I moved there when I first started working security at The Capital Arena. I had three rooms, all of them just a bit too small for my needs, but it was close to downtown and, later, when I started working for Irv, if he needed me right away, I was their right away. I always liked being above the bar. Sometimes it was too noisy, yet when I wanted a drink or a woman, I didn’t have to go far.
I put the Beast in the garage and the hybrid took a spot for bar patrons. I took the .45 from behind my shirt and left it in the glove compartment. Becky grabbed Van Gogh’s carrier from the back seat, and I grabbed the igloo, locking the car behind me.
"I’m a little nervous," she said as we headed up the stairs.
"About what?"
"I’ve met some guys from the Internet before, but no one’s picked me up at work ever."
"You’re cute," I said. "You just don’t know it."
"I’m weird looking," she said. "I got a mirror at home."
"Quit being so hard on yourself." I had my key in the lock looking over my shoulder at her. "Speaking of homes, mine’s a bit of a wreck."
Opening the door, an arctic chill blew out. I saw my breath when I exhaled. Putting the new litter box down on the breakfast bar by the empties, I had a feeling that something wasn’t right. It was more than Eddie’s mules rotting in the bedroom. The living room looked different, like someone had been through it, but the way things were misplaced to begin with, I couldn’t be sure. Maybe my head was just as jumbled as the room.
"Cold in here," Becky said.
"Yeah," I said. "I hate the heat."
"What should I do with Van Gogh?"
"Next to the litter box is cool."
As she was doing that, I saw Mona and Lisa’s purses on the sofa. I hadn’t remembered putting them there. I put a cushion on top of them then continued to tidy up, throwing the girl’s clothes behind a lounge chair.
"Looks like you had some party," Becky said, pushing aside some empty brew bottles.
"I wish I could remember it."
"Stop kidding," she said.
"Why don’t you let Van Gogh out?"
"Well, Nick, you’re supposed to let him get used to his new environment very slowly."
"Fuck that," I said.
"Language, Nick, please."
"Right. Screw that."
"It smells like a pet store in here a little."
"I’m having my bedroom remodeled, and they’re using some kind of stinky adhesive and paints."
"Geez, that seems unhealthy."
"I’m staying outta there until they’re done. I’ve been sleeping on the sofa." She was still by the counter, sometimes looking at Van Gogh, sometimes me. "Hey, I offered you a drink."
"Yes, you did."
I checked the fridge, found a can of soda in back. No beer in sight, though.
"I got a cola," I said.
"Perfect."
"In a glass or outta the can?"
"Just rub the top and give it to me," she said.
I did that and handed it over. "Thanks, Nick."
"Come have a seat on the sofa."
"Okay."
I sat on the cushion covering the purses, Becky right next to me, but our bodies didn’t touch.
"I’m gonna smoke," I said.
"What kind?"
I showed her the pack. “These.”
"I love those."
I lit two.
"You ain’t married, are you?" she asked.
"No."
"Ever been?"
I shook my head.
"Why not?"
"It ain’t for me."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-five."
"I like older men."
"I qualify then."
"That you do," she said sipping the soda. Van Gogh was talking up a storm and she looked his way. "I like your cat. Want to hear about mine?"
"Can’t wait," I said.
"I got an orange one named, Butterscotch. He’s almost..."
"Ain’t butterscotch more yellow in color?"
"You’re too damn funny," she said, slapping my knee. "And the way you keep that straight face, it’s even more hilarious."
"All right, now," I said, borrowing the soda from her and having some. "What about Butterscotch?"
"I call him Mr. Butters. He’s nearly twelve and weighs about twice his age."
"A real porker, huh?"
"Yep. Nothing cuter than a fatty catty," she said. "And he’s as lazy as a hot summer day. Even in the winter."
"Nothing wrong with that."
"And then I have Ebony, a black kitten with white all under his chin and stomach. Guess what I call him?"
"I don’t know," I said.
"Come on, guess."
"Blackie and Whitey?"
"You’re silly. Ebby. He’s a rascal, ripping the furniture, climbing the drapes, and attacking Mr. Butters all the time."
"I thought you said Mr. Butters slept all the time."
"Well, he’s has to make that stroll to the food bowl a thousand times a day."
"This is all very...ah...fascinating."
"I just love my cats so much."
"Tell me about your Internet dates," I said, tapping some ash off my cigarette then holding the tray closer to Becky so she could do the same.
"Well, they were either looking for some on the side or they just wanted some period."
I nodded as if I was different from those guys.
"One of them was even married, had two kids."
"That seems pretty wrong to me."
"But I could tell right off you had something the others didn’t."
I wondered how she knew I was loaded. "I’m just an average, honest, barkeeper, Beck."
"Stop that," she said, reaching across me, her arm brushing against my chest to put her soda can down. "You breathe confidence, Nick. You know how many guys have brought their cat into the store when I’m working there?"
"Hey, that sign says ‘Pets Welcome’."
"None. You were the first."
"What the hell," I said.
"And you’re funny, too. Playing dumb like you do."
"Yeah, you know..."
"I bet you’ve got some major acumen. One of them triple A personality types."
No one had ever said that about me before, though I wasn’t sure what she was talking about.
I was mulling that over—acumen, triple A types—when she placed her hand on my thigh. I started to get hard. Her lips were waiting for mine. Her mouth tasted sweet from the cola. We kissed harder, flicking tongues, and I touched her breasts, feeling her nipples grow. Her hand found my cock, rubbing it through my slacks, until I felt like I would burst. Her hands fumbled to unbutton my pants. I put my mouth on her nipple, sucking it right through the shirt and bra, tasting loose fibers.
"Sit up a sec," she said, gasping.
She slid my pants down and grabbed the base of my dick, caressing my balls with her fingers. I thought I heard wood creaking from somewhere in the apartment. Becky leaned over my lap. I looked down the hall as she licked the head of my cock. Someone stepped out of the bedroom while Becky wrapped her mouth around me.
A lanky female walked towards the living room, holding out something that looked way too much like a .9mm semi-automatic pistol. She had large hips and a gapping cleavage between C-cup boobs. Very short hair, more straw colored than true blonde. A face as tough as oak. The eyes were as dark and cold as an abyss.
I had never seen her in my life.
Becky gagged and swallowed.
"What do you say, Nick?" the woman with the gun said.
Becky whipped around at the sound of the voice, saw the weapon, and panicked. "Oh my God!" she said. "Don’t shoot! I didn’t know he was married!"
"Wipe your mouth, slut," the woman said, "and get out of here."
"Don’t kill me!"
"Just go," the lady said, waving the gun towards the door.
Becky didn’t look at me as she ran from the
apartment, slamming the door behind her.
"Thanks," I said. "Didn’t quite know how I’d get rid of her."
The woman’s dark eyes shifted back to me. "You are Nick Constantine?"
"Who wants to know?"
"Pull your pants up, big guy."
"Fuck you," I said.
"I will shoot."
"You would have by now."
"Right in that little limp pecker of yours."
"You don’t know who you’re messing with, lady."
"Get up," she said.
"Make me."
She pulled the trigger back. "I was told you’d give me a hard time. But, by the look of things, I don’t think so right now. Get up."
I stood and buckled, making sure to take plenty of time to tuck my shirt in.
"Sit down when you’re finished," she said.
"You a cop?" I said, sitting back on the sofa.
"Do I look like a cop?"
"Wouldn’t have asked if I knew."
"You flatter me."
"Don’t bet on it."
"You must drink," she said.
"So?"
"I can tell by your attitude."
"What is this shit, lady?"
"You kill them two back there?" Her shoulder motioned towards the bedroom, but her eyes stayed on me.
"No."
"How’d they die?"
I decided on a lie. "I don’t know."
"You can do better than that."
"I drink. Remember?"
"And so you don’t remember?"
"That’s it," I said.
"People shouldn’t die that young. Don’t you think?"
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Well, I know what I’m not, and that’s a sick fuck, Constantine. Getting head when you got two pieces of putrefying pussy not twenty feet away."
"Forget it."
"Hey, I was the one waiting in all that stink for you to get back here."
"Hey, if I knew who you were, what you wanted, maybe I could help you with your tangled emotions."
"Someone wants to see you, Nick."
"Yeah?" I said.
"An old friend," she replied.
"Don’t have any."
"You’ll remember this one."
"Who is it?"
"It’s time to go and see. Stand up. If you rush me, I’ll shoot you in the leg and bring you along anyway."
I didn’t doubt that. Whoever she was, she had handled a weapon before. I figured her as former law enforcement or retired military, more likely the latter.
I got to my feet. "What’s your name?" She didn’t answer. Professional killers don’t. "Ain’t no harm in telling me your name."
"It’s Michelle."
"We coming back here Michelle?"
"I was told to get you and bring you somewhere. Nothing else."
"What about the cat?"
"What cat?"
I pointed. "That one."
"Okay. You got a cat."
"I’m taking him," I said.
"Why’s that?"
"If you whack me, who’s gonna take care of Van Gogh? He just came from a displaced home."
"How ‘bout I whack the fucking thing right now so we don’t have an issue."
"Then shoot me too cuz I’m taking the cat."
I got off the sofa, grabbed the carrier and walked to the door. Michelle didn’t shoot either of us.
6
A stretch limo, shiny black, tinted windows all the way around, was waiting for us in the parking lot behind the bar. A very short man, not much taller than a midget or a dwarf—as if I knew the difference between them—stood by the back door, wearing the chauffeur garb of black and white. He had chocolate-colored skin and one of those beards like Abe Lincoln. He reminded me somewhat of penguin. He opened the door, and I put Van Gogh on the floor before climbing in. Michelle gave me a shove so I landed on my head in the backseat. By the time I righted myself, she was sitting across from me with the .9 mm out and in her lap.
"Clever," I said.
The limo pulled away from the bar.
"You don’t like this, do you?" she said.
"Getting taken somewhere by gunpoint? No, I’m enjoying every second of it."
"It’s because you got taken by a woman."
"Never said that."
"I can see it in your face."
"You’re putting things there that ain’t there, Michelle. Get some eyeglasses."
"Be quiet and have a drink."
Unlike that powder puff Terry, there was no way I could slap Michelle and take the pistol from her. She’d splatter me in half a second. All I could do was wait, see where they were taking me. I slid the top to the wet bar open and pulled out a can of foreign beer from the ice.
"Want something?" I said.
"Drink your beer and look out the window."
That’s what I did, the beer mostly foam. Abe must have hit too many potholes on the way to my place, though he wasn’t running over any now. We left the neighborhood, catching most of the lights, heading north towards the capital building, the gold dome growing larger and larger. Clemens Park was filled with the mishmash of the capital denizens; suited professionals walking off their power lunches while ducking the bums begging for change and the dealers looking to score. Abe peeled off to the left, shooting past The Capital Arena, where I used to work security for sporting events, shows, and rock concerts. The limo got stuck in a jam by the Old Legislature Building. Once free of that fiasco, we headed through downtown, easing by the glass office buildings and high-rise hotels.
I had made this ride in my personal auto thousands of times. I knew exactly where we were headed. I figured I didn’t have long to live.
"When did he get out?" I said.
Michelle didn’t answer, just bored into me with her black eyes. I finished my beer and grabbed another.
Abe used the parking garage I had always used and he circled the stretch job to the roof, finding a spot by the doors. Built out of white bricks, the building didn’t have many windows and rose only a few stories above the garage. Most of the offices were vacant or occupied by businesses nobody should be doing business with: doctors operating without licenses, telemarketers running scams, a pawn shop that dealt in stolen property, gypsies telling fortunes and reading palms, and even a church claiming Jesus was an alien from outer space. Send money now to get a ticket on the rocket ship to heaven. Limited seating. Reserve your place before it’s too late. All major credit cards accepted.
I had a few drags off a cigarette—probably my last one—as we went in, Abe first, me and Van Gogh in the middle, and Michelle bringing up the rear. The hallway was dim, and the tile floor dirty, though I smelt ammonia every time I walked through. We took an elevator to the top floor and went down to the end of the corridor and turned right at the T.
The sign on the plain yellow door read: MARQUETTE CONSULTANTS, but I never saw anybody consult anything legal in there. Abe let us in with a key, the first room, large and sparse, holding a few plaid chairs, and a folding table, the top as bare as the walls. The fluorescents buzzed like cicadas, but the noise didn’t bother the two suited black guys leafing through magazines like they were waiting for their dentist. Just some more muscle—these clowns as big as sumo wrestlers and looking about as smart and quick.
Abe vanished through the set of double doors in the far corner and Michelle used the .9 mm to point at one of the chairs.
"Have a seat, Nick."
"I’ll stand."
"Sit with your kitty, Nickie."
"When this is over..."
"Save it. I’ve heard it before."
"...you’re dead."
"I’ll be losing tons of sleep worrying about that," she said.
One of the wrestlers grunted—whether at me or something in the mag, I couldn’t tell.
Van Gogh had slept through the limo ride, but now he was awake, sniffing at the air, and letting some meows fly. He might have been as apprehensive as me. I fac
ed the carrier towards my chair and stroked him, his purring loud enough for Michelle to hear over by the table.
I didn’t think I’d be waiting long and before I had my fingers out of the cage, Abe returned, followed by a hobbled man who had waited a long time for this moment. I wondered how he’d kill me.
He was tall and wide, though he looked soft in spots, especially around his upper arms and thighs. I thought he would have had plenty of time to work out in the pen. What added to his height, was how he spiked his hair, making it look like a seventies afro. He dug expensive threads, wearing pinstripe suits and black leather shoes everyday everywhere. His teeth were as white as ivory because they were false, and his skin was as dark as the strongest cup of coffee you ever drank. The last time I saw Irv Marquette, bailiffs were yanking him from a courtroom after a Federal judge had pronounced a ten-year sentence for income tax evasion.
But that was three years ago.
"Well, well, if it isn’t Nick Constantine in the flesh," Irv said. "Son-of-bitch never once came and visited me in the joint. Come on, give me a hug."
I just sat there.
"What’s the matter?" he said. "You got a wire on that I might bump into?"
"Fuck you, Irv."
"You always did have them witty comebacks."
"When’d you break out?"
"Got parole twenty-three days ago. Guess the board didn’t think a tax cheat was all that dangerous to the community."
"Didn’t see it in the papers," I said.
"You read, Nick?"
"So does my cat."
Irv leaned in for a look at Van Gogh. "Is that the only kind of pussy you getting these days?"
I started up, but got sapped on the back of the neck. Abe had gotten behind my chair and the bastard was so small I hadn’t noticed. The blow sent shock waves all down my back and through my legs, momentarily paralyzing me. Good thing, too. Michelle would have needed her weapon to stop me. The wrestlers hadn’t even moved, looking through their mercenary magazines like nothing had happened.
"I see you’ve gotten your temper under control," Irv said, laughing, showing his dentures.
"What do you want, Irv?"
"Maybe I just wanted to rehash the good old days, Nick, and I knew you wouldn’t come willingly. However, Michelle calls me from your dump while she’s waiting for you, and says you got a couple of dead whores in your bedroom."
The Big Bad Page 4