by Sean Platt
Part of me feels bad for whatever circumstances have led Vinnie down such a narrow road. I can feel his discomfort, how he feels trapped by his life.
Sometimes, life feels like a lottery.
It’s not just the sum and substance of the person that determines the station they’ll rise to. It’s the connections they make or fail to make, that seal their fate.
If things had been different, Vinnie could be an entrepreneur, a movie star, or some other legitimate success. He has the charm, looks, and drive to get what he wants.
But he could also be working a soul-crushing blue-collar job, struggling to put food on his family’s table.
There are endless variables between What Is and What Could Have Been.
Being in so many people’s shoes, I’ve seen the same thing countless times: people with obvious talent, the right looks, or some other quality that gives them a genetic advantage over others, yet they fail to capitalize on what they have. Sometimes, it’s because they were programmed to fail early in their life by shitty parents or hateful, jealous peers. Other times, they never found a reason to believe in themselves, to reach outside their corner of the world, and look for more.
From the bits I can grasp of his troubled youth, I’m thinking that for Vinnie, this is him making the most of his opportunities.
This is the best he could’ve done.
I shudder as bits of his memories flitter by. I can tell that he’s used to shoving them down. It’s how he gets through his days, how he does what he has to do: ignore how it makes him feel and push through.
After I get dressed, I head to Vinnie’s home office, find the flash drive on his desk, and am about to put it in his laptop, curious to see what kind of dirt they have on the holy man.
On second thought, I don’t want to know what’s on the flash drive. It can’t be good. And I can’t screw with whatever plans Mr. Bruno and Gray are concocting without putting Vinnie in danger with his boss.
I slip the drive into my pocket and instead search the web for anything new on Allie’s disappearance.
There’s nothing.
I go to the Chronicle’s website to see if they have anything new.
There is an obituary for Lara, which I can’t bring myself to read. I’m already feeling like hell for what happened to her. I don’t need to feel worse.
I need to find Allie.
How can you help me find her, Vinnie?
Getting nothing, and growing frustrated sitting at his laptop staring at Lara’s photo, I decide to head out for my meeting with Councilman Gray. But first I slip on Vinnie’s shoulder holster and a jacket to conceal his gun.
We meet at the Bay Cove Resort and Marina, in an underground parking lot.
I pull Vinnie’s red Corvette up beside the councilman’s black BMW and get out.
I climb into his car.
Duncan Gray is in his fifties, and looks like a cross between a trusted family doctor and a TV actor, with a kindly face and good looks that only become more distinguished as he ages.
“Hello, Mr. Fortunato,” he says, shaking my hand and smiling.
I can’t figure out how well these two know one another, but I get a feeling that Vinnie is often the conduit between the councilman and Mr. Bruno. I’m not sure if this is to protect Mr. Gray’s reputation from associating with a known mobster or to protect Mr. Bruno’s from associating with a politician. Maybe Mr. Bruno is more of a behind-the-scenes mob boss.
“Mr. Gray,” I say with a firm shake.
“As promised.”
He hands me a thick manila envelope. I assume it’s stuffed with cash, but I don’t open it. I slip it into my jacket pocket then retrieve the flash drive and hand it over.
Councilman Gray takes it, his eyes transfixed as if I handed him the Holy Grail.
“Tell Mr. Bruno thank you. This is going to make a lot of people very happy.”
I nod, not entirely sure what he’s talking about, but pretending that I do. I resist the urge to ask what’s on the drive. It’s either assumed that I know or it's above my pay grade. Either way, knowing won’t help me find Allie.
I say, “I’ll be sure to relay that,” then get out of the councilman’s car feeling like I need to shower.
I drive around aimlessly after leaving the councilman, trying to make connections with nothing.
Without meaning to, I find myself in the Chronicle parking lot, sitting in the car, wanting to go in. The office lights are on, but I can’t tell for sure who’s working. I see Yvonne’s Jeep in the parking lot, along with a few other cars I don’t recognize.
I’m not sure why, but I feel like if I can talk to Yvonne, maybe we can put our heads together and figure something out. She seems like a resourceful person, and if someone outside of the sheriff’s department is going to find Allie, my money’s on her.
But I can’t just walk into the offices and offer my help. For one, I doubt Yvonne’s alone, and I can’t talk to her with others around. And that’s assuming she’s receptive to what I’d have to say. For all I know, her yesterday is a blur. Maybe she’s even wondering why she lied to the detectives and is today recanting those lies.
Yeah, but maybe that’s why I should go in and talk to her. Help her put things together.
I push the button and turn off the car.
Am I really going to do this?
I open the door.
Then my phone rings.
I find it in my pocket, next to the envelope, and look at the name on the screen: J. Jones.
The bossman’s alias.
I answer, heart racing.
“How did it go?” Mr. Bruno sounds older than I expect, his Italian accent much thicker than Vinnie’s almost nonexistent one.
“I gave him the … package. He said thank you; it will make a lot of people very happy.”
Mr. Bruno laughs. “Yeah, I bet it will.”
I’m not sure what that means, and I’m not about to ask.
“And I trust that he gave you something?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got it with me.”
“Okay, just bring it to the club tonight. Put it in the safe.”
“Yes, sir.”
And just like that, the line goes dead. No goodbye.
I sit there, waiting, in case he calls back. But no, this is how Mr. Bruno is. Short and to the point. No need for niceties.
There’s movement in the office.
The front door opens. Yvonne steps out with two reporters. She locks the door. They pile into her Jeep, probably headed to dinner. Another late night.
No way I’ll get her alone now.
I drive to the club feeling utterly useless.
At the club, I head to the manager’s office for some much-needed alone time. I need time to decompress and dissect everything that’s happened today. I also don’t know the first thing about running a strip club, or how Vinnie usually conducts business. It’s best to hide for a while.
The office is a small, relatively quiet (you can still hear the dull thumping bass), bunker-like room in the club’s basement, beneath the dancers’ dressing rooms, practically the perfect place to sequester myself. There’s a desk with a computer station seated in front of a wall of monitors showing the feeds from twenty-four security cameras around and outside the club. The view is a voyeur’s wet dream — screens of women in various stages of undress, misbehaving drunks, and strippers grinding on men and women both in the champagne room. There are another four screens, turned off.
I reach out and turn one of them on.
It shows a bedroom, somewhere in the club, with a man tied to a bed as a dominatrix whips him.
One of four Special VIP rooms.
I wonder how often Vinnie sits in this room watching debauchery. My guess is that he’s so numb to everything he sees, and experiences, the monitors are as boring to him as factory feeds to a security guard.
I turn off the picture, figuring there must be a reason he keeps it dead — maybe in case someone else shows
up in this room — and head to the large black safe anchored to the ground. I kneel to deposit the envelope, per Mr. Bruno’s instructions.
I don’t know the combination, so I reach out for the safe’s dial, and touch it, hoping to trigger Vinnie’s memories to guide me.
Numbers appear in my head.
I turn the dial, following Vinnie’s muscle memory.
The safe clicks open.
I’m not sure what I expected to see inside. Definitely bags of cash, of which there are five. But I didn’t anticipate the other stuff — hard drives, flash drives, and several sealed document envelopes.
I look back at the monitors then spot several servers under the desk. Then I realize what’s going on. Vinnie is recording everything that happens in the club, saving captured indiscretions, and using them for blackmail.
I wonder if the pastor was a guest at The Emerald. I can’t imagine someone with such a public profile, particularly one wrapped in morality, would ever come to the club. Athletes, celebrities, sure. But a pastor?
I start to wish I’d watched what was on the flash drive.
I slip Councilman Gray’s envelope into the safe, close the door, and lock it.
I return to the desk and have a seat, staring at the wall of sin.
I find my attention turning to the four dead monitors. I wonder what’s happening in those rooms, which high roller is paying to engage in their filthiest fantasies.
I’m tempted to turn on the monitors for a look, but something catches my attention — a white van parked behind the club. The alley is meant for deliveries only and has nowhere to park. I can’t imagine anyone is making deliveries at eight o’ clock. The lights are off, but I see someone sitting inside the van.
I reach for my phone, call Ty, the club’s head of security.
“Hey, boss,” he says, loud music thumping in the background.
“Hey, we expecting any deliveries now?”
“No, why?”
“I need you to check the back alley. White van, someone just sitting there.”
“Okay,” he says. “Wanna stay on the phone?”
“Yes,” I say, anxiously.
Being in body after body, I have a feel for the rhythms of life, fate, or whatever you want to call it.
I find Ty on the security cameras — a large bald black man in a coal-colored suit who looks like a defensive lineman — and watch as he heads toward the club’s rear exit.
My eyes follow him from one camera to another, past the champagne room, past the dressing rooms, through a door and down a hall where the VIP rooms are located, then to the back door.
“Boss, the door is open.”
I see a shadow behind Ty. Three shadows.
I call out, but I’m too late.
Three men wearing all black and ski masks, corner him.
One of the men shoots Ty.
I scream.
One of the men picks up Ty’s phone. He has an American accent, gruff voice. “Hello, Vinnie. How do you wanna do this? You wanna open the door and let us in, or do we have to shoot everyone in the place?”
“What do you want?”
“What the hell do you think we want?”
I don’t know. Do they know what’s in the safe?
“Money?”
“Bingo! Now, what’s it gonna be?”
“I’ll let you in. Nobody needs to die,” I say, hoping Ty is just injured.
“Good choice. Now to be sure you’re not calling the cops, I’m gonna stay on the phone with you. And don’t even think about tripping a silent alarm. I see cops, and you’re gonna be the first to get a bullet in the head. Understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
Within seconds, there’s a rap at the door.
On the phone, “Little pig, little pig, let me in.”
I go to the door and unlock it.
The man on the phone steps in first, pistol in my face, and grabs my phone. He stuffs it into his jacket pocket.
One of the others searches me. He takes my pistol while the other shuts and locks the door.
I wonder if anyone heard the gunshot. I might have only heard it because I was on the phone. One of the men, not sure if it’s the one who shot Ty, has a suppressor on his pistol. A suppressor doesn’t completely silence a gun, of course. Someone might have heard it and may be calling the cops. The other security guards could be making their way to the office.
“Okay,” the leader says. “Open the safe.”
I wonder if these men are aware of what else is in the safe. Even if they’re not, they sure as hell might be interested once they open it up. Anything valuable enough to be locked away is precious enough to steal.
I can’t let that happen.
I stare into the leader’s blue eyes.
“You know who you’re ripping off?”
“Why do you think we’re here?”
“So you also know that Mr. Bruno will never let you get away with this.”
“Mr. Bruno ain’t ever gonna know who did it. Now open that fucking safe.”
“Your funeral.” I chuckle, kneeling to spin the dial.
My heart is pounding.
My fingers fumble on the dial. I screw up and have to start over.
“Stop stalling,” the leader barks.
I don’t respond. I don’t look at him. I start the sequence again.
The door clicks open.
“Out of the way,” the leader says.
I stand up, stomach anxious at what they’ll do when they see the safe’s additional contents, including the envelope that Councilman Gray gave me.
One of the other two men drops in front of the safe with a black duffel bag and lets out a loud whoop.
“What have we got here?” He grabs two of the hard drives and shows his partners.
“Just backups of our data.”
The man looks back in the safe. “That’s a lot of backup. I call bullshit.”
“Put ’em in the bag,” the leader says.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I warn.
“Fuck you.” The leader aims his pistol at me, looking for an excuse to shoot.
The man at the safe looks back, awaiting instruction from his boss.
“Put it all in the bag.”
As the man loads up the sack, my stomach is in knots imagining these punks having access to everything on the hard drives. I have to find a way to get them back, but they’ve taken my gun, and there are three of them.
I feel Vinnie’s body itching for use. In addition to the hours he puts in at the gym, he trains in two different martial arts.
As my mind flashes on his training, I see something else — perhaps an opportunity. A blade hidden in my belt buckle.
How did I miss this while getting dressed?
Normally, I wouldn’t risk my host’s life like this. I’d let the men take the money and the rest of what’s in the safe, then hope they allowed me to live. But knowing what I know of Vinnie’s life, I have a feeling that Mr. Bruno could hurt, or kill him, for letting these men rob the safe. Vinnie was supposed to fall on his sword like any good soldier.
Instead, I opened the safe.
I put Vinnie in this situation, so I need to get him out.
The man fills the sack then stands and starts toward the other two men. He has the bag in his left hand, gun in his right.
My heart is racing. I can feel energy coursing through me, like a spring pushed to its limit, ready to release.
I pull the bladed belt buckle out with my left hand, step behind the man with the bag, and bring the blade to his neck in one quick swoop.
Vinnie’s instincts guide my moves, almost kicking me from the driver’s seat. If left to me, I’d be frozen in fear. But some part of Vinnie remains and is ready to act.
I reach down, grab the thief’s right hand, raise the gun, slide my finger over his trigger finger, and fire at the leader.
Two shots to his chest.
He falls back.
The other man
raises his gun, fires.
I keep the robber’s body between us, taking shots as the man empties his pistol.
Once I hear the gun run out of ammo, my left hand slices the thief’s neck.
I spring toward the gunman.
He throws his gun at me.
I swat it aside, then shove him backward against the wall, raising the blade to his throat.
I meet his scared dark eyes.
A question comes to me, as instinctual as my movements. “Who hired you?”
I press the blade against his neck to prove I’m not fucking around.
I hear coughing behind me. The leader is down, but not out.
I grab the man I’m interrogating, and spin him to use him as my shield as the leader fires his pistol.
His shots are off, not hitting me or my man-shield.
I rush forward, shoving the man in front of me.
He falls on the leader and traps the gun under his body.
I race forward, drop to my knees, slicing upward with my left hand straight into the leader’s neck.
His eyes bulge as he gargles on his blood.
The final thief, on top of him, makes a grab for the gun.
I elbow him hard in the head.
He stumbles back, somehow managing to get the gun, raising it up and firing.
Fear, adrenaline, and anger swell inside. I’m enraged that these men would attempt to rob me and Mr. Bruno.
Don’t they know who we are?
I know these feelings are Vinnie’s, and I can’t quite figure out how they’re swirling through my head. Things don’t usually happen this way. I’ll occasionally tap into someone’s personal bank, including their muscle memory, allowing me to do things I couldn’t normally do, but this rarely comes with the host’s residual emotions. And yet, somehow, a part of Vinnie is with me.
Just like Lara was.
The last of the thieves stares up at me, shaking, raising his hands, “Please, please, don’t kill me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Who hired you?”
“Some Russian guy. I don’t know his name, I swear.”