by Richard Cain
Christian didn’t hesitate. He gave a wink and a thumbs-up, then the three of them became like shadows in the night disappearing into a black alcove, Vince not garnering a backward glance. That was the thing with strip clubs. Once the money was gone, so were the women. He continued to stare in the direction they had gone, seeing nothing. He turned when he noticed someone sitting down next to him, the bartender. She slid a Corona over to him and was drinking one herself.
“Drinking on the job, Jen. You better hope I don’t rat you out to the cops.”
She took another gulp before making eye contact. “How long you been back in town?”
“A few days.”
“A filthy few?”
He smirked. “Not yet, but soon. Soon it’s going to get very filthy.”
She recoiled. “I hope not here.”
He leaned forward, not immediately aware of the source of his anger. The way she implied he was preparing to use her or take advantage of their friendship, or more of a kinship as lonely voices of sanity in their respectively insane occupations. “Jen, I was the one who put an end to that. Remember?”
She shrugged, trying to not look terrified. Not scared of him, scared of what he brought with him — blood.
Jen had been the owner-bartender from the beginning, back when this place was called the Scene. When Vince was new to the club, he was the one sent in to negotiate the terms, the extortion rate for the privilege of operating a strip club. The way the racket usually worked was that the gang would require protection money, increasing the rates over the years until the owner had to just sign the bar over to them. Then the owner would become the manager, an employee in their own establishment. When Vince saw that it was a woman that ran the place he didn’t have the heart to steal it all from her. Instead he reported back that it was going broke and wasn’t going to last. However, a lot of club business was brokered here. There was a maze of hidden rooms, and in the basement was part of the historic Underground Railroad that brought blacks across the border from the States. There was a tunnel system that linked most of the businesses on the street, which the club took advantage of when trafficking drugs in and out of the place.
And amid the rooms and tunnels there was a single twelve-by-twelve concrete box in the basement decorated with only a floor drain. This became the Boom Boom Room. Soundproof under earth and rock, this was where the Devil Dogs brought, tortured and killed the competition. They had killed so many people in the early days that the bikers took to calling the bar the Boom Boom Room. Jen finally relented and changed the name of the place. It was a catchier moniker.
She asked him, “Where are you right now?” She had slid her chair over and was now next to him. Before answering he glanced back at the VIP room where the girls had taken Christian and saw no signs of his surfacing. “I was back at the beginning. Back when I first started this line of work.”
“Work?” She scoffed. “That’s what you think work is? Killing people? That’s not work. Work is trying to go to bed with more money than when you woke up, without stealing it or killing for it. In this day and age, that’s work.”
Vince finished his beer and pushed the empty away. “Come on Jen, you run a whorehouse that fronts as a strip bar. Availing girls for sex to a bunch of losers?”
She shrugged. “Everyone has to have sex.”
Vince drummed his fingers. “Everyone has to die.” He took a sip of her beer. “I just make sure it happens before they cause too much trouble for the rest of us. You just can’t — Forget it.”
“I can’t what?”
It was his last night. What the hell. “You just can’t imagine the absolute pleasure you get from killing someone.” He eyed her for a reaction, expecting revulsion. What he saw instead was more like . . . captivation. “Jen, maybe at the time it’s tense afterwards with the concern about getting caught. But the dead never chirp back at you, they don’t nag or conspire anymore. You put them down and they don’t ever come back up.”
“That’s the choice you make.”
“And you choose to exploit women with drug problems.”
“Yeah, well, we all end up as whores for someone else if you don’t pay attention. You want another one?” She smiled, “A drink, I mean?” She wanted to change the subject.
“No thanks. I have some non-work to do tonight and I have to keep my wits sharp.” He appraised her, seeing how the decades had all but passed her by while everyone else was busy aging. There were only the beginnings of wrinkles around her eyes.
“You know, Vince, I didn’t take you for a lifer. I figured you would have gotten away from this by now. I had hope for you.”
She was the first friendly face he had seen in real life since he could remember. He didn’t know why but a sudden feeling, a need to dump the truth onto someone, anyone who wouldn’t use it against him, was overwhelming. He felt the need to tell her that this was the last night he’d be in the club, that he was going to get out but not before bringing them all down, but he couldn’t. The only way to keep a secret was to never tell a living soul, to never utter the words where they could be recorded and used against you. A secret must die with you, because in his line of work, either the secret dies, or you do.
“Jen,” he said. When their eyes met he mouthed, Christian.
Her mouth slackened. It took a moment for her to understand.
“What? Are you serious?”
“Tonight. Then I’m out of here. I’m done with this.”
Her delicate hand rose to cover her little mouth. “My god, Vince, good for you, good for you.” The implication was obvious. You don’t kill your boss’s son and stick around to see what he thinks about it. “I’ll disable the video for the night, I can cover you there. I hate that smug little bastard. You know how many times he smacked my ass and I just had to take it because of who his daddy was?”
“Yeah? Well, tonight I’m giving him a double tap into his head.” He hesitated then told her the rest. “There are a few more guys coming. It’s all part of the exit strategy. It’s going to get busy down there but I can look after everything. Blood in, blood out, ya know?”
“Yeah, right.” She finished her beer, grabbed his empty and stood. “Let me know which girls you like, I’ll send them over.”
“No, thanks.”
As she turned to leave he grabbed her arm and asked, “Why do you always ask which girl I like?”
“No reason.” He saw an expression on her face that looked like sadness. “And Vince? The other guys coming? Don’t let me see their faces. You know, of the other men. They are always too young for what is about to happen to them.” She left. If any club member survived the week, they might come to the Boom Boom Room to ask her if she knew anything and that could be dangerous for her. Vince hoped that Red was a man of his word.
The DJ’s voice bellowed through the PA system to introduce another girl to the stage but she didn’t appear until the first song was half over. Instead the roving product, in its various forms, worked the room. No guys cared about the first song in the Boom Boom Room. Here it was about the second and third songs, where the girls start ripping off their clothes. The dancer was curvaceous, black hair, a black bikini that didn’t last long. Vince felt his cell vibrate and took it out. Red had sent a text with an address but Vince replied that he had a location already. He considered that he needed a small confined place, where access could be controlled and he had a well-protected side room. It would be the concrete maze downstairs.
He sent a text back with the bar’s address then sent the same address to Morrison, the cop. He checked the time. Midnight. Closing time was two hours away. It would give him time to catch a flight out west or even a direct to Australia, where his wife would be waiting. Morrison replied that he understood the directions and would be there.
Christian staggered out of the VIP room, a girl on either side. He dropped down to hi
s chair and hooted. “Now that’s how you get a night started.”
“Glad you had a good time.” Vince stood up. “You catch your breath. I’ll get us some drinks.”
Christian smiled. “Finally going to let your hair down?”
“We’re celebrating, Christian. Tonight you’re earning your patch. I just sent the cops a message and they are coming over. It’s going down at closing time.”
Christian pumped a fist. “Make mine a double.”
“You got it, a double tap for Christian.”
28
Nastos and Carscadden parked on the main road, and with Morrison and Radix following walked across the street to the strip bar. The parking lot of the Boom Boom Room was packed with everything from twenty-year-old pickup trucks to the newest Audi R8s, which ran about a hundred fifty thousand. The entire block was a continuous red brick wall housing various businesses: a used book store, a diner, a coffee shop and more. The strip bar comprised a large part of the block and it was anchored at the street corner. A black exterior façade with brass light stands and a black valance with white silhouettes of women wearing heels and various eroticized costumes like nurses and cops decorated the exterior.
There was no obvious security camera on the outside, which struck Nastos as peculiar considering the things that happened here. He speculated that the only sound reason for that kind of omission would be that the staff were embroiled in crime and weren’t the type to incriminate themselves on video for the various beatings and self-directed drug and weapon robberies that they deemed street justice.
Down the side street, near the employees’ back door, there was a strong waft of burnt marijuana and the sound of girls cursing and complaining about customers. At the far end of the lot there was a row of deluxe cars, a Lamborghini, an Alfa Romeo. Nastos watched as a girl staggered to her feet from the passenger seat of the Alfa Romeo, giggling and wiping her mouth. She was drunk, wearing thigh-high leather boots and little else.
The main entrance was the only well-lit area with four security people searching patrons on their way in. Nastos felt the Glock weighing heavily in his pocket. There was no way he was going to be able to get it inside.
They were still well back from the door when Morrison held up a hand. “Wait up.”
Nastos turned to see Morrison checking a text message on his phone. “It says we go in the back way.”
Radix added, “You guys better hand over your guns until we get inside.”
Nastos appraised Radix. Are they playing us? There was much about Radix that Nastos hadn’t warmed up to. He struck Nastos as a selfish man and in that regard could not be trusted to do anything other than what was best for him. It was ridiculous to put your life in the hands of someone you can’t trust. Morrison was different. He was scared and easier to read. They withdrew to a position between cars in the lot, then Nastos and Carscadden handed their guns and magazines over to Morrison. Radix and Morrison stuffed their pockets full, their coats sagging desperately under the weight, more from the actual bullets than the mostly plastic weapons. A blind, elderly woman who had never seen a gun in her life would know there was something painfully suspicious about Radix and Morrison, the way they had to walk with the awkward weight stashed in their coats.
They waited near the back door, away from the pot smokers. Nastos pulled out his BlackBerry when he felt it vibrate. He had received a message from Viktor. I’m still held up. Don’t worry, I’ll be there soon.
Nastos sighed. Viktor was their only chance. He sent another quick message to Jacques. The Boom Boom Room. We need you, bring back up. He considered calling something in, a shooting, a rape, anything to call cops fast, but if they arrived too fast it would only make things worse if these guys were able to get away. They stood there until a man came out. He was lean with greying hair, in his fifties, wearing a suit. Nastos recognized him as the biker from the hotel room, the one with the fighting skills. The younger one with the spiky blond hair came through the doorway and leaned against the wall, watching.
Nastos walked over first, then Carscadden. Morrison and Radix were last. Nastos was searched first, then Carscadden. As the older man patted him down, Carscadden thought he’d rather be frisked by him, menacing as he was, than be touched by the young one, who stunk of alcohol and stale sex. The older one took their cellphones and wallets, slipping them into his jacket pockets.
With a nod from the younger man, he then lined Morrison and Radix against the wall. “Now your turn.”
Shock appeared in Morrison’s face. Radix was angrier, knowing that they were about to be betrayed and more than likely murdered too. The biker took all of the guns from Radix and Morrison, having to tuck them down the back of his pants and pass two to the blond man, who had to do the same.
Radix said, “We done now?” He moved to lead the way into the bar but the young thug shoved his way past, deliberately pushing Nastos and Carscadden into the wall.
“Sorry, ladies, coming through.” Christian forced his way in front of Radix and led them into the darkness.
When Nastos walked onto the floor he was bombarded by the loud music. The crowd of middle-class men wearing jeans, suits, and club clothes stood fixated as an acoustic version of Lenny Kravitz’s “Fly Away” played while a naked black girl undulated on the dance floor as if in a trance. Girls were everywhere, their feminine forms lithely flowing between the metal tables, feigning seductive interest in the gruff and expressionless men who were only interested in the best girl for the best price. The floors were sticky with the feel and smell of stale beer. This was the last place he would ever want to be killed. He had wondered what kind of future Josie could have with one parent. Now he had to wonder what future awaited her should he not survive this. With no offence to Hopkins and Viktor, most of the girls he had dealt with in the Sexual Assault Unit were abandoned early in life. Many grew to work in the sex trades, and disassociated how they made their money from the abuse they had suffered early in their lives.
Nastos realized that he must have slowed or stopped because he felt another shove from behind and saw that the biker, bathed in red light, had his game face on. Nastos got moving, following the others into a hallway behind the bar, then down a staircase. At first Nastos thought it was lit better than the bar then considered that it might actually be dimmer but the lighting was clear rather than red. Two-hundred-year-old red brick and a wrought-iron hand rail cranked left and left again at ninety-degree angles, down and down again, further away from the sole overhead light. When it was too dark to safely proceed, Nastos abruptly stopped, having slammed into Morrison who was directly in front of him.
He felt an aggressive shove-back from the cocky kid at the front of the line. “Fucking assholes.”
There was a metal sound then the scrape of tired, rusted hinges being pried apart. Met with resistance, the younger man became aggressive at the insolent hinges that dared reject his right to enter when he pleased. When the door opened there was a smell of stale air, damp concrete and bleach. It was a catacomb, a dark main walkway with side corridors, black rooms of unknown dimension with Roman arches and dust everywhere. The masonry work had been haphazard, mortar spilling over the bricks, walls out of true, sagging in the middle.
The only thing Nastos felt was in his favour was that it was unlikely the bikers knew their way around here any better than he did. Because if they did, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He longed to get his gun back and end this, to get home to Josie and never sign up for anything like this ever again.
There was an open area at the bottom of the stairs. This was where they found themselves standing, waiting to see how things were going to play out. Glancing back, Nastos saw that the older Devil Dog had backed right off and was leveling a gun at him. This man was too smart to allow Nastos within reach. Although physically superior, the entire point of a gun is that the bullets cover the distance for you. Allowing the adversary within rea
ch extinguished this advantage needlessly. Nastos considered that the other way to counter this was to get around a corner and slip out of view. It didn’t appear that either of these guys had flashlights, so once around a corner he’d be safe from bullets.
The younger biker stopped and turned, waiting for instructions. The older man leaned into a side room and quickly pulled a string and turned on a bare light bulb. The room it illuminated was twelve by twenty feet and would have been unremarkable if not for the single floor drain in the far corner that was stained red and the surrounding walls that were littered with bullet holes. “In here, gentlemen.”
Morrison and Radix walked into the room first. It was rectangular north to south with the most damaged wall to the south. Straight across from this archway was another that was as black as a void. With Morrison and Radix in the room there was no room for Carscadden and Nastos unless they crammed together. Nastos and Carscadden stayed in place and no one directed them further.
The older man began, “My name is Vincent Druer and this is my associate, Christian Moretti. We’re the ones who have been rocking your little worlds for the last little while and I want to thank you,” he turned to Radix, “especially you two goofs for providing us such entertainment in the last few weeks.”