by John Locke
Sporadic nervous chuckles broke out from various areas of the room.
Merlin handed the envelope to Sal. In it was a certified check for one hundred thousand dollars.
The guests erupted in cheerful applause, hooting and whistling. To a man, they understood what a certified check meant.
Sal wasn’t grinning, but he was close. He looked like a kid who’d just inherited FAO Schwartz. He slapped Merlin on the back, shouted “Bravo!” at Victor.
Victor’s speaker voice said, “Read the signature on the check.”
Sal tried to read the signature, frowned, and took a pair of reading glasses from his jacket pocket. “Donovan Creed,” he said. I bowed and said, “I told you I’d amaze you.”
Sal gave me a body hug. “Now that’s appreciation,” he said, looking around the room. Then he stopped as if suddenly remembering something.
“Where’s my dollar?” he said.
From the other end of the room, Kathleen said, “I’ve got your money right here, Mr. Bonadello.”
She held two items high over her head while crossing through the crowd. She presented them to Sal. One was his signed dollar bill. The other was another cashier’s check for a hundred thousand dollars.
Sal was way ahead of her. He went straight for his glasses and got to the bottom line quickly. He announced to the crowd, “Victor just gave me another hundred grand!”
Once again the crowd erupted into thunderous applause. I gave Victor a thumbs-up, and he returned the gesture.
Sal’s eyes were on Kathleen. He kissed her cheek.
“You better reel this one in,” Sal said, “before she gets away. You ain’t getting’ any younger, you know.”
Sal hugged me again and left us to mingle.
I smiled at Kathleen. “You did a good job with the magic trick,” I said.
“It was fun.”
We gorged ourselves on the classic Neapolitan food, which consisted of hearty, straight-forward dishes, like ziti al forno, chicken cacciatore, panzerotti, steak pizzaiol, rigatoni with broccoli, lasagna, and several standing rib roasts.
We followed that with an hour of dancing, under the lights. As the night wore on, the gangsters and goons seemed more accepting of my presence at the party. The reason for that was simple. Sal had spread the lie that I was retired, and that my donation had been my buy-out from the life.
As Kathleen and I stood in the foyer, waiting for our car, I said, “Anybody hit on you tonight?”
She reached in her purse and pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to me.
“Whose number is this?”
“Some guy named Ice Pick,” she said, “though I doubt that’s his Christian name.”
She looked around the room filled with fierce wise guys, badlyhealed broken noses, missing fingers, and an endless assortment of scars.
“Then again,” she said.
Chapter 13
It took awhile to piece all this together, but between Ned’s confession, my and Teddy Boy’s observations, the video camera I’d installed in The Grantline, the wireless mike I’d hidden in Callie’s purse—and Callie’s first-hand experience—it went down this way, give or take:
Bickham Wright always came to the bar with high hopes, looking for gorgeous, but The Grantline was a redneck dump in West Podunk, a good 40 miles from the big city action. So Bickham always hoped for gorgeous, but he was willing to settle for cute. After a couple hours and several drinks, he and his friends would forget all about cute and start fighting over what’s available.
And for that, they didn’t need the date rape drug.
Lately, even “available” hadn’t been an option, and Bickham’s friends were beginning to grumble, especially Charlie, the goodlooking one. He didn’t need this shit, he could get chicks on his own. Had one, in fact, a cute little cheerleader named Kimberly Creed. But Kimberly was proving to be a difficult lay, thank God, and Charlie was getting tired of playing first base.
That is not to say that Charlie had lost his respect for “The Plan.” Even for Charlie there was probably something exciting and primal about doing it this way, something that linked his brain to that of his ancient forebears and satisfied the need to hunt, capture and conquer. And of course, “The Plan” provided instant gratification: he didn’t have to go through all the dating bullshit just to get laid.
Still, if there were no chicks, the best plan in the world was useless. Where were the little bitches? That was the real question. Maybe word was getting around. Hell, even the best fishing holes eventually got fished out.
Three weekends in a row had yielded squat, and Bickham was the last holdout of the group. He didn’t want to drive the extra forty miles across the county line to troll unfamiliar bars where he didn’t know the layout. There were too many variables. One mistake and they’d be in jail with no back up. “Yeah,” said Robbie, “but at least there’d be some action!”
Bickham got the boys together and sat them down. “Look,” he said. “Maybe we don’t always score, but you gotta admit, it’s a great plan. Bickham gave it all he had, told them to put their faith in the plan. In the end he persuaded them to meet at the local dive, and once again they showed up, hoping for gorgeous.
After an hour of drinking, the main room was crowded, the band was rocking, the dance floor working, and the boys were getting so rowdy they almost missed Beauty (Callie) and the Beast, the tough-looking older guy (me, in disguise) working their way through the crowd to occupy the last vacant seats at the bar.
Bickham worked his way through the maze of good ol’ boys sucking in their beer guts and jockeying their seats to get a better look at Callie. When he found a spot where he could check her out, he couldn’t believe his eyes. There at the bar, their bar, sat the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
Bickham couldn’t stop blinking as he checked out the whole package, top to bottom, slowly. Then back up. Thinking hot! Blond! Flawless! And sporting what had to be the most amazing tattoo he’d ever seen on a woman—it covered most of her right arm and, from a distance, looked almost like a sleeve.
Bickham looked over his shoulder, saw Charlie checking her out, salivating. Robbie and George were back at the table highfiving and punching each other’s arms. Bickham must have felt vindicated. They always came hoping for gorgeous, so why could they not, just once in their lives, hit the jackpot?
And speaking of jackpots, Callie had just slapped my face. When I pretended to protest, the bartender, Teddy Boy, pulled out a baseball bat and pretended to send me packing. I made my way to the rental car and watched the action on my video monitor.
Bickham made eye contact with Charlie, who signaled the others. Game on!
The boys had every reason to believe it was a good plan. The way it works, Bickham checks out the girl, finds out what she’s drinking, and orders himself one. He drinks most of it, then pours the drug into the remainder. Bickham walks up to the girl, tries to pick her up. Of course, even ugly girls don’t like Bickham, so she’s thrilled when the handsome Charlie shows up from the opposite direction to protect her from the local loser.
While Charlie engages her in smooth conversation, Bickham pours the rest of his drink into hers. If anyone notices, it just looks like he’s sharing his drink before ordering another. Though no one ever notices, Bickham knows it’s these small details that make a plan come together.
When the girl becomes groggy, Bickham circulates loudly through the bar, diverting attention from her while Charlie escorts her out the door.
Later, no one will remember seeing Charlie and the girl leave.
The other two, George and Robbie, run interference on Teddy Boy, the bartender, and stand ready to take over in case the girl doesn’t want to leave with Charlie. In that situation, George will stand up to Charlie, t
Once they get her in the van, George and Robbie stand guard. Bickham does her first because it’s his plan and he supplies the drug. Charlie goes second, because he’s the one who does the hard work. George
and Robbie work out who gets third and fourth spot. After that, the boys rotate turns doing her until their stamina runs out. If the bar starts closing down before they’re done, they drive her out to the woods and hit it all night.
So the plan was foolproof and the boys are local, so there are plenty of witnesses to cover for them if a complaint surfaces later on. Plus, Charlie’s dad is the top lawyer in the county, in the pocket of every judge, and no father dared face him in court, fearing for his daughter’s reputation.
Bickham patted his pocket, making sure the drug was there.
GHB, gamma hydroxybutyric acid, is one of three so-called date rape drugs. Legal with a prescription, GHB is used to treat narcolepsy. Although widely available as a powder or pill, those forms can leave residue and give off a salty taste. The liquid form is Bickham’s delivery system of choice. It’s odorless, colorless and mixes in alcohol, which intensifies the effect dramatically.
Bickham’s cousin Ned, a local pharmacist, makes the drug in his store after hours. Ned has a high-maintenance trophy wife—a fine looking young thing named Anita, whose expensive tastes would normally be hard to support on a small town druggist’s income. But cousin Bickham has lots of money, so theirs is a partnership made in heaven.
Bickham has a large stash of GHB in his closet, a good thing since Ned went missing a couple of days ago. Bickham probably wondered if Ned was in some sort of trouble with drug dealers or the law, and this thought surely prompted daydreams about making it with his cousin’s wife. According to Ned, Bickham still loved conjuring the visual of Ned testing the GHB on Anita before selling it to Bickham the first time.
On their “dates,” when Bickham and Charlie feel the party needs to be moved to the woods due to drunks in the parking lot or because the bar is closing down, George and Robbie take a second car, since they’re younger and can’t stay out past two a.m.
The younger pair are unaware Bickham and Charlie had to kill and bury one of their “dates” a few months ago. The killers aren’t worried about Erica’s body turning up. They’ve hunted these woods their whole lives and know the high ground that will never be explored.
Usually, the girls were fat or worse. Tonight, if they could pull it off , they’d hit the Pussy Power Ball!
Okay, so the game was on.
Teddy Boy had just poured Callie a second drink. George and Robbie sprang into action and called Teddy Boy over to the other end of the bar to talk about liquor and sports.
Bickham took that opportunity to slide into the empty seat I had vacated. “Hey there, pretty lady,” he said.
Callie rolled her eyes.
“This can be a pretty rough place,” he continued. “I’d be glad to watch your back if you want, keep the flies away while you enjoy a drink or two.”
“Oh goody!” she said, “my knight in shining armor.”
Typical bitch response, he probably thought. According to Ned, Bickham seemed to elicit this attitude from all women, even what he called the OFU’s (old, fat and ugly ones).
He tried again: “Drinking alone, I see…”
“Usually I drink to make men more interesting. In your case…” Callie waved her hand in a dismissive manner, as if she were casually swatting air currents at a fly. She looked at the array of whisky bottles on the bar shelf and continued, “I don’t think there’s enough alcohol.”
She drained half her glass and set it back on the bar.
Bickham moved his hand close to her drink as Charlie approached her from the other side.
“Hey Bickham,” he said, “and hello, gorgeous! I’m Charlie, what’s your name?” As she turned to face him, Bickham poured the liquid into her drink, no doubt thinking, See what I mean? Foolproof! Callie and Charlie spoke a minute, which gave me time to check the detonator. Then he held his drink up as if to make a toast.
Callie smiled, reached for her drink, clinked his glass and paused a moment, watching Charlie drink. She waited there, glass poised in mid-air, as if trying to decide if she really needs this last one. She shrugged. Why not? As she moved the drink toward her perfect mouth, a small explosion rocked the back of the building.
“Shit!” Charlie screamed. “The hell was that?”
He and Bickham hit the floor. As most of the patrons ran toward the back to check out the explosion, Charlie stood up, embarrassed to see that Callie had not left her stool. She shrugged again, chugged her drink, and set it on the counter.
Over the next few minutes, confusion reigned as half the local boys ran to their trucks to retrieve squirrel guns, baseball bats and crowbars. The police were called and Teddy Boy did what he could to restore order.
Charlie regrouped, raised his eyebrows at Bickham, who knew an opportunity when he saw one.
“Sugar, we better get you out of here, get you somewhere safe,” Bickham said.
Callie said, “I don’t think so.”
Charlie said, “It’ll be okay. You can trust me.”
Their eyes met. His were sincere, hers had a faraway look.
“C’mon!” Charlie said.
He and Bickham began herding the brown-eyed, tattooed blond through the crowd, out the front door. She said, “Wait a minute, I’m feeling kind of dizzy.”
And Bickham suppressed a smile.
Chapter 14
Now, out in the parking lot, wanting to leave before the cops arrived, Charlie said: “Climb on in, we’ll drive a bit, get some air.”
I started my car and turned up my radio to pick up the wireless mike in the handle of Callie’s purse. I could have driven ahead, since I knew where they were going, b
Bickham drove and Charlie rode shotgun, trapping Callie between them on the bench seat. Above her head, the boys probably exchanged a grin, thinking, city girls! This is too damn easy! Callie tried to ask where they were going but slurred her words to make them think her speech was already severely impaired.
Bickham put his hand on her thigh, patted it. “I know you’re sleepy. We’ll stop in a couple minutes,” he said in his most sincere voice. This part was important, keeping her calm till the drug took effect.
She made a half-hearted effort to swat his hand away, but seemed to lack the coordination. Charlie cupped her breast with his hand and murmured, “God, you’re beautiful!”
Callie’s eyes were half shut, her breathing labored. “Get your hands off me!” she was trying to say, but her voice came out as slow and lazy as ketchup from a bottle. As far as they knew, she was barely conscious.
Bickham moved his hand to her crotch, tried to feel her through her jeans. Charlie, out of control, ripped her blouse open, lifted her bra, exposing her breasts. He stuffed one in his mouth while rubbing the nipple of the other with his thumb.
“Quit that shit!” yelled Bickham. “You know the rules! Goddamn it Charlie, relax!”
Bickham wasn’t kidding about the rules. They were as important as the plan itself. Charlie had been a huge help in formulating them, thanks to years of experience watching his father prepare for criminal defense trials.
In all, there were seven rules in Fuck Club, as Charlie called their group, and the four friends had agreed to follow all seven faithfully, on pain of death.
The first rule is you never talk about the plan, even to each other, because you never know who might overhear you. When your friends ask how was your weekend you always tell them the same thing: you struck out again. What do you care if your friends think you can’t get laid?
The second rule is you wait until she’s unconscious before removing her clothes. The last thing you want is to have to explain why she’s screaming if the sex is consensual.
The third rule is, undress her completely but carefully, paying attention to which buttons were buttoned and what was tucked in, and how. If she’s a little heavy and doesn’t button the top button of her jeans, she’ll know if someone else did. She might not remember if she had too much to drink and got in your van, but she will remember she had some tissue stuffing her bra that isn’t there
when she gets undressed at home afterward.
Then you fold her clothes or lay them out to avoid wrinkles or stains. “Always remember,” Charlie had said, “without the dress stain, Monica was a liar, a slut, and a stalker. With it, she nearly brought down the President!” Afterward, you dress her carefully, replacing every item as it had been before you unwrapped the package.
The fourth rule is, use a condom. You don’t want any fluids turning up later. DNA evidence is hard to overcome if you’re on record denying you had sex with her. Of course, later on you can always just say you were trying to protect her reputation, or yours, and that the sex was consensual. But in that case you’re arguing after the fact, trying to play make-up. You’ve lost a measure of credibility and created doubt. It’s better not to be in this position in the first place.
The fifth rule is you remain calm at all times. Do her gently to avoid marks or abrasions typically associated with sexual assault. You never attempt oral or anal. Oral could choke her to death because the drug constricts her breathing, and anal is something she would figure out later on.
The sixth rule is you take no pictures, videos, souvenirs or evidence of any kind. Speaking of evidence, you leave none. This means, curb the saliva. No hickies, love bites or marks of any kind. No sense giving the cops or prosecuting attorney a gift-wrapped conviction.
The final rule is you never admit to anything. If the police bring all four of you into the station and isolate you in separate interrogation rooms, you never admit anything. If the cops threaten you or tell Charlie that Bickham is cutting a deal, Charlie knows it’s a lie because of rule number seven. Under no circumstances do you break rule number seven. As Charlie says, “Put your trust in the American system of justice and you’ll be fine, because the rules of evidence are flawed when it comes to date rape. If no one breaks any of the seven rules, none of us will ever be convicted.”
Also, as long as Charlie’s involved, you inherit his highpowered father as your legal safety net.
Of course, if anyone was likely to violate the rules it would be Charlie himself—and he’d already proved it tonight by ripping Callie’s blouse and getting his saliva all over her breast.