does she know what happened to Sam? Someone he was talking to, someone he had to mee
t, or where he was going?”

  “Like I said, the cops came and we told them all we knew, which was nothing.”

  “Thanks for the help, Mark.”

  Ray lifted his mitt off the fifty-dollar bill. “Sorry about the hand,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  The waitress came up behind Ray as he finished his beer and rattled off an order of five or six drinks. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, skinny thick.

  “Wassup, baby,” Ray said.

  “I-am-tired,” she droned.

  “You got school tomorrow?”

  She giggled. “No, silly. I’m just tired of being on my feet all day.”

  “Well, bless the lucky man who gets to see you get off ’em.”

  “Aww,” she said, patting his big arm and tracing a fingernail along the black cords strung along his muscle. “You’re cute.”

  “Honey, I haven’t been cute since I was in diapers.”

  “Well, at least it looks like you lost that chip on your shoulder.”

  “You mean the one I came in here with?” he said. Ray turned around as if searching. “Yeah, where’d that thing go?” They laughed together like children. “I’m just playing with ya, doll. Don’t mind me…”

  “I won’t,” she said, winking.

  Ray pushed one of the shots toward her. “Have a drink on me, sugar.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” she said.

  The toasted and shot their drinks back.

  “My name’s Ray Price, I’m Sam Beck’s brother…”

  She gasped and put a hand to her mouth to catch it. “Oh my gawd, I’m so sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “I dunno. Sorry. Shit. I’m just being presumptuous. I’m worried about him is all. He’s been missing for a few days now, right? Do you know what happened to him?”

  “I just started looking. I was told this was the last place he was seen and I’m trying to figure out what a brotha like Sam was doin’ in a place like this for.”