The Fever Dream

by Sam Jones

  Black was a classic cinema type of guy.

  They walked a little bit further. Past a bank. A Starbucks. An old theatre for stage plays being torn down to make way for a towering apartment structure. Behind the construction on that complex was another, recently completed apartment structure. That’s all that seemed to be here: franchises, hipster joints, and places to live with price tags that made Black go weak at the knees. Every three feet it looked like there was construction for yet another gross and inappropriately high-priced living situation.

  Making way for the waves of people that come here. Every year. ‘Cause everybody is a star. Wait… That’s a song title… Who sang that?!... I’ll think about it later.

  11:15 p.m. was upon them when they arrived at a parking lot wedged in between an antique shop that had been converted into a hipster shoe store (which only seemed to sell ‘distressed’ combat boots) and a marijuana dispensary that had grass growing along all four sides of the building.

  Black walked into the parking lot, Amanda a couple feet behind him. A Hispanic guy was rushing from the back of the lot where he had just parked a VW. His all-black attire, including a perfectly knotted black tie underneath a black windbreaker, boasted the confidence of a man who took pride in his appearance, even if all he did was park cars from eight p.m. until two a.m. The only thing questionable about his sense of style was the bad comb-over that no one had the balls to tell him was too puffed up in the front.

  He ran up to Black and Amanda. Smile on his face. Thick Hispanic accent. “Yes, sir!” he exclaimed with a cheery disposition.

  Black dove right in–

  “I’m so sorry. We lost our ticket.”

  “No problem sir! Which car is it?”

  “That blue BMW.”

  Black pointed to it. The Hispanic man then nodded, fetched the keys, and hustled towards middle of the lot. Amanda was impressed at Black’s plan and frightened at how gullible the sprightly parking lot attendant was.

  “This is fucked up…” she said.

  “I know,” said Black. “Fun though, isn’t it?”

  The guy pulled the BMW around and Black paid him a fifty-dollar tip. Mostly out of guilt for the reprimand he was going to receive later on from the car’s true owner. Black then pulled out of the back entrance and hung a left. The BMW wiggled its way out of Hollywood Boulevard and onto Cahuenga. With a light amount of traffic, they’d link up and into Burbank in about ten minutes.

  As soon as the car had left the lot, the parking lot attendant pulled out his cell phone, dialed a number, held it to his ear, ditched the accent, and spoke in clear, concise English to someone on the other end of the line—

  “Tell Trask that Martin Black just left. Amanda Dubin is with him.”

  Black and Amanda were now on Cahuenga, a stretch of road that was running adjacent to the freeway. After a few moments, Black started prodding Amanda—

  “So. What kind of music do you like?” he asked her.

  “Are you serious?” she asked. Tiresome.

  “We’ve got some time to kill,” he said as he nodded towards the digital clock on the dashboard.

  She rubbed her eyes; ready to catch sleep that Black had deprived her of back at the motel.

  “Tonight’s like a fever dream,” she said. “I’m just waiting to wake up.”

  “I could pinch you if you think it would help,” Black said.

  “I already did. Didn’t work.”

  She turned her sights fully on Black—

  “I still don’t get it. Why didn’t you just kill me and leave?”

  “I told you my bosses wouldn’t be too happy to hear that I did that.”

  “This got complicated. I’d figured if you were… compromised, or whatever, you’d just walk away.”

  “I can’t.”

  “It can’t be that simple.”

  “Trust me when I tell you: it is.”

  She bit her tongue as she looked out of the window at the rolling hillside that was mere inches away from scraping up the right side of the car. “You’re quite the enigma,” she said.

  “Says the girl with a situation shrouded in mystery.”

  “Says the man with the fake name and the secret organization running his life…”

  “You’re quick. Too bad you have a husband, otherwise I’d ask you about your Saturday plans.”

  Amanda held back a smile.

  “I ran a background check on you,” said Black. “Couldn’t find any employment records past a year or so ago.”

  “So?”

  “So, between your lack of income, I’m curious how you’re going to pay me ten grand.”

  “I said I’m good for it.”

  “I’m sure you are… I’m just curious.”

  She sighed and straightened up as she thought of her answer—

  “My father’s not around anymore. I have an insurance policy on him. But it’s starting to run dry.”

  “That’s how you get your money?”

  “Yes. It’s one of the reasons Richie has been trying to kill me. He found out about it not that long ago.”

  Black thought about it.

  “Bullshit,” he said.

  “You asked and I gave you the answer.”

  “You gave me an answer, but it’s not the true answer. You should take some hints from my 10th graders. They make lying an art form.”

  Amanda showcased a shit-eating grin accompanied by a thick exhale. “Can we not talk anymore? Please?” she asked.

  “I was just getting around to asking you your favorite color,” said Black.

  “Jesus… you’re exhausting…”

  “Sorry. I have a lack of social boundaries and graces. I’m working on it.”

  Amanda looked back out the window. She snickered. As semi-obnoxious as Black was he was keeping her on her toes. It was better than a hot cup of coffee.

  Amanda was unsure of the exact location of the strip club, but Burbank itself was plain and suburban enough that it could only be one of a few places. Black wasn’t certain if a city as soft as Burbank would have such a place, but Amanda seemed pretty sure of the lead.

  And it’s all I have to go by.

  They had driven several blocks and it was creeping up on midnight as they rolled up on a red light at an intersection lying underneath a twisting freeway overpass. Orange hues of light were cutting through a thin layer of fog from the lampposts. A railroad track cut down the middle of the road to their right and divided the area into a kind of two-faced layout. On the left side of the road, paved-over gravel showcased domestic elements, like apartment complexes, million-dollar condominium structures, and office high-rises. Polished and gleaming. Whatever wasn’t new had been renovated and updated. Black recalled this part of town to be Glendale.

  On the right side of the tracks was a seedier, more industrial scene. All dirt roads. Rusted warehouses. A seedy-looking movie studio that had a fifty-fifty shot at being used to shoot porn. Black was almost certain he saw a tumbleweed blowing across the tracks into Glendale, escaping. In the center of the ill-favored side of town was a black building. Two stories. No windows. Yellow trim around the roof. Neon signs in the shape of busty women, lit up and cutting through the fog like a blazing demon formed out of purple light. A sign on the front door. Three things written on it in white:

  GENTLEMAN’S CLUB. 11 PM to 4 AM. DAILY.

  I’ll be damned.

  Wasn’t that far a walk…

  “Think we found it,” Black said as they waited at the red light. They were maybe a half-mile away from the club. Ahead and on the right.

  The light turned green, they drove a little further. The BMW took a right and crossed over the tracks into the seedy part of town. No turning back. They turned left on a dirt road, the car now bouncing on uneven terrain. Black drove about a hundred feet more before pulling up outside the parking lot to the right of the strip club. It had a max occupancy of about ten cars inside. Couple high-priced vehicles. Few pick-up trucks. Cou
ple of bikes. A crappy sedan.

  “We’ll trade cars again after this,” said Black.

  Amanda eyeballed the rows of parked cars. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “The chopper with the naked women sticker or the pick-up with the Punisher logo on the hood?”

  “Ladies choice this time. Just don’t pick the Audi. Only dicks drive Audis.”

  Black accelerated and drove past the front of the club. He drew a mental map of the entire layout as he drove in a circle around the street to get a three-sixty blueprint of the building in his mind—

  Okay, Sherlock. Let’s see...

  There are three access points: the front, rear, and side entrances. Camera by the front entrance but none at the sides or the rear. There’s a probably a few inside though. The front entrance has a bouncer. Burly guy in a black suit. Rear entrance has a bouncer. An older dude with a white ponytail licking his lips over a Playboy. (Do people still get off to magazines?) The side entrance has a locked door with no one guarding it. I’ll need a key to get in there, so that’s out. Only way I’m getting through the rear entrance is if I take out the bouncer with the porno mag. Too much attention. My best bet is the front entrance. Just pay the cover and get inside.

  And that was the plan Black went with.

  Until he made one more pass around the building.

  That’s when his hawk eyes spotted the bouncer with the ponytail and the dirty mag a little more up-close and realized the guy was lusting over pictures of exposed, male children in suggestive poses meant for the older women that were on the magazine he was using as cover.

  Black pulled out his carbon fiber knife and changed his plan.

  He parked the car a hundred feet away from the rear entrance and told Amanda to switch seats. Black exited the car as she slid over to his side. He grabbed his briefcase from the back seat, opened it, and pulled out something from inside – a pair of zip-cuffs.

  “What’s up?” asked Amanda.

  “Hands at the wheel, ten and two,” said Black. His sense of humor was nowhere in sight.

  The cool and calculated guy was here.

  And he looked a little pissed off.

  “You okay?” asked Amanda.

  “I said ten and two,” said Black.

  Amanda complied. Black then restrained her wrists to the wheel. She looked alarmed but didn’t display it.

  Black grabbed a couple Beretta clips from his bag along with his cash and pocketed them before putting the case in the back seat. He then pulled out his burner phone and pressed a few buttons. A picture came up: A big guy. Brown hair. Sunken blue eyes due to a lethal combination of hate and methamphetamine. He might’ve been good-looking at one point. Now he looked like a roided-up, pockmarked weirdo. Black showed Amanda the picture.

  “This is Richie? Right?” said Black.

  Amanda looked at the photo she knew to be Richie’s mug shot, the same one from when he was arrested for breaking their neighbor’s window a few weeks back. And, as usual, he was out in an hour’s time. An unseen guardian angel had bailed him out, yet again.

  “That’s him,” she said. Just enough energy spent to get it out of her mouth.

  Black pocketed his phone and engaged the safety on his Beretta. “Anything happens,” he said “you honk three times. I’ll hear you.”

  “Wait, Black—”

  “Just stay in the car, Amanda.”

  Black closed the door, locked it, and stepped away. Amanda cocked her head to the left and right to spot him, but in a flash, he was gone.

  Hidden amongst the shadows.

  Black was closing in on the bouncer guarding the rear entrance, carbon fiber knife tucked up his sleeve. His eyes erupted with fury as he spotted the kiddie porn coming into clearer view. He stayed on the edge of the guy’s peripheral and walked with soft footsteps. The guy wouldn’t notice Black sneaking up until he was four or so feet away.

  Black found cover behind a concrete wall dividing the club’s property line from what appeared to be an old radio station and waited. He wanted to get a better view of what the sicko was looking at.

  Black could make out a stack of Polaroids. Maybe six of them. All of them boys that were probably no older than ten. All of them in twisted situations. All of them likely purchased through elicit means and produced by sewer-dwelling peddlers.

  From where the bouncer was sitting, the front part of the street was out of view, and he was somewhat hidden in the shadows cast by the canopy above the rear entrance door behind him, his hand hovering over the photos, should he need to cover them at a second’s notice.

  “Hey, bud!” Black yelled out.

  The bouncer used his big, meaty pink hands to cover the photographs. He hopped off his chair to face Black, who was casually strolling towards him with a skip in his step.

  “Help you?” asked the bouncer.

  “There’s three things I hate,” said Black. “One of them is vodka. I hate the smell, I hate the taste, and I hate the hangover. The second one is people who park right in the middle of two parking spots. I mean, what in the perfect hell is going through someone’s mind when they do that? Ego? Their equilibrium is off? Whatever it is, I hate it. The third and final thing I hate...?”

  Black drew in a breath. Like he was about to erupt into a tirade of words. Instead, he popped open the carbon fiber knife, lunged forward, and buried the business end under the bouncer’s chin. As the man’s eyes bulged into a cartoon-like fashion and blood spilled out of his mouth like an overflowing sink, Black leaned in and whispered—

  “I hate pederast, low-life, pieces of shit like you.”

  Black removed the knife and pushed the bouncer against the wall. His body then slumped down into a two hundred and fifty-pound heap.

  Black felt release.

  Fuck him. He had it coming.

  A dumpster was directly to the right of the bouncer’s body. Black saw it as a gift from God. He quickly checked the bouncer’s pockets, threw open the lid of the dumpster, hoisted up the corpse, and dumped it inside with a hard thud.

  Five seconds. Flat.

  Black then gathered the photos and threw them on top of the body; the blood on the man’s shirt began to stain through the ghastly displays caught on film.

  Whoever finds him is gonna thank me.

  Black slammed the lid of the dumpster shut and headed for the now unguarded door. He opened it, the music from inside now spilling out at full blast. He locked the bolt on the door, double-checked it, and went right.

  He found himself in a dark hallway. Tunnel-like. Traces of green, yellow, and pink strobe lights occasionally licked the walls of the darkened pathway. Black walked through it and past what looked like a kitchen on the left. A cook was inside tending to an order of Buffalo wings inside a setup of metal countertops and appliances all arranged in an L-Shape. Cigarette smoke lingered from a dressing room that rested in the area just past the kitchen and near a large, industrial freezer. To the right was the manager’s office. Door was closed. A ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign in white and orange was taped at eye level. Black mapped his surroundings before he went further towards the green, yellow, and pink lights and emerged onto the main floor—

  Ted Nugent lyrics hit him from the house speakers. The place was made up of marble white floors and glossy black walls. A circular, five-by-five-foot area towards the center was a pathetic attempt at a bar. All they served was Budweiser and whiskey.

  There were four, elevated stages. Two on the left, two on the right. All of them roughly the size of a telephone booth. Cramped. Two of the stages were occupied by topless women, one black, one white. Three VIP rooms were towards the far left and covered up by thick, burgundy curtains. A main stage was towards the front. Slightly larger than the other stages. Unoccupied. A few bikers had gathered in front of it for whatever starlet was about to take the stage.

  Okay. We’ve got the bartender, three bikers, a trucker, six guys in some nice-looking suits, a bouncer by the main stage, the bouncer out front, t
wo dancers and around three more in the back room by the kitchen. The pedophile is dead, so I’m working with about eighteen people. Round it up to twenty.

  Now… Where’s Richie?

  Black meandered around. Slow. Low profile. He went to the bar and ordered a beer. He left the bartender (a tan guy with bushy eyebrows, a white dress shirt, and a black bow tie) a ten-dollar bill. Black didn’t bother drinking. He just wanted a blunt object in his hand.

  The music switched over to something Black thought one would hear in a dance club – lots of bass and synthesized rhythms. Female voices occasionally belted out lyrics that included words like ‘touch,’ and ‘lust,’ and ‘fever.’

  His eyes fell upon the two topless dancers on either side of the room. Busty. Glistening. Gyrating. Their thighs gripped onto poles, sending out shockwaves to the gullible and questionable men gawking at them. Black recognized a familiar sadness in the eyes of the dancers, a yearning to be anywhere but here. And, just like Black, they were good at what they did.

  Black decided to double back towards the cramped hallway that led to the bathrooms to see if Richie was relieving himself.

  Two feet later, God sent Black another freebie—

  Richie Dubin, beefy and pockmarked, ducked his way out of a curtain leading into one of the VIP rooms. Eyes glossy. Jaw tight. A Latin girl dressed in red and frilly lace came out from behind him and immediately dodged left as she stuffed the hundred and fifty bucks Richie spent into her bra. She looked like she was three minutes past the maximum time someone would want to physically indulge a guy like Richie.

  Richie made his move toward the bar.

  Excellent.

  Black gave himself about three feet of distance from Richie as he drunkenly strolled up to the counter, his eyes focused on the bottles of booze on the shelves as he threw down a crumpled twenty and ordered a shot of Jack.

  Black got a better look at the guy – Nothing but solid mass bulged through his red flannel shirt. Thick thighs and calves rested in a pair of baggy faded jeans. Everything was made of fat. His haircut was parted down the middle. A once chiseled jaw was now sagging. Black could even hear the guy wheezing. He figured the only reason Amanda was with still with Richie was due to his size and intimidation practices. Traces of a once good-looking guy with a soul were fleeting. Now he was nothing but a stack of shit formed out of pink, lumpy clay.