Tease

by Nathalie Gray

  “We’re good,” Joan said, her tone of voice much lower and hard. She shifted gears. “Let’s go.”

  Archer’s first reaction was to sit deeper in his seat. Did they have airbags in older BMW models? Did they conform to today’s norms? Would they hear him screaming like a girl through the mike? Archer briefly closed his eyes when Joan took a corner like a maniac, swerved to avoid a furniture delivery truck that had slowed in front of a store and passed with the legerdemain of a drunken racecar driver. All recklessness and speed.

  Goddamn son of a bitch!

  He took a deep breath when Joan stepped on the accelerator and drove onto the Metropolitan highway, someone’s bright idea to make crossing the city left to right, east to west and vice versa, supposedly easier. Archer wouldn’t mind smacking the engineers upside the head. He wondered what had gone on in the conference rooms as they thought this highway up. “Hey, let’s build a suspended highway over the city and not give it shoulders for broken-down cars to stop on, and let’s make it very, very narrow and frustrating as all hell. Just for the fuck of it!”

  With the late afternoon sun dipping below the highest roofs and casting everything in coppery light, Joan took the Northbound 13 and drove in silence for a while, only occasionally glancing at him. He could see her every time, even if she looked as if she tried to hide it.

  “When this is over, Joan,” Archer said at length, “we have to talk.”

  She beamed. “Your place or mine?”

  He smiled. A fake thing, but he was good enough to hide his true feelings. She didn’t need a mind screw right now, she needed to be focused, and letting on that things weren’t all good on his side would only mess with her or upset her. If she were upset and pissed and failed to place for the amateur night later on, the whole thing would collapse. Laramée would go free to bring kids in from other countries to act as sex slaves.

  Yeah, I’m suddenly all Sir Al Truist from the Selfless Order of Saint Prick.

  As much as the thought repulsed him, he wasn’t doing it for those kids but for Joan. He was stomping on his own heart for her. He just wished he could have hugged her one last time. But in front of everybody, it would’ve been too awkward. Already her partner had looked at both of them with her eyes narrowed and a knowing sneer.

  Joan smiled all of a sudden, which piqued his curiosity as nothing else. “What?”

  “I was trying to imagine you telling the contractor how to install all those poles.” She chuckled.

  “Yeah, that was funny. The guy kept arguing. I asked him if he was either a stripper or a fireman. That settled it.”

  “How did you become involved in that?”

  “You make it sound like it’s the mob or something,” Archer replied, his first reaction always defending his job. Although with Joan, he knew she wasn’t attacking it, just wondering. “Well, I’m a smart guy, right.” He stopped, waited for the smile he knew would come, was rewarded by a big toothy one that made him feel as if the sun shone just for him. “So it was either watch a bunch of guys grabbing each other’s gi or having my studio filled with women practicing their moves at the poles. It wasn’t hard.”

  Joan’s laugh was infectious and lightened his mood for a good ten seconds. He even forgot about Adriano’s dire warnings.

  “‘Grabbing each other’s gi’…what the hell is a gi?”

  “It’s what judokas wear.”

  “Ohhh…I had these visions and it wasn’t pretty. ‘Grabbing each other’s gi.’”

  She nodded, still chuckling. The woman had nerves of steel. They chatted about inconsequential things for the rest of the way. They were being recorded after all.

  “Here it is,” she said as she pulled into the parking lot of a building that could’ve passed for a law firm. All stainless steel, brick and angles. Even the cars looked the same, a shish kebab of Benzes, Jags, Lexus, the odd Japanese car. There must have been a few million bucks parked in the lot. And those were the ones he could see.

  Archer had never been to The Quicksilver. Probably the only club in town where even his connections wouldn’t work. Maybe he could’ve asked Raphaëlle if she knew people who knew people who could get him in. He’d just never had the interest to know the place. Before now.

  “Won’t the bad guys notice your ‘retinue’?” He checked back through the rear window and caught the mail truck parking in front of a drugstore across the street. One of the cops got out, parcel under his arm and entered the business. He ran-walked the way delivery people did, electronic signature pad in hand, baseball cap screwed on tight. Not bad acting.

  “The rest will park farther down the street around the corner. There’s a grocery store, so it won’t show.” She checked her face in the mirror. She wore eye shadow and lip gloss. Lots of it. Her lips glistened like wet candy. It impeded with his ability to think so he lowered his gaze.

  “There are people waiting already.” Archer could see them, the wannabes. They all looked the same everywhere. Those were the rich and famous people’s friends. The ones who’d have to wait in line, give their names, wait some more for the infinite honor of stepping inside a club where their presence only served as coat hangers, drink holders and ego strokers. The social climbers. Or were they just called losers nowadays?

  Joan cursed. “Man, don’t these people have anything else better to do on a Saturday night?”

  Archer couldn’t help a mocking grin.

  She snapped her chin at him. “What do you do on Saturday nights?”

  “Shopping. I have the female store clerks all to myself on Saturday nights because stores are deserted.”

  “Yeah, everybody is waiting to get into clubs.”

  She pulled into a tight, tiiiiight spot between a Benz and something else he’d never seen. She shifted into neutral, jerked on the handbrake then held the steering wheel like a drowning woman would. A stitch of worry pinched his heart. What did he know, his Italian boss? He’d give a limb to find out. With his luck, some mafia hostile takeover or something.

  “You know for sure Laramée will be here tonight?”

  She nodded. “INTERPOL faxed us a copy of his plane’s flight plan, the one that dead informant managed to get. So it’s like a gold bar to us, you know, because over there, it’s not as easy legally tracking planes with all the different state laws, plus there’s customs and all. It gets complicated, especially if you fly over Switzerland where they won’t share any of their air traffic intel with anyone. Anyway, he landed at Pierre Elliot Trudeau Airport early last week, which was confirmed by our guys here. His plane hasn’t left since. So we know he’s in Montreal. Plus, we also know he likes to show up for the club’s special nights, likes to strut around and pick up girls. It’s amateur night and that’s how they recruit some of their performers…when they don’t lasso them right off planes.”

  She hadn’t said “strippers” but “performers”. He wanted to smile and pat her on the back.

  “When do we know…”

  She was watching her rearview mirror intently. “He’s coming back out. Let’s go.”

  Archer spotted the same “delivery man”, without the parcel this time, coming out of the drugstore. He didn’t look at Joan’s silver BMW as he climbed back into the black truck and drove away.

  “He changed his mind, did he?”

  Joan laughed. It sounded strained. “Yeah, decided to take his retirement. No, it’s all part of the plan. They’ll park a bit farther down the street.”

  He wished they would’ve shared more details of The Plan with him, the lowly civilian. “It’s on a need-to-know basis, sir,” Sauvageau had declared. The Gospel According to Sergeant-detective Pain. Wasn’t it enough Archer had signed a waiver and confidentiality agreement? They could tell him a bit more than just “Stand there and never let her out of your sight”. As though he would.

  Archer joined her outside where the setting sun had completely disappeared below the adjacent buildings with only a purplish glow that heralded a balmy Septem
ber evening and perhaps a gunfight, a civilian casualty, horrible scars for life and…

  Okay, man, for fuck’s sake, settle down.

  Joan turned to him, movement that dislodged a thick strand of hair from behind her shoulder. The urge to run his hands through it made his fingers twitch. He realized he walked too fast for her when he made his way toward the club. Despite the danger, he was getting excited.

  He gave the last few people in the waiting line The Eye. It was all about The Eye. He’d learned it early in life. If one let people think one had business someplace, that one’s time was valuable and theirs wasn’t, that one had a right to go in front because one had made previous arrangements, then most people would let one do one’s thing without interference. And it worked again tonight as both Joan and he walked right up to the door.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a clump of girls much too young to be there. One of them elbowed the other, a gesture that spread in a ripple effect amidst the little group and alerted them of a potential rung in their social ladder. They smiled wide at him. One of them licked her lips.

  She was what? Seventeen?

  Usually, he would’ve been flattered by the attention. Tonight, he just wanted to roll his eyes. They were girls. He was with a woman. Couldn’t they see they’d never stand a chance? Then he caught himself wondering if they would eventually become caught in Laramée’s net.

  “Security is wearing black suit, probably carrying. Six-three, two-fifty.”

  Joan spoke out of the corner of her mouth. Archer wasn’t sure if he should angle his chest her way or not. He’d been told the mike would pick up voices in a four to six feet radius, unless it was loud. To make sure the rest of the team received her warning loud and clear—and to ease his own mounting worry—he grabbed her arm and held her close to him. The gesture made her frown but he couldn’t help it. It came with the package. Dick, balls, testosterone, protective gene. All one bundle. The Macho Do-it-yourself Kit.

  “We’re entering the building.”

  We should do as Elvis did and leave the building.

  “Don’t forget eye contact,” he murmured, turning to her. “It’s the most important thing. And when you do the bounce, you make those pennies work, okay? And point those feet. You tend to forget to point your feet when you spin, and oh, one more thing…” Archer stopped when Joan’s grin had become wide enough to convince him he was being a moron. When they stood inside the foyer proper, between the two sets of glass doors, he wrapped his hand around her upper arm, leaned in to her so he could whisper into her ear without his audience listening in. “You’ll blow them all away, ma belle. Just like you did me. I won’t even wish you good luck.”

  He straightened, nodded.

  And received a sound kiss on the mouth!

  “Eat your heart out, Chantal,” Joan whispered in Archer’s shirt collar.

  Archer couldn’t say a word. Serious body heat followed Joan’s little stunt. And serious guilt as well.

  Oh man, Adriano, you really fucked me this time.

  Chapter Nine

  Something was up with Archer. He didn’t look his usual smug self as he held the club’s door for her and looked around. He must have been worried. Understandable given what he was being asked to do. He hadn’t been trained for it. In fact, neither had she been trained to be a pole dancer! But here they were, both of them out of their element and thrust into the other’s instead, with him forced to play at cops and robbers, and her about to dance half naked for strangers. A reversal of fortune. Ha.

  There must have been a hundred people waiting in line along the building’s façade, yet no one said a thing as they’d walked right up to the doors. Wow. She never would’ve had the guts to do that during her off time. Yet Archer hadn’t had a single moment of hesitation. A lifetime of privilege. Old money, as her dad would say. Speaking of which, when she called her folks tomorrow, she wouldn’t mention right away what she’d done. That’d require several phone calls to explain, to massage the notion their daughter had had to dance half naked in a club packed with Montreal’s upper crust, the crème de la crème of the criminal community. She could barely believe it herself, truth be told!

  Chantal’s face when she’d seen Archer step into the locker room! Joan would’ve loved to tease her about how her jaw hung a good inch and a half lower than it should, that her eyes had been as round as dollars, but there hadn’t been time for any of it. Poor Archer had had to take his shirt off right away, endure Chantal’s little poke about his chest—his nice, smooth, hot and…okay, focus.

  Speaking of chest, here’s the bouncer. Pay attention.

  A large man in a black suit who’d been standing in the lobby of what resembled an office building, complete with elevators and information board, left his post to accost them as they stepped inside. According to their contact and some recent police surveillance—Laramée was costing them a fortune—the ground floor comprised of offices while the underground level was the club, all ten thousand square feet of it. Huge.

  “Bonsoir. Can I help you?” the bouncer asked.

  Almost as large as Sauvageau, but thicker at the shoulders. And more polite too. Although she had no doubt the man would give her guys a lot of trouble when the fun began. She’d hoped there wouldn’t have been so many civilians outside. If the police wanted to keep the element of surprise, which they desperately needed, they couldn’t even evacuate the civilians before the raid and would have to just run around them, hoping a stray bullet wouldn’t kill one of the sons or daughters of Montreal’s richest citizens. In fact, she was hoping bullets wouldn’t even have to be fired, although she doubted it very much. Because their situation was already desperate—using cops to play exotic dancers wouldn’t go down well in public opinion—they couldn’t afford a messy incident or, God forbid, a gunfight. She’d never live down the headlines if they failed.

  “We’ve been invited to audition for amateur night,” Archer replied before Joan could open her mouth to speak.

  Nodding, the bouncer pulled out a cell from his jacket pocket and thumbed it on. “Vos noms, s’il-vous-plaît?”

  So polite.

  “Susannah Bauer and James Wise,” she replied. Archer didn’t look like a James. Neither did he look like a George, come to think of it.

  The thick fingers worked quickly over the tiny keypad. “Stand there for a minute please.” The bouncer indicated the wall.

  Joan stood against the wall with Archer looking as though he wanted to say something and was having a hard time keeping his mouth shut. He stood protectively between the bouncer and her. Didn’t he know she could break the dude’s arm in three different places? Or at least hurt him a little. But then again, she was no martial arts expert whereas Archer was. He’d worn a black belt with one or two stripes on it. She was glad her companion could take care of himself. Yet at the same time, she was worried he’d be in the way or worse, caught in the crossfire.

  The bouncer took a picture of her then of Archer.

  “You can go wait downstairs with the others.”

  The bouncer keyed in a number and almost right away the elevator pinged. The door opened and a mean-looking man with an eyebrow ring stepped out. He wore a suit but Joan could recognize a thug when she saw one. Whereas the front door bouncer was just a big guy in a suit, Eyebrow Ring was the real threat, down to the broken nose and thick chin. And they had no intel at all on this one. He must have been able to fly below radar and avoid being linked with Laramée. Well, no more, buddy.

  She felt Archer tense beside her.

  “Which one’s the stripper?” Ring asked, giving Joan a once-over that would’ve cost him a few strips anywhere else but here.

  “She’s the performer,” Archer replied. His voice was hard and cold. She couldn’t believe the difference. “I’m her manager.”

  “You can’t go backstage. Only her. You’ll wait out front.”

  “I don’t think so—”

  “Then get the fuck out,” Ri
ng interrupted while pointing at the door behind them.

  Joan forced a smile. “It’s okay, honey, you can wait with the rest of the men out front.”

  Ring nodded. “Listen to your girl and I won’t bust your pretty mouth. Now face the wall.”

  He turned just as Archer’s “pretty mouth” thinned to a tight line. He threw a glance at Joan, seemed about to say something but took a long breath through the nose.

  “I said, face the wall.”

  Joan reacted first, went to stand against the concrete wall and planted her palms against it, legs spread a bit for what she knew was coming.

  “Know the drill, huh?” Ring remarked with a mean chuckle. “Spread wider, I got big hands.”

  A scowling Archer stood beside her, his hand almost touching hers when he adopted the “let’s be searched” position. Clearly, he was having a grand time.

  Ring took his time patting her everywhere and as much as it pissed her off, he was doing a good job at it too, with his “big hands” finding every little recess and crease and even lifting her jacket over a hip when he seemed to have felt something weird. It turned out to be the penny belt. Fear that this brutish but skilled man would feel Archer’s wire spread through her as a fever would. God, what if he finds it?

  Ring slapped her butt. “Clear.”

  “If you slap my butt…” Archer snarled, throwing a scowl behind at Ring, who only sniggered and sucked at his teeth in reply.

  Archer suffered the same fate but with much less tolerance and much grunting and cursing under his breath.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he spat when Ring ran his hands along the inside of his legs, slowly coming up behind him and cupping Archer’s crotch. He must have given a squeeze too for her companion’s mouth opened, yet no sound came out. His eyes narrowed to murderous slits.

  “You didn’t squeal. Good. Now listen.” Ring put his chin right over Archer’s shoulder. “If you give me attitude again, I’ll mess up your pretty face then I’ll make you watch while I have some fun with your girl. Got it?”