Shooting Dirty

by Jill Sorenson

  “What a pretty flower,” Shawnee said, leading her away. “Do you have one for Mama?”

  Ace watched them go, filled with a mixture of sorrow and anger. It was really fucked up of Shawnee to pretend she was Skye’s mother. Skye knew she wasn’t. She might not remember Courtney, but Skye had seen pictures of her.

  Pushing aside his resentment, Ace approached the casino security guard, who directed him into the nearby café. Bill was alone on the outdoor terrace, reading the newspaper. Ace took a seat across from him.

  Bill didn’t look like a motorcycle club president here. He didn’t look like a mogul, either. With his basic khakis and polo shirt, he resembled any casual businessman on vacation. He had salt-and-pepper hair, closely shorn, and a long face. He was a tall, imposing figure.

  “I heard about your meeting,” he said with no preliminaries.

  Christ.

  Ace stayed silent, his heart racing. Nothing got past Wild Bill. Did he have another mole in White Lightning?

  “Were you going to tell me about it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wasn’t worth your time.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Ace just stared at him. He wasn’t going to offer any information or implicate himself.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What did he want?”

  “He said he’d heard about your collaboration, and he’d like to continue the arrangement, with me as the go-between.”

  “Asshole,” Bill muttered under his breath. “What are the terms?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “So you told him no?”

  “I told him I’d get back to him.”

  “And you were planning to answer without consulting me?”

  “His club is shit, and every time you touch them you get more of it on you,” Ace said. “How’s that for a consultation?”

  Bill set aside the newspaper and drank some amber liquid from a tumbler. It had a wedge of lime in it. Ace tore his gaze away, his throat constricting. He’d love to have a drink. Just one. But he’d never been able to stop after the first taste.

  “He mentioned Courtney,” Ace said.

  Bill’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

  Ace didn’t bother to repeat the comment. Bill knew Jester well enough to guess what he might have said.

  “He’s a problem,” Bill said. “Take care of it.”

  Fuck.

  Ace hadn’t meant to stoke the flames that much. Now he was screwed. “I don’t take care of problems anymore. Remember?”

  Bill leaned back in his chair, studying him. Ace had done a handful of hits for the Aryan Brotherhood, a powerful prison gang that was affiliated with White Lightning. All of his targets had been AB scumbags. Thieves, junkies, child molesters. Ace hadn’t enjoyed killing them, but he wasn’t sorry they were gone. His hitman services had been part of the now-defunct collaboration between White Lightning and Dirty Eleven. In exchange, Bill had promised to sign over custody of Skye. But he hadn’t followed through.

  “He’s got something on you,” Bill said. “You wouldn’t have gone to see him otherwise. Do us both a favor and make an exception. One last job.”

  Ace leaned back in his chair, uneasy. “Why me?”

  “You already have an in.”

  Ace couldn’t get inside White’s with a weapon. Isolating Jester from his buddies wouldn’t be easy. But there were cracks in every club, dark secrets and petty rivalries. Ace could find them and exploit them. He was good at that.

  “Do it for Courtney,” Bill said.

  “I’ll do it for Skye,” Ace said finally. “Paperwork up front this time.”

  Bill shook his head. “The girl belongs with Shawnee.”

  “No. She belongs with me.”

  “There’s nothing else I can give you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “When are you meeting him again?”

  “I didn’t set a date.”

  “Okay,” he said, rising from the table. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”

  Ace watched him walk away, wishing he hadn’t made the offer. Bill was a master manipulator. He’d twist this for his own gain, and Ace would never get custody of Skye. He’d probably end up in prison again—for murder.

  All of the lightness he’d accumulated in Skye’s company evaporated. This was his life. And he was suffocating under the weight of it.

  He rose from the table and left the café, heading into the parking structure. The urge to drink himself into a stupor was overwhelming. Getting high was another kind of escape, a way to postpone reality and tune out the rest of the world. The single-minded intensity of a meth binge obliterated everything in the periphery.

  Courtney had retreated into that space, and it had consumed her.

  Ace drove away from the casino at dusk, plagued with memories. He had one more stop to make before he called it a night. He took the 111 toward the Salton Sea.

  Traveling this route always reminded him of his old stomping grounds in Slab City. He exited at Bombay Beach and drove closer to the shore, parking behind a tattered billboard advertising the old resort area. Forty years ago, the sea had been a popular tourist destination. Now it was a salt-crusted wasteland.

  Ace had shot Shane Jackson here, on the ruins of an old playground. He’d fought Shane’s brother, Owen. He’d left Janelle, bound and stripped, in the shack nearby. He’d hung her by the wrists from a lag bolt and looked his fill.

  He remembered everything. Every detail. Her trembling mouth. Pretty, natural breasts. Taut belly, quivering with anticipation. Smooth, bare pussy. The urge to touch her had been strong enough to make his teeth ache.

  He exited the truck, his pulse racing.

  He had a metal detector in the back. Grabbing the device, he strode toward the playground. Fish vertebrae crunched under his boots with every step. From a distance, the white material looked like sand. It wasn’t. Rather than crushed seashells, the shore was littered with bone fragments from millions of dead fish.

  There were also dead birds, fresh fish carcasses, foamy brown algae blooms and various salt deposits. Not exactly a nice place to stretch out your towel.

  Ace wasn’t here for leisure activities, but he’d waded into the sea more times than he could count. He’d never gotten sick. He’d eaten the fish—live caught—without incident. If the water was polluted, he was immune.

  He pictured Janelle with his Colt, her cowboy boots braced wide. She’d been standing on a slope between the shack and the playground. If she’d dropped it and climbed up the slope, the bone fragments could have shifted with every step, burying the weapon.

  After a quick glance around, he turned on the metal detector and began his search. He swept the device over every inch of the slope. It detected quite a lot of junk. Rusted nails, scrap metal, aluminum cans.

  Then he hit the jackpot. He dug deep into the bones and there it was. His Colt 1911. Sweetest piece he’d ever held.

  Still loaded.

  He needed to clean it and test it, but the gun didn’t appear any worse for the wear. Removing the bullets, he shoved them into his front pocket and tucked the Colt into his waistband.

  Hell yeah. Things were looking up.

  It was a huge relief to have such a damning piece of evidence back in his possession. He’d killed three men with this gun. If the cops had lifted his fingerprints from the surface, he’d have been fucked.

  Now he just had to decide who to kill with it—Bill or Jester.

  Chapter Seven

  “Ready?”

  Janelle nodded at Tiffany, her blood pumping with adrenaline. After the DJ announced their special performance, they sli
pped through the velvet curtains and stepped onto the darkened stage together.

  The usual routine at Vixen was one dancer at a time. It was a small club with a narrow runway-style platform and a single pole. On a typical weeknight, there were six to eight dancers who took turns on stage. They wore different outfits for each performance. Some varied their dance moves to keep it interesting. Others stuck with the same basic steps, and Janelle didn’t blame them. The men in the audience weren’t picky about skill or grace. They responded to tits. As long as the tops came off quickly, they didn’t complain.

  On weekends, the club was always packed. There were as many as sixteen dancers who competed for space, stage time and dollar bills. The most popular dancer was selected to do the last performance of the evening, and she always pulled in extra money. Tiffany and Janelle had developed a sexy new duo in hopes of nabbing the coveted spot.

  A folded chair had been placed behind the pole at center stage. Janelle took her mark in front of the pole, next to Tiffany.

  It was a basic couple performance with a twist. Janelle was wearing a flirty red dress and heels. Tiffany, who was taller, had donned a man’s pinstriped suit and hat. As soon as the lights went up, they started dancing, cheek to cheek.

  After an exaggerated dip, Janelle unbuttoned Tiffany’s jacket and pushed it off her shoulders. Tiffany was wearing suspenders and a snug vest that hardly contained her full breasts. She spun Janelle around and unzipped her dress. It pooled around her feet, leaving Janelle clad in a red bra and tiny black panties. She bent forward at the waist, swishing her bottom over Tiffany’s crotch.

  “Show us your tits!” one of the men hollered.

  Janelle didn’t take offense. The customers yelled rude things constantly, often out of impatience and anticipation, not because they weren’t enjoying the show.

  She straightened and grabbed the chair, placing it near the pole. Tiffany sat down like a man, her legs braced wide. Janelle strutted her stuff for her “customer.” She twirled around the pole while Tiffany watched. Then Janelle stepped in front of Tiffany’s chair and unfastened her bra, letting it drop. Tiffany stared in slack-jawed approval, as if mesmerized. Janelle faced the crowd, hands covering her breasts. Bending over again, she wiggled her ass.

  Tiffany stood and unfastened her vest. Janelle’s figure was nice enough, but it didn’t compare to Tiffany’s. The sight of the pretty blonde in men’s clothes with her breasts exposed was highly erotic.

  There were several catcalls and whistles from the audience.

  When Tiffany sat down again, Janelle climbed onto her lap. She took off Tiffany’s hat and tossed it aside. Tiffany’s blond hair cascaded down her shoulders. Tiffany put her hands on Janelle’s hips and motorboated her breasts.

  That was improv—Janelle smothered a giggle.

  After some heavy grinding, Janelle leaned back all the way to the floor, bracing her palms against it.

  More shouts and whistles, along with raunchy suggestions.

  They both stood to finish the dance. Janelle did another spin around the pole. Tiffany stripped off her pants and suspenders, revealing a pair of snug white briefs. They circled each other like cat-and-mouse. At the end of the song, Janelle leaped into Tiffany’s arms and twined her fingers through her hair. When their mouths almost touched, the lights went down and the crowd went wild.

  Applause followed them as they collected the tips and headed backstage. Janelle was excited by their strong performance. They’d worked hard on the routine and the customers had responded well. Janelle was the best dancer in the club and Tiffany had a knockout figure. Surely they’d get the finale spot.

  The manager met them backstage. Janelle held her breath in anticipation of his reaction. She didn’t love this job, but she needed it. She needed the extra money and extra shifts.

  “It was good,” Kevin said.

  “It was fucking awesome and you know it,” Tiffany said, rolling her eyes. “We deserve the finale.”

  Kevin glanced at Dolores, otherwise known as Desiree, the dancer who’d been blowing him earlier. “I’m staying with Desiree for the finale. You can do that routine at the end of the night, right before her.”

  Tiffany’s lips parted in shock. “Are you serious?”

  Janelle pinched Tiffany’s arm to shut her up. Janelle had told Tiffany about the office incident. Everyone knew that Desiree was having an affair with Kevin, but complaining about it would only piss him off.

  “This is a strip club, not an art show,” Kevin said. “The customers want to see more skin and less sass.”

  Desiree smirked at this criticism.

  “Someone wants a double from you two,” Kevin added on his way out. “Hop to it.”

  A double lap dance featured two women instead of one. The girls made twice the money in the same amount of time, and so did the club. It was clear that their performance had inspired the request, which made Kevin’s decision seem even more unfair.

  “This is bullshit,” Tiffany said to Janelle in a low voice. “I don’t want to warm up the crowd for Thunder Tits.”

  Janelle didn’t either. She wished she could tell Kevin to take this job and shove it. Their routine hadn’t been too highbrow for the target audience. It was sexy and unique and polished. Then again, she should have expected Kevin’s reaction. Creativity was rarely rewarded in this business.

  After Kevin left the backstage area, Tiffany pumped her fist toward her mouth and thrust her tongue against her cheek, mocking Desiree with a pantomimed blowjob.

  “Screw you,” Desiree said.

  “Instead of sucking off Kevin, you’d better suck in that gut,” Tiffany said.

  Janelle had noticed that Desiree had gained a little weight, but the customers loved her large breasts. Instead of insulting Tiffany in return, like usual, Desiree went pale. She headed for the nearest trashcan and vomited quietly.

  “Oh my God,” Tiffany said. “Are you pregnant?”

  “Shut up,” Desiree moaned.

  “Is it Kevin’s?”

  Desiree wiped her mouth with a napkin, grimacing.

  Janelle felt a pang of sympathy for her, despite their rivalry. Kevin was married, and a worthless asshole. If Desiree was knocked up, her days were numbered. She couldn’t work here with a baby bump, and Kevin probably wouldn’t support her.

  Tiffany pulled Janelle through the curtains and they headed toward the VIP room. Janelle pushed aside the drama and put on a smiling face. Lap dances were yet another downside to working at Vixen. Onstage, she was a star. In the VIP room, she was just another writhing body, a combination of eye-pleasing female parts.

  The customer who’d paid for a double didn’t look much older than a high school student, so that was awkward. Janelle grinded to the music, her mind elsewhere. A few weeks ago she’d heard two bachelor party guests snickering about her age. She wasn’t even thirty yet, and she was already over the hill.

  When the song was over, Janelle had several solo customers lined up. So did Tiffany. They went their separate ways, performing on the stage at regular intervals. It was a typical weeknight. Janelle hustled baby-faced college students and gray-haired grandfathers, peddling lap dances and overpriced drinks.

  At closing time, she paid out a percentage of her tips to the bartender and bouncer. Then she donned her street clothes, gathered her tote bag, and met Tiffany at the exit. They always walked out together for safety reasons. As Janelle approached her car, Tiffany held up two bottles of beer, obviously snagged from the bar.

  “Care for a nightcap?”

  Janelle nodded gratefully. It had been a hell of a week already. She climbed into the passenger seat of Tiffany’s Jeep and accepted the beer, taking a long drink. Then she reached for her pack of cigarettes. There was only one left. She lit it up with a shaking hand, inhaling as if the substance was lifesaving
rather than life-taking.

  Tiffany had another vice: marijuana. She sparked a joint from her ashtray while the parking lot cleared.

  They sat side by side, indulging their addictions.

  “Jamie found out about my job,” Janelle said.

  “Oh shit,” Tiffany said, holding in the smoke. “What happened?”

  “He tried to defend me and got beat up by a group of older boys.”

  “How bad?”

  “Just scrapes and bruises,” Janelle said. “It might have been worse, but someone intervened.”

  “A neighbor?”

  She shook her head. “The guy who shot Shane.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. His name is Ace.”

  Tiffany frowned at this news. She knew that Ace had fixed Janelle’s car window and left money in her mailbox. “What the fuck? Is he stalking you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he act creepy?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  Janelle wasn’t sure how to describe his behavior. “He acted interested. Whether that’s creepy or not, considering our history, is up for debate.”

  “I need more information,” Tiffany said, squinting into the darkness.

  Janelle stubbed out her cigarette and told Tiffany everything, from the interview at Loma Santa Fe to Ace leaving his business card.

  “You like him,” Tiffany said.

  Warmth suffused her cheeks. She was attracted to him—against her better judgment. “Do you think that’s messed up?”

  “Totally. You should fuck him.”

  She laughed at Tiffany’s suggestion.

  “He’s hot, right?”

  “He’s a criminal.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “Would you date a hired killer?”

  “How do you know that’s what he is? Maybe it was just a one-time thing.”

  Janelle finished her beer, contemplative. “He’s very calculated. You don’t get that way without practice.”

  “You should fuck him,” she repeated.

  “Be serious.”