The Omega Team_IT COULD BE FUN

by Shayla McBride

  “Do I, like, get dinner? I’m starving.”

  Green belched, pounded a fist on his sternum. “Hate that greaser shit.”

  “I love it. California dudes, we all love Mexican.”

  “Take the half hour now.”

  Tanner worked his way through the noisy bar, past competing waves of perfume and tumbles of curls and mountains of bosoms. Silks and satins and sparkles, midnight blacks and royal blues and bloody reds. He got eyed, he got murmured at, and once he got pinched by a woman with fingers of titanium.

  The bar was busy, the bartenders gleaming with thin sheens of sweat. Past the service bar, at the end of the short hall, Agostino’s office door was shut. While he thought about how to get in there, Tanner gunned his seltzer.

  Mike came bustling toward him. “Do me a favor?”

  “Sure, dude. If I can.”

  The bartender handed over a ring of keys, one of them color-coded with a red plastic ring. “Use the red key on that door down the hall on the left.” He rattled off a list of liquor. “Pronto.”

  The hall was dim. The lock was a good one, but no lock had ever been made that Tanner couldn’t eventually open. Now he used the key, let himself in, and closed the door. The room was windowless. He swept the wall, found the switch, flipped it. An Aladdin’s cave of booze boxes were stacked against one wall. But the real prize was on the far wall.

  A large steel cabinet, dark brown, six-plus feet tall, six wide, with cheap locks on the double doors. He pulled out an all-purpose pick and was in it in one twist. The top shelf held a row of books dating back into the twentieth century: accountant’s records and tax returns. The next two shelves held a jumble of records, loops of print-outs, stapled stacks of receipts, paper-clipped bills, and what looked like summaries rubber-banded together. Agostino’s way of keeping track of things, he figured. The accountant must be a saint.

  Below was a clutter of outdated electronic equipment, phones and answering machines and what looked like credit card processors. At the bottom, a large, closed cardboard box was jammed on the right side: Lost and Found. He opened it. A jumble of personal items including a pair of red lace panties.

  He delved further, but came up with no more underwear, just scarves and jewelry and a small red faux-snakeskin purse. He opened it: empty, but for the distinctive scent of Cashmere, favorite of a woman he’d once dated. He put everything back the way he’d found it and closed the flaps.

  “Later,” he promised the papers, shut and locked the doors, and turned to the liquor.

  “What took you so long, man,” Mike grumbled as he slid the bottles onto the bar top.

  “Do it yourself the next time,” Tanner snapped. He slapped the keys down.

  “You locked up, right?”

  “Damn. No. My hands were, like, full.”

  He yanked the keys off the bar and locked the door. A moment later, he checked: Mike was at the far end making champagne cocktails for a trio of women while chatting up two others. Tanner hustled to the kitchen, was relieved to see that all hands were furiously busy. He scooped up a flour tortilla and headed outside.

  Came back a minute later, half the tortilla in his pocket, the rest tossed far into the scrub. Teo handed him a plate of fabado. It looked like the real thing: fava beans, saffron, and a slew of different pork products. It was the best he’d ever tasted. Only five bucks. Maybe the shortfall was because the employees ate so well?

  He went back to his new post. Halfway through the show a hard poked his arm. Mike, the bartender.

  “Where the hell are the keys,” he hissed.

  “Oh. Shit. I’m sorry, dude. You were, like, busy and I didn’t want to leave them on the bar.” He dug in his pocket, hoping there were no bits of tortilla on them. “Here.”

  Mike grabbed them, muttered a thanks, and stomped off.

  Later, in his car, Tanner slid the tortilla out of his pocket and put it in a plastic bag. As he zipped it shut, Agostino’s BMW SUV zoomed into the parking lot. The manager got out of the car and hustled into the club.

  Strange behavior for a Saturday night. Agostino usually left others to close up. Tonight it was Green, which meant Green and Bud – who seemed unable to function independently – would do the rounds, make sure all doors were locked, all bathrooms and alcoves empty. They’d turn off the neon sign and then leave.

  Tanner backed his car under a stand of unruly Brazilian pepper trees at the edge of the lot, and waited.

  Twenty minutes later, the neon lights went out. Three minutes later, Cobb left by the back door, punched in the lock’s code, and steamed across the lot to his car. Tanner lay back against his seat as if he’d fallen asleep and waited for Cobb to drive past. Which he did, eyes forward and a doobie hanging from his lower lip.

  That left Green and Agostino inside. Doing what? He settled down to wait. Ten minutes later, Green left. Five minutes after that, Agostino locked up and sauntered to his SUV. Where to? He lived in a large gated complex on the far north side of St. Pete.

  And that’s where Agostino went. Straight home. Pulled his BMW into a two-car garage, used an inside entrance. He was silhouetted against curtains as he moved about. Ten minutes later, he came out the front door carrying something.

  A dog. Pekinese. Which he set tenderly on the grass and baby-talked until it did its business. He used a plastic bag to remove the evidence, examining it with OCD thoroughness. Dog and master went inside. The lights went out.

  Loves his dog. Who’d’ve guessed?

  Tanner left.

  ***

  “And this is what? And I’m to do what with it?” Athena eyed the plastic bag. Even to Tanner, the thing inside looked suspiciously like human skin.

  It was Monday, and he’d brought the tortilla to the office hoping for good news.

  “There’s a key imprint on there,” he said. “Ask your geniuses to make me a copy.”

  The geniuses, Omega’s version of James Bond’s Q Labs, could find or fabricate almost anything. This was his one shot. He was pretty sure Mike wouldn’t trust the keys to him again.

  “How soon?”

  “Stat. It opens the storeroom where the records are kept. It’ll be an opportunistic search.” With the room ten feet from Agostino’s office, he’d have to wait until the manager wasn’t in the building. He spent a lot of odd hours there; it could be tricky.

  Athena buzzed the geniuses, and gave the bag to a runner moments later. After the runner had left, she eyed Tanner.

  “No other news?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing. Whatever may be going on there hasn’t showed up yet. I don’t see any funny business.”

  “Clock’s ticking.”

  “If he can’t give us any leads, how the hell does he expect instant service? I’ve been there only thirty-some hours, most of them stuck in the back hall.”

  Athena rose. “I’ll have a word.”

  Her interoffice phone rang. “Madero.” She listened, raised an elegant eyebrow. “Your key,” she said to Tanner, “will be ready in a half-hour.”

  ***

  Tuesday, Crave’s entrance poster had been changed but still placed so guests had to detour around it to get to the bar. Sexiest Santa Contest! Next SATURDAY! Neon colors on the black foam-core screamed fun, fun, fun.

  “That a sunburn I see,” Green asked as Tanner stared at the sign.

  “Nothing like a couple of days at the beach, dude.”

  “Hope it’s a whole body tan,” he said cryptically. “Richie wants to see you. In his office. Pronto.”

  “To hear is to obey, oh great one,” Tanner said, still relaxed from his two sun-soaked days off.

  “Yeah, yeah. Get moving. He don’t like to wait.” He poked Tanner in the bicep. “But he does like to keep you waitin’.”

  Tanner knocked at Agostino’s door. He heard muted noises inside, but nothing else. A minute later, he knocked again. More noises: a woman?

  Ten seconds later he turned the knob and walked in. Agostino, feet up o
n his aircraft carrier-sized desk, half-full brandy snifter at his elbow, a fat cigar in one hand and his dick in the other, looked up from the laptop screen he’d been watching. Rage flooded his face and his busy fingers went still.

  “You come in when I tell you to come in, dickwad.”

  “Yo, dude, we’re on company time here.” He dropped the surfer persona. “I come in when you tell someone you want to see me pronto. And if you call me dickwad again, I’ll punch your lights out. Starting with your pretty nose.”

  It was a great nose, narrow and elegant. How Agostino had kept it for three years of pro football was a mystery to Tanner, whose nose had been broken a half-dozen times. He’d set it himself on most occasions, too. Try that, you pansy. Agostino’s upper lip curled.

  “You talk tough, California boy. I wonder if you can follow it up with action.”

  Tanner toyed with a comeback, or just going over the desk and mashing the puke flat, but said nothing. Day five, he had nothing to tell Omega: he had to stay on.

  Agostino swung his feet down, slid them under his desk. He was still tumescent, so he’d opted to stay seated. The woman in the porn movie moaned, then screamed in what sounded like shocked pain. Agostino’s eyes skipped to the laptop, locked on. Tanner growled. Agostino slapped the screen shut and took a breath. Didn’t do him much good, his face was still scarlet and he still couldn’t stand. He went for normality.

  “We got a contest next Saturday night.” He paused. Tanner said nothing. “So we got ten guys entered. It’s like any fund raiser, they go out and get sponsors, then the sponsors match whatever gets stuffed into the guy’s outfits after they walk on. We need more guys.”

  “Good luck in your search.”

  Agostino grinned. “My search is over, California boy.”

  A nightmare scenario bloomed in Tanner’s mind. “Not me. I don’t, like, do stages.”

  “Oh yeah, you.”

  Tanner shook his head. Agostino grinned even more.

  “The ladies like you. You’ll round out the group; we got no guys with your color hair. Saturday, you’ll be part of the show.”

  “No. Not on.”

  “What, your tackle tiny?” Agostino stood, stuffed himself into his pants, and leaned forward, planting his fists on the desk. “I can get Three-D to order you. If I tell the jerk you’re costing him money, you’ll either get up there or you’ll go on food stamps. So, do yourself a favor: just say yes.”

  He was screwed. “I’ve got some scars. Most women don’t like them.”

  Agostino’s eyes narrowed. “Where are they?”

  “Back, shoulders, chest.” And that was for starters.

  “No problem.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Those twats out there are amazing, they love everything. I’m not too sure about hunchbacks or harelips, but tatts and scars? Yeah.” He thought for a moment. “Think we could do a Mongoloid strip contest? A harelip strip?” He laughed as he noticed Tanner’s right first curl. “Oh, California dude’s so sensitive. I’ll give crips some thought. Meantime, you’re on. Hell, it’s just a walk across a stage and a bodybuilding pose. That’s all.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Hold still.”

  Tanner held his hand between the phone and his face.

  “Wouldn’t you rather it wasn’t a candid shot?” He waved Tanner off. “Fine. Go ahead. But it’ll happen. Less you wanna be unemployed?”

  No choice, and he knew it. Three-D would tell Omega to put their man on stage. Spiders crawled over his flesh at the idea. Last time he’d been the center of attention from a mob of women, he’d come within a few minutes of a very ugly death.

  “You ex-military? That what the problem is? Keep your head down or get it shot off?” Agostino made a pistol with forefinger and thumb, dropped the thumb. “That applies here too, California boy. Keep it down.”

  ***

  By midnight, Green was in rough shape. Agostino had left the moment the till closed, leaving Mike the bartender to do the count. Tanner volunteered to lock up. Bud had shepherded a wobbly Green through the door and Tanner had thought, three down, two to go.

  He went to the bar, gunned seltzer into a go-cup, and sipped as Mike ran the final proof tape. He didn’t get it right until the fourth pass. Teo bustled in, still energetic after a night of dishing up nachos and virgin cheeseburgers (no bun). He slapped Tanner on the shoulder, sending a shockwave across his still-healing back.

  “Todo hecho, amigo. No fires, garbage out, walk-in locked, everyone he’s gone home to mamá. I lock the door on my way out. Adios.”

  “Me too,” Mike grumbled, putting the tapes in a baggie along with the cash. He zipped it shut, tossed it on the bar. “You put that through the slot, Carl? It’s on Richie’s office door. I got the mother of all headaches.”

  “Sure.”

  He took the bag. Mike slipped under the bar top at the waiters’ station and with a nod headed into the showroom and the employee exit.

  One to go. Teo leaned on the bar, fiddling with his car keys. A plastic-encased photo hung from the chain. Teo caught his glance.

  “Mi hija,” he said with pride. “Ocho años. Muy inteligente.”

  It was a school photo, happy and eager, the bright eyes and full smile making Tanner’s heart crack. At eight, her future beauty already showed. “Muy bonita, too. Gonna be fun when she’s sixteen.”

  “We’re solid, sabes? I’m hoping that’ll never change.” Teo flipped the keys and the girl vanished into his palm. “Buenas noches, amigo.”

  Tanner began the closing-down routine, checking the locks. Kitchen okay. He turned off the lights in the bar. Ladies’ room: empty. As was the coat check with its glass-front counter where Crave souvenirs were sold. The spots were off in the showroom and the place smelled of spilled booze, squabbling perfumes, and woman. The performers’ room and its two stalls, three sinks, and pair of showers: empty.

  From the performer’s stage door, he climbed the three steps and walked out onto the stage. He thought about Saturday, getting up here for real.

  He could refuse. His usefulness at Crave would end. No. He’d fucked up his last assignment, he wouldn’t fuck up this one.

  His footsteps echoed as he crossed the showroom floor. The bar echoed, too, with emptiness. No laughs, no staccato chatter. The sound of women en masse sometimes still gave him the creeps.

  In the hall, he pulled out the key and slipped it into the lock. It went in like the mechanism had been sprayed with graphite. The air conditioning clicked on and the building came to life. The unit would mask any sounds he needed to hear.

  He found the control, shut it down, and returned to the door. The room was windowless; he could work as long as he had to, search everything as thoroughly as he needed. It was going to be a very long night. He twisted the key.

  It didn’t move.

  He tried again, and again. No dice. He rummaged in his pockets, swore long and hard. Helluva night to leave his lockpicks at home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Wednesday, November 29

  A flyer in the vestibule announced a guest stripper, from Chicago, a massive cafe au lait bodybuilder draped in gold. Crave had run a two-for-one deal, Wednesday night only. The bargain appeared irresistible. Scores of women came in two by two.

  Agostino sent Tanner to the back hall. Halfway through the regular routine, when they did about ten minutes of audience participation, the curtains parted and a woman slipped in. She stopped, backed against the wall and closed her eyes. In the light slanting through the gap in the curtains, he saw she was slender, with tousled honey-gold hair, a too-long but elegant nose and a wide mouth. That mouth was drawn in a tight, hard line, and her chin trembled.

  Tanner cleared his throat and her eyes popped open. She stared at him, for a moment not registering anything. Maybe all she could see was his head floating against a black background. He stepped closer. She was older than he’d first thought, maybe his age, pushing forty.

  He pulled out an ear plug. The music was deafening. �
��I hope I didn’t startle you.”

  “Of course you did. It was like a vampire materializing.” A northeast accent, assured delivery. An executive, probably.

  “Sorry, miss. This area is private, employees only.”

  She held up one hand. “Please. Give me another minute.” Her voice was breathy, uneven. “My sister dragged me here. It’s her birthday, the big four-oh. It’s so noisy, and I figured she wouldn’t notice I’d slipped out. I’ve got a migraine starting. The lights are killing me. And the goddam noise...”

  “I have ear plugs,” he said. “You want my spares? Never used.”

  “Yes, absolutely. How much longer does this go on?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes for this set. There’s a late show, at eleven.”

  She groaned with dramatic humor half-way to genuine despair. “I’ll be a total basket case by then. And I’ve got a flight to catch in the morning.”

  He was vaguely disappointed. She wasn’t local, lived somewhere else. He could be wrong: she had the kind of tan locals had. She’d closed her eyes again; her lips were parted. He heard her exhale, short, sharp pants of exhaustion.

  “God,” she half-whispered, “I’ll be a wreck...”

  “If you live within ten miles, Crave’ll pick up your taxi tab.” Sly, Tanner, sly.

  ***

  “I drove,” Jan Jones said, acutely aware of the man standing within arm’s reach holding out a packet of earplugs. He was big – hell, everyone was bigger than her five-two – and broad-shouldered, with tousled red-gold hair topping a worn, sun-darkened face. “My sister won’t drive after dark. So I got roped into it, her and three of her airhead friends.”

  She waved one hand. God, she was tired, and the damned migraine was building with supernatural speed. “They’re really not airheads. But we could’ve gone to the Florida Orchestra, or for jazz at the Palladium. And she chose this. Strippers over Stravinsky.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “The two-fers. She never could resist a bargain. We were raised on separate planets, I swear.”

  “Siblings can be a real trial,” he said. She shivered. He had a rumbly voice created for whispering sweet nothings. “Do you want a bottle of water? Might help the migraine.”