It’s part of what made his setup out here so perfect. By the time cops could get out to the Hive, Keaton could have all illegal activities completely shut down and stored. Another upside to micro-prenuering. Why it hadn’t taken off like wildfire was beyond him.
Keaton made a full circle, surveying his kingdom. There behind him was the beautiful structure that was the center of the Hive, Keaton’s house. Well, his grandmother’s house, but whatever. Each room housed another Mickey. Well, every room but one. Which brought him back to Grams.
Sigh.
Attached to the left of the house, was the garage that Keaton had converted into the hippest club this side of the Mississippi. And the most profitable of the businesses, right behind the one in the basement.
Was that a pair of headlights in the distance? He squinted, trying to make out if it was the black stretch Hummer Keaton had sent for Stavros. The limo was gorgeous, if Keaton did say so himself. Sweet ride.
Keaton glanced back over his clothes, making sure he had mastered the exact proportion of hip to professional. He rubbed his hands together as he knocked some dust off his Vans.
It was time to make some money.
CHAPTER 2
Stavros sat in the back of limo, trying to meditate away a throbbing behind his eyes before he had to negotiate the deal. Unfortunately, even though his eyelids were shut, the flashy gold lamé of the Hummer’s interior still burned into his retinas. And the strobing disco ball did not help. During the course of his job he had seen the back of many a limo. Never one with gummy bears stocked in the bar though
As the limo hit pothole after pothole, Stavros abandoned his quest for peace and opened his eyes. They were on the final stretch of the “driveway” to the complex—what was it the little man had called it?—’the Honeycomb,’ or something equally inane. Nearly being bumped out of his seat by the next pothole, Stavros was glad that he had not driven himself out into the middle of the desert. His Bentley’s suspension would never have forgiven him.
The decrepit house came into view. While he watched “Flipping Out,” Stavros was no expert in architecture. However, the structure seemed built at the turn of the century. The last century that is, certainly not this one. Back in its day it probably was a sight to see. Two stories tall with fresh paint and shutters, it must have seemed like a mirage. Now the house sat like a squat overlord, scowling at the desert around it.
How the hell did he end up here? It certainly wasn’t by choice. His boss had a distinct dislike for homegrown operations, preferring to work with high-end mass-produced product. However, the DEA had been more than a little busy, raiding not just their primary supplier, but their backup supplier, as well. Along with the competition’s X labs. They were already calling the operation the Great X Caper of 2012. Clever, clever cops.
Even so, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal. With the late 90’s raves dying off quietly, being without X for a stint was only cause for a shoulder shrug. But now, with “dance festivals” creating a resurgence of overeager young partiers, being X-deficient was a serious business liability. How could you fill your clubs if you didn’t have the product the customer needed to complete their experience?
Hence the nearly insufferable disco-ball-gold-lamé ride out to the high desert. Keaton’s club had been on their radar…the very, very, very far edge of their radar. But it was such a low-rent proposition that it didn’t even warrant sending out an enforcer. His hourly wage, along with gas prices, added up to more than Keaton probably brought in on a weekend.
Now, though? Now Keaton had the only operational X Lab in southern California. Desperate times called for…well, just look around.
He would take this meeting with Keaton, and either they would reach a mutually beneficial arrangement, or—that enforcer was still on his speed dial.
Pulling up to the sprawling compound, the limo’s headlights stabbed ahead into the darkness. They speared Keaton right about chest level, bathing the vibrating little fellow in the white light of the vehicle’s xenon headlights.
As for Keaton, his clothes were kind of like the limo—they might be expensive, but money clearly couldn’t buy taste. A white button-down shirt covered in blue and pink polka dots with what looked to be silver and turquoise cufflinks winked back at Stavros in the glare of the headlights. Keaton was wearing a pair of tan Chinos that looked like they had been crumpled up on the floor five minutes earlier. His hair was styled in the same way. The cut wasn’t too bad, more than likely highlighted, but spiked up in a manner that said I just rolled out of bed this way.
Yet when Keaton flashed his smile, all the tackiness seemed to disappear. That was this kid’s talent. He had a smile that said, Hey, you’re going to step into my three-hour presentation, and by the end of it you’ll be the proud owner of a new timeshare.
It seemed that Stavros’s headache was here to stay.
* * *
Allie tripped on what she could only hope was a root of some sort. It had to be a root. Josh was right there, catching her elbow, keeping her from doing a total face-plant. As soon as she was stable on her feet, he let go of her arm. Like he always did.
“How much further?” Josh asked Seven, taking another step away from her.
“Dude,” he responded. “Can’t you hear that?”
Josh cocked an ear, then shook his head.
“Thump, thump, thump…” Seven said, bobbing his head to the beat.
“I just assumed that was my elevated heart rate,” Josh countered, frowning.
Allie couldn’t agree more. How far had they hiked? Her feet were telling her like fifteen miles, but she knew it couldn’t have been more than a few. Still, the terrain had been anything but level. It hadn’t been over-the-fields-we-go. Instead, it had been over the gopher holes, dry washes and cactus plants we go.
Not exactly the start to what Allie hoped would be romantic evening. Burrs in your skirt kind of killed the mood.
But then Seven pointed into the distance, to a single point of light.
“That’s it?” Josh asked, as they hurried their pace.
Dump would be a kind description of the place. Rundown would be an understatement. This outing had seemed like a bad idea when Seven first brought it up. Now, it definitely was one.
She was pretty sure that Seven hadn’t meant to include her in the invite, but the thought of Josh going out to a club, perhaps meeting a way prettier, sexier, girl overrode her normal aversion to risk. Allie had enough real problems in her life. She did not need to create any more. Even her mother had practically pushed her out the door tonight.
“Have fun, chica,” she’d said, putting a five dollar bill in Allie’s palm. She wasn’t quite sure how far her mother expected her to get on an Abraham Lincoln, but she didn’t want to embarrass her mom, so she took it.
“The club is in the house?” Josh asked, sounding about as skeptical as she felt.
“No, duh,” Seven said, shaking his head like Josh was tweaking. “It’s in the garage.”
That did not make her feel better. The structure that Seven indicated was the garage looked like a child built it with Legos—a not very skilled child, and with some knock-off building blocks. It looked like the supporting framework was for a two car garage, but someone got the bright idea to make it a four car. The roof sagged woefully. You didn’t need to have a brilliant mathematical brain to know that this was not a solid weight-bearing structure.
As they got closer, the music beat out at them like a siren’s call. The shingles on the side of the garage shook with each percussion.
Seven made a beeline to the unmarked door. “Come on,” he said, glancing at his watch. “If we hurry, we can get the early-bird special.”
Josh followed in his friend’s footsteps, but Allie hung back. This was no longer a bad idea. It was a horrible idea. A stupid idea. A horribly stupid idea. What had she been thinking? She’d avoided school dances because of the inherent drama. And now she was going to walk into this?
&
nbsp; Her mother always she that Allie acted forty. You know what? Allie took that as a compliment. 40-year-olds didn’t usually die of drug overdoses or flip their cars while texting or end up pregnant with the father nowhere in sight. She could hardly wait until she was forty and didn’t have to worry about trying to look cool at a rave.
“You okay?” Josh asked, turning back.
Allie looked up to the starless sky. Black clouds threatened overhead. Was that thunder in the distance, or was she just making that up to help with her cover story? She certainly couldn’t say she was too much of a pussy to go inside the club—well, not if she ever wanted a chance with Josh. Instead, Allie came up with another lame excuse.
“What about if it starts to rain? Hiking back out in a downpour?”
Josh’s lips spread into the crooked smile of his. “We’re in the desert, Allie. The chance of it raining tonight are like…”
She sighed. Of course they had to be out in the stupid desert.
“Look,” he said. “We don’t have to go in.”
“What about Seven?” she asked tentatively.
“Please,” Josh answered, rolling his eyes. “Once I pay to get him in, he is not going to notice we’ve gone back to the car.”
Allie was torn. The prospect of having Josh all to herself for a few hours did sound appealing. But what if Josh was annoyed the whole time that she had ruined his evening? What if he decided that she was a wet blanket, and never invited her anywhere, ever again?
Her mental wrestling was abruptly interrupted as Seven opened the door to the club. Music poured out into the desert as green, red, blue, and while lights strobed the night sky. There was something infectious about the combination. If you looked up fun in the dictionary, you would probably find a video of this moment, soundtrack and all.
And the look on Josh’s face? A combination of excitement and concern. Concern for her. She’d been the cause of too many people’s worried faces. She wasn’t going to add Josh to the list.
“Let’s go,” she encouraged.
“Are you sure?” Josh asked, searching her face for signs she was bluffing.
Allie put on her best I’m-totally-fine smile and walked toward the door that, surprisingly, Seven held open for her. Or Josh, she wasn’t sure.
She walked into a small, unfinished room. The sheetrock was covered in splattered paint. Allie guessed it was a cheap way to decorate? A lone figure sat behind a rickety desk. The purple-haired girl didn’t even raise her head from her texting as they filed into the room.
“25 bucks.” The attendant didn’t miss a key.
“Excuse me?” Josh asked.
“Each.”
Allie coughed so hard that it sounded like she had TB. She tried to recover, but couldn’t keep her hands shaking. Including the five her mom had donated, she had grand total of seventeen bucks. Her cheeks burned. How could she admit she didn’t have enough to pay for her own cover charge without looking like a total loser?
Josh turned to Seven. “I thought you said we were going to get the early bird special?”
“You are,” the attendant stated flatly. “The cover goes up to 50 in…” she turned her phone around to show a clock counting down. “One minute forty three seconds. Forty two. Forty—”
“Got it,” Josh interrupted. He pulled out a hundred dollar bill and handed it to the attendant, who pocketed the money. Josh waited with his hand out, but the attendant went back to texting. “The change?”
The attendant nodded to a sign. Exact cash only. “We don’t have change.”
“Then you just got a twenty five dollar tip?” Josh asked, sounding about as incredulous as Allie felt, but Seven tugged on Josh’s sleeve.
“Dude. Don’t be such a rookie.”
Allie was about to come to Josh’s defense. Not only had he whipped out that Benjamin without a thought to pay for both her and Seven, he’d done it without a single disapproving glance at her. He didn’t deserve to get ripped off. Before she could step forward, though, Josh sighed, shaking his head at the attendant. “Fine.”
The purple-headed chick didn’t even acknowledge his words, she just kept texting.
They stood there for a few moments. Josh glanced over to Allie. She shrugged her shoulders. She’d never been to a club before, so it was a little hard to tell if this was normal or not. He then looked to Seven, who was busy texting, too.
“Well?” Josh asked the attendant.
“Well, what?” she said, her eyes glued to the screen.
“Do we go in or…?”
Finally she looked up, her emerald green eyes looking Josh up and down. “You really are a newbie.”
Allie stepped between Josh and the attendant. No one, especially not a sorta hot club chick, spoke or looked at him like that. “He paid you.”
The attendant’s heavily eyelined lids narrowed into a hard black line. “For the cover.” Allie stood up to the stare. Not like she hadn’t had to stand up to the gangs in her neighborhood. Los Locas had been trying to jump her in since she was twelve. The attendant lowered her eyes. Not that Allie had necessarily won that little confrontation. It seemed the woman just got bored with it.
“Now you’ve got to pay for your clothes.”
“Our clothes?” Allie asked, shooting Josh a questioning look. “We’re already dressed.”
“Which is the problem,” the attendant sighed. “Now, you’ve got to strip.”
* * *
Keaton opened the door of the limo and stepped out of the way as Stavros unfolded his tall frame from the vehicle. Maybe next time he would send a stretch VW bus or something. He didn’t want Stavros at all uncomfortable.
“Mr. Stavros,” Keaton said, offering his hand. Unfortunately, it was to complete a fist bump, while the drug dealer had meant to shake hands. That got a bit awkward. No worries. He could fix this. He went for a bro-hug, but Stavros nearly tripped on himself backing away. “It’s cool. Not there yet, I get it.”
Stavros smiled, but one of those “I am just too polite to say what an idiot you are” smiles. That was okay too. Keaton was used to it. He liked to under-promise and over-deliver.
“The facility?” Stavros asked, as he re-buttoned and smoothed his suit jacket. Keaton watched carefully. Expensive clothes required upkeep. Without looking too obvious, he repeated the action. It just looked so cool.
“This way,” Keaton said, bounding up the stairs. Then he remembered which stairs he was climbing. “Yeah, be careful of that step. It’s a little sketchy.” As Stavros avoided the second step, Keaton pointed to the third. “And that one has been known to give out.”
With a frown, Stavros barely hit the third step and vaulted himself onto the porch.
“Whoa,” Keaton breathed. The guy dressed like a supermodel and jumped like an Olympian. Where was a notepad when you needed one?
Trying to keep his fanboy exclamations to a minimum, Keaton opened the front door. Strike that, he tried to open the front door. He made sure the three locks were unlocked and tugged again. “Sometimes it sticks.”
Okay, so it always stuck, but usually not this bad. Finally, with a good heave, the door opened, nearly knocking Keaton back down the steps. Regrouping in what he thought record time, Keaton waved his guest inside.
With a slight roll of his eyes, Stavros walked in. That was fine. The outside of the Hive might not look like much, but the inside, well the inside…Okay, fine, the inside looked a little run-down, but the rooms? That was where he shone.
But first things first. “A bit of refreshment?”
Keaton poured a glass from the pitcher and offered it to Stavros.
“I’m sorry, I don’t drink on inspections.”
“Oh, please,” Keaton said, shrugging off the man’s concern. “I don’t want you drunk. I want you amazed and well hydrated.”
Looking more than a little skeptical, Stavros accepted the proffered glass and took a sip. His expression transformed into one of pleasantly surprise.
�
�It’s a proprietary mix of fruit juices,” Keaton said proudly. “And pro-biotics to keep you regular.”
The near-smile on Stavros’s face fell back into a frown. Good to know. Cut the bowel talk during the pitch. Stavros did take another, longer, sip, though.
“Bet you can’t guess the combination,” Keaton challenged. Stavros looked like the type of guy who was up on his juices.
“Pear?” Stavros guessed, correctly. Off of Keaton’s nod the man continued. “Of course, a hint of watermelon.” Stavros took another sip. “I am going to say the acidity in the background is star fruit.”
Keaton snapped his fingers. “I like a man who knows his fruit. But that’s not all. There’s another one in there.”
Stavros’s eyebrow went up. The guy clearly underestimated how seriously Keaton took his fruit mixology. Before taking another sip, Stavros swirled the juice and inhaled the bouquet. Sorry, dude, the flavor was way more subtle than that. The man took a small sip, then tapped the liquid against his hard palette, forcing the fluid fully into his taste buds.
“It is delicate,” Stavros stated, taking another sip. “I have to say I can’t identify it.”
“Jicama!” Keaton announced, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. He had to remember thatStavros was new to the Hive. He had to ease the guy into how things rolled around here.
A frown flickered on Stavros’s lips, but then he drank down the rest of his glass. “Jicama it is.”
“Yep, amazing, right?” Keaton said getting ready for his pitch. “In room fourteen, we make specialty juices based on your heritage and BMI.”
“So this was made specifically for me?”
“Duh.”
Stavros cocked his head to the side. “How exactly?”
“Come on,” Keaton said. “Stavros Karkalas? Full-on Grecian descent, and when we met last week I nailed you as a perfect 20 on the BMI scale. Am I right?”
Was that a hint of a grin on those stern lips? Keaton thought it was.
Keaton may not have an Ivy League education or a Rodeo Drive fashion sense, but what he did have?
He knew how to make people feel special, baby. And that never went out of style.
Down & Dirty: A McCray Crime Collection Page 37