They stared at him, not sure who he was or what he wanted. Eventually, one of them nodded. A small guy on right. "Yeah. We're done," he added.
"Good," Beck replied. "Now, which one of you wants to make a quick five hundred bucks to take home?"
A sudden surprised look on his face, the little guy and said, "Yeah. I do." They guy standing smoking at the far left pulled a face and nodded slowly. The middle two looked at him, suspicion in their eyes. One of them was about Beck's size. Big and tall. He was maybe only two inches shorter and about twenty or thirty pounds lighter. He was the one Beck was really asking.
Beck looked at him. "A thousand."
"What's it involve?" the guy asked, flicking his cigarette to the snowy ground. It singed and went out against the snow.
Beck flicked his eyes down the guy's neat dark suit and nodded toward the club. "I got to get in there tonight," he said and paused. "But I can't go in dressed like this. I'll give you one thousand dollars, cash, for your jacket and pants."
The rest of the group made faces and laughed.
"Not interested," the guy said and shook his head.
"OK. Fifteen hundred."
"Fine."
The other group members laughed, again. One of them said, "What?" There was disbelief in hs voice.
"How do you want it?" the guy asked.
"Right here. Right now. Take it off."
The guy looked at him, incredulous.
Beck drew his wallet from his pants and drew a wad of bills from the bill slot. "You want the money, or not?"
The guy looked at it and blew out his cheeks and said, "Sure thing, pal." Then, took off his coat. He slung it over the hood of his maroon sedan and removed his suit jacket and handed it to Beck.
"Pants, too," Beck said.
The guy nodded and slipped off his shoes. He grimaced as he put his feet down onto the icy cold snow. His socks went damp and the freezing chill shot through his feet and up his ankles. But it was worth it to make fifteen hundred bucks. He slipped off his pants and handed them to Beck.
"Another five hundred and I'll give you my shirt and tie, too," he said and brought his hands to his neck and began to undo his tie. His shirt was white and his tie was maroon, skinny.
"Keep them," Beck said and handed the guy the agreed amount, then turned and walked back to the Altima and climbed in. He waited until the four men had gotten into their car and had driven off, a mix of disbelief, shock and laughter across their faces. Then, he took off his boots and slipped off his jeans. He shoved his feet down the legs of the pants and pulled them up. Hard to do in a compacted space like the front of a car. It involved a lot of wriggling and twisting and maneuvering into different positions.
The pants were tight. Almost too tight. It was touch and go. But they would have to do. Next, he tried the jacket. He took off his coat and slipped it on, over his shirt. It ripped at the shoulder. Fuck! He sighed and took it off and tossed it aside. Then, put on his boots and coat, fastened his coat shut and got out of the car. He looked at his boots and realized he should probably have asked the guy for his shoes, too. They were smarter-looking than his boots, but maybe a size or two too small. He would have to make do.
Attire problem handled, it was time to find a way in. He didn't want to wait in the line and he couldn't draw his Smith & Wesson and force his way in all-guns-blazing. It was too busy. There were too many people. Too many potential witnesses. Too many potential victims of collateral damage. Plus, nobody actually does that. He had to be more calculated. And he knew it.
He saw what looked to be a loading bay down the back of the building between the rear of the club and an old, abandoned red brick building that was built at the near end of the adjacent plot, maybe some sort of office block or apartment complex a while back. He walked toward it. Pulled his cell phone out and brought it up to the side of his face and pretended he was on a call. Then, satisfied that nobody was looking his way, he ducked into the loading bay.
The pathway was clear. The snow had been shoveled from the ground. And there wasn't a person or camera in sight. There was a black Subaru Impreza sitting parked up ahead outside a heavy grey fire door. It had dark tinted windows and shiny copper alloy wheels. It was smart, but extravagant. A drug dealer's car.
Beck walked toward it, tight along the side of the building, past a row of bottle green dumpsters on his left. They stunk like they were rammed with festering trash. He past the first dumpster, then the next, and then the next. He was only maybe ten paces from the Subaru, twelve or thirteen from the grey door, when the door swung open and a man stepped out.
He was big, foreign-looking. He had a head of thin gelled black hair combed back over his scalp, and one of the biggest noses Beck had ever seen. It was practically a beak. And, just like the two men Beck killed in the street behind Michigan Central Station, he was wearing dark boots, dark pants and a black ribbed puffer jacket. He was obviously club security, maybe on a break.
Beck saw a white cigarette teetering on his bottom lip and a light in his hands. He quickly ducked between the shadow of the third dumpster and the forth, before the guy saw him, and listened.
The guy flicked the lighter's flint wheel and sparked a dancing orange flame. Beck heard him bring it to tip of the cigarette. The paper singed against the fire. Then, he heard the guy exhale a deep and slow breath of smoke.
The guy walked about back and forth by the door and down toward the dumpsters. His boots crunched on the concrete.
Beck caught a whiff of his cologne. It was steamy and hot, putrid. It actually smelled a bit like vinegar. He peeked around the side of the dumpster. The guy was, maybe, ten paces away and looking at his cell phone. Its screen lit his ugly Russian face up a mixture of white and blue. He began to walk Beck's way, not once looking up from the phone's screen, the grey door still open behind him.
Beck saw the opportunity and drew his HRT boot knife from the holster around the crus of his right leg and held it tight in his right hand, primed and ready.
The guy continued walking forward, but stopped about three paces from the dumpster.
Beck thought fast and decided to confront him head-on. He moved to jump out, but the guy stepped forward. Beck quickly ducked back before being caught. The guy took three more steps, then turned around to walk back. He never got far.
Beck saw him come into view. But he never saw Beck. Like ninety-nine percent of people going anywhere these days, his head was down, his eyes were on his phone and his mind was detached from his immediate surroundings. He took a draw on his cigarette, focusing on whatever was on his cell phone's screen.
That was when Beck sprang into action. He jumped up from between the dumpsters and slung his left hand over the guy's left shoulder and wrapped the inside of his elbow under the guy's chin, then brought the knife up to the side of the guy's head.
Obviously realizing something was happening, the guy gasped and dropped his cell phone to the ground. It smashed on the concrete. His cigarette followed. It dropped from his mouth. But before he could do much else, he felt the sharp tip of Beck's knife piercing into his right temple. Then, he felt the stiff force of Beck's hand and wrist and the sharp edges of the blade slice a path all the way in. After that, he blacked out. Indefinitely.
Without a sound, the guy went limp in Beck's arm and flopped backward against his chest. Beck let him fall to the ground and quickly turned around and opened the dumpster on the left. He lifted the guy up and slung him into the open dumpster on top of a few black sacks of the trash. Leaned in and whipped the knife from the guy's head and wiped its blade on the guy's jacket, stuffed the knife into his coat pocket and closed the lid. Seeing nobody else around, he hurried across the loading bay, past the Subaru, and slipped into the nightclub via the open door.
Closing the door behind him, he found himself standing in a clinical corridor. It had white walls and a grey linoleum floor with bright white lights shining down overhead. It was clear with nobody around, and it smelled strong
ly of vanilla, like the scent was being pumped from the air vents. He could hear music thumping and banging up ahead. He glanced at his watch and smiled. It was twelve-thirty.
He thought back to what Vanessa had said: Adamczuk deals Pink Magic in Polanski's clubs after midnight. With two clubs, it was a fifty-fifty shot. He realized there was a chance he might find him in there, on the dance floor, hard at work. He was there for Josh Hefter and Vladimir Polanski, but if Adamczuk was there, too, it was an opportunity he wasn't going to pass up.
He headed down the corridor toward the banging sound of the music, walking slowly and carefully, ready to tackle anyone else who might appear. The closer he got, the louder the music grew. He saw a black door up ahead. He walked toward it. The music was now almost deafening and the essence of vanilla was at its most pungent. He slipped through the door and out into the main area of the nightclub.
The lighting was a dull, the dance floor illuminated to a soft pink glow and the atmosphere was vibrant. Hot pink lights flashed all around every few seconds and about a thousand people danced on a pink glitter-speckled black marley dance floor to the loud, rhythmic beats of tracks from iconic International DJs like Avicii and David Guetta and the scent of vanilla hanging in the air.
The men on the floor shuffled and swayed and moved their shoulders in their suits, and the woman twisted and jived and rocked their bodies to the music. They all looked like a million bucks. A mixture of flash suits, low-cut tops and smart pants, slender dresses with little waists and plenty of bust, and sparkling stiletto shoes that wouldn't have looked out of place on display at a fashion show.
Almost everyone smelled good, like expensive perfume and aftershave. And almost everyone was drunk. They looked like they were having a rocking time, slamming alcohol like it was going out of fashion. Beers, liqueurs, champagnes and shots as fog machines blasted streams of white vapor down around them from the rafters, covering them in a thick, fog-like blanket.
Adamczuk could be somewhere in the crowd, Beck thought and looked over to his left and saw the nightclub's shiny rose gold bar.
It was lit in a pink and purple hue. Spotlights shone up onto the bar from the floor on either side, igniting its alcohol-bottle-packed shelves above with a gentle roseate glow. Well-polished dark-haired men in skin-tight black t-shirts behind the bar poured drinks into pink glasses, clear glasses, wine goblets and champagne flutes for customers on the other side.
The bartenders all looked about eight-feet-tall, but obviously they weren't. The bar was elevated from the dance floor, accessible by a small wide flight of stairs. It meant it offered a great vantage point. One Beck would be able to look down from to scan the sea of bodies and spot Adamczuk on the dance floor.
He moved over around the side of the crowd and quickly climbed the stairs and noticed a black steel piller to the left. A light pink shiny metal table wrapped around it and somebody had left a half-full glass of some sort of pink cocktail sitting on top. He stepped over and stood beside it and looked down and scanned the dance floor. His eyes swept the room, starting from the left, slowly working their way to the right.
He identified four foreign-looking security guards standing around the corners of the dance floor. All of them were dressed in dark gear like the others outside. They also had shades over their eyes and their arms were folded across their sternums. They were watching the crowd, primed and ready for trouble.
Beck scanned the dance floor for a second time, focusing on the center of the sea of dancing, partying, drunken revellers. He scanned each individual, man or woman, and observed every figure, big or small, and analyzed every face, attractive or ugly. That was when he saw him.
Darius Adamczuk.
Right there, in the flesh, moving around right in the thick of it. He was ducking and diving and weaving his way through the crowd. He was dressed in dark boots, dark pants, a dark t-shirt and what looked like a black ribbed gilet.
He looked different to what Beck had expected. He had expected long blond dreadlocks, maybe tied back. But this guy had short, blond buzz cut hair. Still, though, he looked like he stood about six-three and weighed, maybe, two-twenty, and his chin had the same rugged black stubble as was on his photograph on the U.S. Marshal's wanted man listing. It was definitely him. There was no doubt about it.
Beck's heart raced. He was the one he wanted. He was the whole reason he had even come to Detroit. And, now, he was standing in the same room as him. He watched Adamczuk weave his way through the crowd, taking bills and slipping pills, dealing to everyone exhibiting something pink, be it headbands or earrings, handkerchiefs or neckties, or those deliberately nursing shots of liquor from neon pink glasses. He glanced down at what was left of the pink cocktail sitting on the table he was standing at and shook his head, then flicked his eyes back to Adamczuk and watched him slip out of the sea of people at the far end. He appeared to pause and take a breather, check his take and work out his progress. Then, he walked back toward people and began to work his way back through.
Beck calculated his route and, judging by the rate he moved at, worked out he would be back at the heart of the dance floor in about five minutes. And that's where he figured he would get him.
A few minutes left to spare, he lifted the pink glass of Godknowswhat and pretended to take a drink, so not to arouse any suspicion. He was just another guy standing by the bar, taking a breather and drinking his drink.
Other people would've thought he was relaxing. Kicking back, casually sipping on a cocktail. When, in fact, he was hard at work, using the time wisely and lining up his next target.
He flicked his eyes upward to the ceiling, looking for the window to the skybox. It was up as high as the rafters of the building, on the other side of the thick white smog, directly in the middle of the room. It had a shiny, reflective mirror-like window and looked like it offered an unobstructed view of the dance floor and the bar down below.
Beck imagined Polanski up there sitting back, maybe, lounging on a comfortable leather sofa, sipping a flute of expensive golden fizz and snacking on something expensive like prawns or caviar. He pictured Naomi's son up there beside him, tied to the chair, terrified and alone. He shook his head. Polanski, you son of a bitch, you're next, he thought and glanced back down to the dance floor.
Adamczuk now about a quarter of the way through the crowd, half-way from the middle of the floor.
Beck laid the pink drink back down on the metal table and descended the stairs. They creaked under his boots. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his coat and wrapped his palm around the butt of his Smith & Wesson HRT boot knife, then looked at Adamczuk through the sea of bodies, observed the size of the crowd and flicked his eyes over to the security guards around the room.
That's when it dawned on him that there wasn't a hope in hell he would be able to grab him and take him out of there. Not from among this crowd. Not in front of four watchmen. Not here. Not tonight. Not in this club. There wasn't a chance in hell. The idea of collecting the twenty-five thousand dollar U.S. Marshals' bounty evaporated right before his eyes. But that didn't matter. Not any more. He had been sucked into something a whole lot bigger. A whole lot deeper. And a whole lot more important. But Darius Adamczuk wasn't about to get a free pass. He had killed two people in cold blood and, through his drugs, probably damaged a whole lot more. He was a bad dude, who was about to meet a very sharp end.
Beck locked his eyes on him and slipped into the crowd like a hungry crocodile slides into the dark, murky waters after spotting its prey adrift from the shore, his mind on one thing and one thing only: going in for the kill.
He moved past the twerking partiers and fought his way through the crowd to the middle of the dance floor, practically brushing a couple of guys aside. He could see Adamczuk straight ahead, on the other side of two people, within an arm's reach. He slipped his knife from his coat pocket and held it tight in his hand, its tip facing outward.
Adamczuk slipped a pill and took a twenty dollar bill, th
en stepped back and turned around. The strobe lights flashed and the smoke machines blasted. He was now less than a foot away, on the other side of the smoke and the pink and purple and blue lights, coming Beck's way.
He moved closer, again, seeing a dancing young and attractive blonde woman up ahead, pink hooped earrings looped through her earlobes with one hand cupped by her side, holding a twenty dollar bill. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his finger and thumb around another dose and moved her way, completely oblivious to Joe Beck's presence among the smoke on his right.
Beck allowed him to pass, then raised the knife. He quickly moved in behind him and plunged the knife into the small of Adamczuk's back, about an inch to the left of his spine, just below his kidney.
The razor sharp blade tore through his gilet and punctured his skin. It sliced on through the flesh and severed his abdominal aorta, the largest artery in the abdominal cavity, like it was a thin slice of ham.
The pain was sharp and abrupt. It caught Adamczuk by surprise. He gasped, feeling it immediately. And he knew he had been stabbed. That was obvious. He tried to twist around, but he was on the ground dead before he even got half-way and realized who or what had done it.
The stabbing was lethal. Quick and quiet, discreet and effective. Adamczuk bled out in seconds, lying at people's feet on the dance floor. Yet, nobody saw, heard, noticed or suspected a thing. Those who saw him fall just presumed he had passed out, either drunk or high, and shuffled around him. He disappeared under their feet, fading from sight in the abyss of legs. And the smoke was that thick, even the doormen around the room never saw a thing.
Beck pocketed his knife and slipped away under the cover of the thick white blanket of smoke and the intermittent intervals of darkness only interrupted by the abrupt, flashing lights. He was off the dance floor, away from the scene, and back out in the clinical white and grey corridor in seconds, his mind now focused on saving Josh Hefter and killing Vladimir Polanski.
FORTY-NINE
Easy Money Page 32