by Matt Rogers
King cast a long forced gaze around the room. ‘That won’t be hard.’
Slater silently gave his approval.
Thought, Thanks for not beating his brains in yet.
He could see King thinking, No problem. You’re the one I’m concerned about.
Gates turned back and said, ‘And for you?’
Slater said, ‘Water.’
King eyed him.
Gates said, ‘You’re a joker.’
Slater said, ‘I don’t drink. You got a problem?’
A morsel of a spark flared behind Gates’ eyes.
Slater bristled. He didn’t let anything show, maintaining the unthreatening demeanour, but the animalistic part of him flared to life. He sized up every fibre of Gates’ physicality. Figured if it came to it, he’d simply headbutt the guy square in the face, shattering his nose, then drop low and smash an elbow into his gut, crushing the wind out of him, and as he folded over smack an open palm down on the back of his skull hard enough to put him out so he crumpled face-first into the floor, doing more damage to the compromised nose.
He only needed the tiniest excuse to do it.
But Gates recalculated and his aggression disappeared. He was more intelligent than Slater thought. This had to be new territory — a customer who didn’t take shit, wasn’t ashamed of himself, didn’t roll over and beg for Gates’ services. Gates soaked it all in, but probably remembered the eight-figure net worth King had hinted at, and instead opted for calm. He could massage his ego by kicking them out, but if there was enough money in it...
Gates said, ‘No problem here.’
He flashed a sinister smile.
Slater said, ‘That’s good.’
‘Find a seat,’ Gates said. ‘Make yourselves comfortable.’
They stood in a tight makeshift triangle for a moment too long. Gates couldn’t fully quash his ego. It was still there, screaming for an outlet, but he kept it at bay.
King was the first to move. He turned and headed for the nearest empty booth. Slater followed. Neither of them looked back, but Slater felt Gates’ wide eyes boring into him.
They sat down, dragging their suit pants across the cheap vinyl.
King muttered, ‘Risky.’
Slater said, ‘We need him to know we’re not pushovers. We’re going to make demands later.’
‘Are we?’
A girl dropped into the booth alongside Slater. They couldn’t have been sitting down for more than fifteen seconds. She’d made a beeline for them. She was maybe sixteen, but looked younger. Curly brown hair framed a face with full lips and green eyes. Her outfit — schoolgirl, just like the rest of them — was beyond revealing. Breasts pushed up, skirt practically ending at her hips, faux school shirt torn to expose her midriff.
She eyed them one by one and said, ‘What are your names?’
Slater smiled at her. ‘You first.’
‘I’m Melanie.’
14
King didn’t react, but he eyed Slater.
Making sure the recognition was there.
It was.
King leant forward. ‘How’s your night been, Melanie?’
‘Better now,’ she said.
‘And why’s that?’
‘You tell me.’
‘You want us to compliment ourselves?’
She laughed. It was hilariously forced. ‘I could do that, if you’d like. But I’d say the two of you get it enough.’
A Hispanic bartender — same nationality as Gates if King had to guess — came over and put a tumbler down in front of Slater with two fingers of neat brown liquid within. Mistaking Slater for the one who’d ordered a drink. The guy said, ‘Enjoy.’
Slater didn’t touch it.
King was impressed.
He knew Slater hadn’t sipped alcohol since that eventful night all those months ago in New York City. Manhattan went dark, and so did Slater’s desire to suppress his pain. He’d been a happier man ever since. King had wondered whether he’d forfeit the streak of sobriety for the sake of appearances.
King figured he’d take that particular temptation away.
He reached out, picked up the tumbler, and said, ‘Damn, that looks good.’
He sipped.
It was.
Melanie said, ‘So what brings the two of you here?’
‘You,’ Slater said, openly ogling.
She didn’t seem to mind. She batted her eyelashes. ‘Oh?’
‘You seemed interested when you came over here,’ Slater said. ‘I thought I’d return the favour.’
‘A smooth talker,’ she said. ‘I like that. Want me to dance for you? I don’t usually start so fast, but … I don’t know … there’s something about you.’
She eyed the closest stripper pole.
Slater said, ‘How about you stay right here?’
She said, ‘I’d like that,’ then added, ‘but…’
She stuck her rear in the air as she levered out of the booth. ‘First I need a drink. You sure you don’t want anything?’
‘I already asked for water.’
She pouted. ‘You’re no fun.’
Slater hunched forward. ‘I’m a lot of fun. Trust me.’
‘I do.’
She put a hand on his shoulder, kept it there for far longer than necessary, then breezed away.
When she was gone, King scanned the room for Gates, but he’d disappeared into a back room.
King said, ‘You’re a natural at this, huh?’
Through gritted teeth, Slater muttered, ‘I’m going to smash Gates’ fucking skull in as soon as I get the chance.’
‘I didn’t need to warn you before this, did I? You’re nailing it.’
‘If you think I can’t control myself, then you don’t know me.’
‘Maybe I know the old you.’
‘Maybe.’
‘How are we playing this?’
But Melanie was back in moments, tersely ending their conversation. The bartender must have had her drink ready. It was a Long Island Iced Tea, loaded with a variety of spirits, and maybe sprinkled with something extra to make her … open to new experiences.
She sucked down a third of it through a curly straw and said, ‘So let’s cut the shit, huh?’
King raised an eyebrow.
She said, ‘The two of you don’t mess around. How’d you like to skip the hour of small-talk?’
King could feel Armando Gates speaking through her. Gates must have whispered in her ear on the way out, conveying everything he thought he knew. They’re no-nonsense. They don’t waste time. They know what they want, and you’re going to give it to them.
Informing his most reliable worker.
King glanced at Slater — it was imperceptible, but their eyes met, and everything that needed to be conveyed passed from man to man.
Slater leant into her, getting awfully close, and said, ‘I think we’d like that very much.’
‘“We”?’ she said, trying her best to make her gaze tantalising.
Slater said, ‘If we both wanted you, would that be a problem?’
Her eyes lit up, clouded by drink.
She saw two young fit guys — young in comparison to the rest of the clientele, at least — but above all she saw dollar signs.
She said, ‘Honey, that’d be the furthest thing from a problem. I mean, look at you both.’
She talks like she’s thirty, King said.
He quietly hated this hellhole even more.
Now he leant forward, getting closer to her, and said, ‘Are there rooms here?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You want to go now?’
He shook his head.
Slater did too.
She glanced at each of them, the smile fixed on her face. ‘You don’t like the sound of that?’
‘We have a place,’ Slater said. ‘It’s a rental. It’s way nicer than this dump.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Where?’
‘Summerlin.’
&nb
sp; She thought it over. The mask slipped a little. She said, ‘Armando only lets us do outcall to hotels on the Strip. You know … for safety reasons.’
King said, ‘Let us talk some sense into him.’
She said, ‘Be careful.’
Slater raised an eyebrow.
She said, ‘He gets angry sometimes.’
‘So do we,’ King said. ‘Go get him. But … do us a favour.’
She drenched her features with lust. ‘Anything.’
‘Tell him how much you want this,’ King said. ‘We’ll make it worth your while.’
She shivered. Not as hilariously fake as the rest of her act. The Long Island was kicking in. ‘I’m sure you will.’
She put her elbows on the table so she could lean over and get them both within earshot.
‘It’s not often that I actually enjoy my work,’ she said.
Then she got up and waltzed toward a side door behind the opposite row of booths.
The grimy neon swallowed her whole.
15
Slater fought for control.
He wanted nothing more than to get up, follow Melanie into the back room, and beat Gates to a pulp.
He refrained.
The bigger picture, he reminded himself.
In their newfound privacy he muttered to King, ‘We pull her out of this and the cover’s blown. And she’s been effectively brainwashed. She won’t want to go. Not yet.’
‘I know,’ King said.
‘So?’
‘So roll with it. I’m working on something.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Care to—?’
But he shut right up when Gates materialised. The lanky thug minimised his presence, keeping to the shadows as he floated around the back of the booths. Slater likened the man to a spindly wraith. Gates looped round in front of them and dropped into the space Melanie had occupied.
He said, ‘You two don’t mess about, do you?’
‘She got right to it,’ Slater said. ‘Not our fault.’
‘You can appreciate that I’ve got rules,’ he said. ‘Right, boys? Rules make the world go round.’
‘We appreciate it,’ King said.
‘I don’t break them.’
‘Okay.’
‘Get a hotel suite with her,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a couple of places on call. Let me handle it.’
Slater got to his feet, making everything real awkward real quick. Gates hovered in his seat, the sinew on his bare arms rippling. He stayed slouched, making no effort to slip aside to allow Slater to pass.
Gates said, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Leaving,’ Slater said. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I thought we were talking.’
‘We were.’
The bass throbbed. The girls danced. The lights flickered.
The conversational drought stretched out.
King said, ‘Sit.’
Slater didn’t move.
King said, ‘Sit.’
Slater sat.
Tentatively.
Like he was being held from leaving by a frayed string, mere ounces of pressure away from snapping.
Gates said, ‘Why don’t you two tell me what you want?’
‘We already told her,’ Slater said. ‘She already told you.’
‘And what do I do if you two sick fucks take her back to your private residence and take it too far? What if I never hear back from her?’
Gates spoke every word as if the answer was obvious.
Flexing his underworld presence.
Revealing the unhinged danger in his eyes.
King said, ‘That won’t be a problem.’
‘I only just met you both,’ Gates said. ‘We’re not exactly friends. I can’t trust you.’
Slater made to get up again.
King slammed a hand down on his shoulder and planted him firmly back on the vinyl.
‘Get your hand off me,’ Slater hissed.
‘I like her,’ King said. ‘I want her. Let’s hear the man out.’
Gates said, ‘You two are businessmen.’
King nodded.
Slater sat rigid. Cold like steel.
Gates said, ‘I’m a businessman.’
King nodded again.
Gates said, ‘Businessmen compromise.’
Slater visibly relaxed a little.
King said, ‘We’re open to that.’
‘She’s five k for an overnight,’ Gates said. ‘Usually. I’m bumping it up to eight if we’re going this route.’
‘That’s doable.’
‘Eight per man. So sixteen total.’
‘Sure.’
‘And I’m sending a few of my boys along for the ride.’
‘What?’ Slater said.
‘You heard me.’
This time, Slater didn’t get up. They had the pimp right where they wanted him, so the act shifted.
Gates said, ‘I’ve never — not once — allowed this to happen. If I’m doing it tonight, you can be damn sure I’m taking the proper precautions.’
Slater started, ‘If you think—’ but King dropped the same hand on the same shoulder, silencing him.
King said, ‘Who are your boys?’
‘Guys that work for me,’ Gates said. ‘No more questions about them. You’ll leave the Bentley here as collateral. That’s got to be — what? — a two hundred thousand dollar car? I’ve got a limo in the garage, for clients who want the full fantasy. You’ll take that. One of my guys will drive, and there’ll be three more in the back with you and Melanie, so I’d wait until you get to your place to start the fun. You’ll get there, you’ll go inside, you’ll do your business, and my guys will wait out front. I want her back here by five in the morning. My guys are there to make sure you stick to that schedule.’
‘What if we don’t like your guys?’ Slater said.
‘Then get up and get the fuck out,’ Gates said. ‘I’m done. Conversation over. Take it or leave it.’
There was a lot more behind the words.
Gates was a sick puppy, and he probably terrified everyone he spoke to bluntly. To those unfamiliar with the world of criminals, this was a major-league player, threatening and imposing and manic.
To King and Slater, he was a fairy.
They couldn’t exactly let that show.
Sooner or later, they’d have to cave.
King said, ‘Fine. Works for me.’
‘Cash,’ Gates said. ‘Upfront.’
‘Half now,’ King said. ‘Half when she leaves. She needs to be up to our standards.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Gates said. ‘My product is the best.’
‘Half now,’ King repeated. ‘Half later.’
Gates stared him down.
King stared back.
Gates said, ‘Alright. Eight grand. And a hundred for the cognac.’
King didn’t react.
He drained the rest of the tumbler in a gulp, reached into his inside jacket pocket and came out with a neat wad of brand-new 100s. A band around the notes labelled its value at ten grand. He snapped the band, peeled off eighty percent of them, added an extra bill, and passed the neat package across.
Gates took it and shoved the bills in his pocket, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
Slater thought, Don’t worry. We’ll get that back.
Gates said, ‘Follow me.’
He got up and led them to the back room.
16
King stayed on Gates’ tail.
Slater imperceptibly reached out a hand and held him back a few steps.
King lowered his voice enough for the music to drown it out and said, ‘What?’
‘What exactly are we doing?’
‘This goes deeper than just this club, right?’ King said. ‘There’s more than one entity. There’s cops and judges, too. Bent ones.’
‘Yeah,’ Slater said, unsure where this was headed. ‘So?’
‘So we complicate things.’
Slater put it together. ‘Oh.’
‘You get it?’
‘Now you’re the one starting a war.’
‘Do you approve?’
‘You’re damn right I do.’
They caught up to Gates as he smacked the door to the back room with an open palm and sent it swinging inwards. He stepped through and held it for them.
King went in first, and came face-to-face with four Central American guys. Whether they were Mara Salvatrucha or Calle 18 didn’t matter. They were gangsters through and through, two in wife-beaters and two in tattered tees. All four had shaved heads and pockmarked skin and dead black eyes. Three of them were covered in identical face tattoos — XVIII on their foreheads, and Mayan inkings on their cheeks and nose. One was unblemished.
King put it together. Calle 18.
They’d seen unimaginable atrocities, either here or back home. Whether home was San Salvador or Tegucigalpa or Guatemala City —again, it didn’t matter. They’d probably committed a great deal of the horrors they’d seen themselves. King had met enough real gangbangers to know these boys weren’t faking it.
They were ruthless killers, and they’d resort to whatever means necessary to obey their boss.
Gates said, ‘These are my guys.’
Slater followed King into the cramped room and said, ‘Yeah, I don’t like the look of your guys.’
Exactly how an idiotically oblivious new customer might behave. King had to admire it. It brazenly added legitimacy to their performance.
Because no one in their right mind would say that in front of real gangsters. It made King and Slater look like fools, as intended.
The thug on the left ripped a snub-nose revolver out of his sagging jeans and waved it in Slater’s face.
He shouted, ‘You don’t like us, mayate?!’
Slater ignored the disgusting racial slur, because an idiotically oblivious new customer wouldn’t have understood the translation. He sure understood, though. Mayate meant “black beetle.” It was the Spanish equivalent of a white man using the hard “R.”
He thought, I’ll remember that.
He made his voice shake and said, ‘Shit. Sorry. Relax. Put that away.’
Gates said, ‘You still got a problem with these boys?’
King said, ‘No problem at all.’