Darkest Thoughts

by Gordon Brown

  I feel my head building pressure – the headache winding up – and I know what’s coming when a horn sounds. We all freeze and it sounds again. An engine revs close by; the horn is now going off like an alarm. Sam turns to find the grill of a car inches from his face. He leaps up. I follow suit. John stays on the ground.

  ‘Get in.’ The passenger door of the blue Chevy is open. I can see Sharon’s face through the windshield. I don’t have time for questions and hobble into the car. Sam stares me down and looks at John, bewilderment in his face. He starts to raise a foot and I think he’s going to plant it in John’s gut, but he lowers it as my headache vanishes. I wait for the blue world but it doesn’t feel close now.

  Sharon reverses to the arch and through. She brakes next to my car.

  ‘Get your car and follow me back to Fairway Oaks,’ she shouts.

  I hesitate.

  ‘Now! Before they get their act together and decide to beat up on both of us. Huh.’

  I still don’t move.

  ‘Charlie sent me, OK? So move.’

  I leap out of the car. Sam is walking into the arch. A second later John emerges, clutching his nose. I jog to my car and pull open the Corolla door, keeping an eye on the pair as I jump in, kick the engine into life and follow Sharon into the traffic.

  Cruising back up the highway, Sharon weaves her way north. At the next set of lights, I pull level and hit the window button to talk to her.

  I’m slammed forward in my seat as the car is smacked from the rear. I turn to find Sam and John sitting high in a Toyota Hilux, staring down on me. Sam flips the bird and John points to his nose. Sam rolls the pickup forward, catches my bumper in its bull bars and begins to push. I stick my foot on the brake but we are three to one here in terms of horsepower. The lights are still red. The crossroads is busy. My tires squeal as the pickup shoves me across the white line of the intersection.

  I glance over at Sharon. She’s struggling to catch up on what is going down. Her face is creased with puzzlement. As I open my mouth to shout, the car lurches forward another few feet. I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard it hurts but it isn’t going to stop the forward motion. The car jerks again as the power of the pickup overcomes the friction of my tires.

  I’m only inches from being broadsided by the crossing cars.

  I try to calm down. Think and act – not the other way round. The car lurches again. Why in the hell don’t the lights change? How long can they stay at red?

  A horn fires off as a car slashes across the front of my fender. The Corolla continues to slide onward. The pickup engine is roaring in my ear. A few more feet and I’ll be midstream. A second car has to swerve to avoid my nose. I make a choice. Another car is bearing down. I whip my foot from the brake, ram the car into first and floor it.

  I jump forward and catch Sam by surprise. We both shoot into the traffic. A car misses my tail but can’t miss Sam and John. The sound of grinding metal falls away as the other cars signal their warning with a clutch of horns and brakes. I clear the crossing and keep my foot down.

  I look in the mirror. The doors to the pickup are opening. Sam and John are leaping out – then they’re lost to the distance. The next junction rears up and I almost forget to brake. As I stop I expect a crumpled Hilux to rush into my life again. Instead a blue Chevy cruises up on my right.

  My window is still open.

  ‘What the hell?’ shouts Sharon. ‘Just follow me.’

  As the lights change I check the rear-view and pull in behind the Chevy. At the next junction Sharon hangs a right and navigates a back way towards the house. I’m not that surprised when she indicates to turn into my driveway and parks, with enough space to let me into the garage.

  I hit the remote to send the garage door wheeling up.

  A minute later and I’m letting Sharon in the front door. I have a bunch of questions.

  Before we start I say. ‘Coffee?’

  She nods. I start to cook up some strong and black stuff. ‘You want to tell me how you know where I live?’

  ‘You want to tell me why you lied?’

  ‘You first.’

  ‘Charlie told me.’

  ‘And you know Charlie how?’

  ‘He used to be a patient at Hatch Roll.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘Do you think he hands out cash to complete strangers? How big is your bar bill?’

  ‘A few dollars?’

  ‘And the rest,’ she says. ‘The day you walked into the bar and told him you had been at Hatch Roll he phoned me to check. When he knew you were coming here he phoned me. I moved to St Pete’s two years ago and he’s kept in touch. It wasn’t hard for me to check on you.’

  ‘Why did he phone you?’

  ‘We were friends when he was at Hatch Roll.’

  I place the cups on the coffee table in the sitting room, and we sit down opposite each other.

  ‘What was he in for?’

  ‘Same as you.’

  ‘He was in the army?’

  ‘Special forces.’

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘Good soldier as well. Just one too many missions in one too many bad places.’

  ‘He never said.’

  ‘He wants to forget it.’

  ‘And you kept in touch why?’

  ‘We were an item.’

  Lucky Charlie. I sip at the black stuff. ‘What were you supposed to do? Watch me? Protect me from the baddies?’

  ‘Just check you out and let him know how you’re doing.’

  ‘You do know I’m being hunted?’

  ‘Charlie said there were some people after you. Huh. Was that them back at the hotel?’

  ‘No. That was a pair of idiots.’

  ‘Just as well I turned up when I did.’

  ‘How did you know I was in trouble?’

  ‘I knew you weren’t staying at the hotel and, when I saw the two guys walk out of sight, I thought they might be the people Charlie had warned me about.’

  ‘You’re not lacking guts.’

  ‘Maybe you mean brains.’ She smiles. ‘Are you going for the job at the club?’

  ‘Charlie has a big mouth.’

  ‘It’s my brother who hires the muscle. Charlie doesn’t know anyone down here.’

  ‘I thought this was Charlie’s house?’

  ‘Nope. Mine.’

  ‘I thought you lived in St Pete’s?’

  ‘I do. This used to belong to my parents and when they passed on I couldn’t move it. Huh. The credit crunch was on us. So I mothballed it.’

  ‘So the house has no connection to Charlie?’ Well maybe the suits won’t find me just yet. ‘Charlie said he would phone at seven to see if I want the job.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Want the job.’

  ‘No choice. I need the cash and time to get my head together. Where is it?’

  ‘You can trail me and I’ll show you. Now, do you want something to eat?’

  ‘I do but I’m afraid your larder is empty.’

  ‘Yes, but the telephone works and there’s a wonderful Italian that delivers.’

  Chapter 26

  Charlie phones and we talk. We wander around his past, Sharon and the way to the Moon. Sharon is more than an ex from the way he talks.

  An hour later I’m following Sharon’s Chevy down the Sun-coast Parkway with a pound of lasagna nesting in my gut. I feel better. An appetite from the wild and extra garlic bread will do that. I’m wearing the cheapest suit I have ever owned but I’ve been seen in worse. Anyway, bouncers need suits that are practical. Machine-washable is good.

  We hit Tampa as the rush hour falls off, picking up signs for the Tropicana Stadium, passing a sign advertising the second game in the Blue Jays series.

  I’m lost but Sharon weaves her way through the town with purpose. We hit a strip of bars and restaurants and she pulls up in a fire zone. I draw level. She tells me to park in the garage next to the fire zone and
walk back to where she’s illegally parked.

  I have a sweat on by the time I get back to her.

  She points to a small blue door that sits between a Mexican restaurant and a sports bar. ‘Knock on the door and ask for Jake. If they give you any grief tell them Sharon sent you. I’ll wait and see you in.’

  The door could be a door to anywhere. There are no markings on it. I knock and it opens within a couple of fast heartbeats. ‘I’m looking for Jake.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Sharon sent me.’ I step to the side and Sharon waves at the doorman. He nods his head and moves to let me in.

  The corridor beyond is dimly lit and heavily carpeted. An airport scanner stands in front of me and, beyond this, another door. I step through the metal arch. The doorman raps on the second door. It opens and a man in a gray suit looks at me.

  ‘For Jake,’ says the doorman.

  I’m ushered in to find myself in a small vestibule. A wooden table sits to the left and a stunning brunette sits behind it, protected by a computer screen. She’s wearing a Bluetooth ear-piece, while pressing away at the keyboard. I’m conscious of the bruises on my face.

  She looks up. ‘Name?’

  ‘Craig McIntyre.’

  ‘And you’re here to see who?’

  ‘Jake.’

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She hits a few more keys and speaks into the Bluetooth. Then to me. ‘Go on through. He’s waiting.’

  There’s a buzz, followed by a double door swinging inwards to reveal a large bar and restaurant, empty save for a couple of men behind the bar and a woman pushing a vacuum cleaner across the floor.

  I step in. The doors close behind me.

  ‘So you’re Sharon’s new man?’ The voice is loud. I turn to find a guy whose eyes connect him to Sharon. ‘I believe I’m supposed to give you a job.’

  Jake is six feet six at least. His shoulders have the look of an athlete.

  ‘I was told you might have a vacancy,’ I venture.

  ‘Sit down.’ He throws his hand towards one of the room’s large sofas. ‘I haven’t got much time and you have even less to impress me. Done any of this kind of work before?’

  ‘I was on a few doors before I joined the army.’

  ‘Army is good. What else?’

  ‘I’m a personal security expert.’

  ‘A bodyguard then.’

  I nod.

  ‘Better. And do you know anything about the club?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good, the less you know the better. You start tonight and you work with Clyde. You do what Clyde says. You walk where Clyde tells you to walk and you talk when Clyde tells you to talk. The pay is better than anywhere else in town and it’s cash at the end of the night. You sort out the IRS. You’ll find Clyde upstairs.’

  He lifts his massive frame from the chair and leaves.

  It appears I have the job. Whatever the job is.

  A spiral staircase lifts from the centre of the room. I climb it. The next floor up is more of the same except there’s a dance floor in one corner. A small man with an ’80s ponytail and a taste for tight suits is leaning against the bar. He has a sheet of paper in one hand and a pen in the other.

  ‘Clyde?’ I ask as I walk up to him.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘Jake sent me up. I’ve to work with you.’

  ‘Sure. Virgin?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Thick too. We open at ten. That suit is crap. Far door – code is 98789. Pick out something better to wear and be back here in ten. Figured!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Just go.’ He points at a door.

  I go.

  The door is padded. I punch in the code to enter a small off-shoot of Saks of 5th Avenue. Suits to the left, shirts to the right, shoes at the back and ties in a carousel in the middle. A small changing-room sits in one corner. I flick through the suits and find a black Versace in my size, a brilliant white Ralph Lauren shirt, a pair of Cole Haan chukka boots and a Brioni striped tie. Total cost – probably north of three thousand bucks. What kind of club keeps this stuff as spare change?

  Back with Clyde he nods approvingly. ‘Any damage is out of your wages. Hand it back at the end of the night. Figured.’

  I think I know what he means.

  ‘First up. Coffee. Black.’ He waves at the other end of the bar where there’s an industrial coffee-making machine. I worry it for a while and he stomps over and shows me how it works. ‘Thick.’

  Maybe I am.

  ‘Bar duty,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Bar duty. Not serving. Watching. Too naïve for door or VIP club. Maybe when I see how you do.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘You watch.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘What do bouncers watch for?’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Figured.’

  It’s half an hour until opening. I brew up a coffee. A couple of girls appear wearing so little that I can’t keep my eye on the job. They introduce themselves as Caroline and Nell. They don’t seem to be interested in the new boy. They start setting up the bar. I can’t see a cash register but I’m thinking this is not a cash club.

  Twenty minutes later a small alarm goes off. The girls straighten their hair and push the belts, which double as skirts, down a quarter of an inch. I drop down the spiral staircase to see the guests arrive.

  Nothing happens. The door doesn’t heave open and no thronging crowd fills the place. An hour crawls away and hangs itself before a man with the girth of the Louisiana Superdome walks in. He has four ladies in tow. None of them has less than five-inch heels. I climb back to my perch, not expecting the large man to make it up, but there’s an elevator in the corner disguised as a mirror and he emerges.

  He collapses on the nearest sofa, wet patches under his armpits despite the ice cold A/C. Caroline takes an order. She returns with two bottles of Krug in two silver ice buckets. The man pops one and pours for the girls. He opens the other one, grabbing a straw from the silver tray that the glasses sit on. He pushes the straw into the neck of the champagne and sucks.

  A hell of an expensive soda.

  The night is slow to build. I should have asked when my shift finished. I should have asked what the wages were. I know neither.

  *

  At two o’clock the place is gearing up to fly. There’s not a spare seat in the house. The dance floor is switched on and crammed. I can see why the A/C is so heavy – it has to fight hard to win in this atmosphere.

  No one is drinking the cheap stuff. Mainly because there is no cheap stuff. Payment is through a club card. No cash. Caroline and Nell have been joined by six others and, so far, I’ve done nothing but people watch.

  The elevator opens and a man in casual slacks and a polo shirt rolls in. I recognise his face from TV. Senator Bob Tampoline. The Tambourine Man. His surname having helped christen him when he took up a tambourine at his inauguration ball and joined in with the band. I saw it on the news.

  Some say his surname is made up. That he’s really called Bob Schmucker. Of course he denies it. An orphan. No mother or father save a note that said, The son of Mr and Mrs Tampoline. As if. But he’s done well on it. There are rumors that this is also a pile of horse shit. I don’t recognize the girl he’s with. I’m fairly sure there is a Mrs Tampoline back at the ranch. He squeezes through the crowd throwing a few nods and handshakes as he goes.

  The VIP room is at the far end of the bar and Clyde is on the door. He tilts his head at the senator as he vanishes inside. With no trouble on the horizon I walk up to Clyde. ‘Can I get ten minutes for some fresh air?’ I have to shout to be heard.

  He looks at his watch and nods. ‘Ten. No more. Go through the bar. Down the stairs. Out the back.’

  I thank him.

  ‘Figured,’ he says.

  The alley at the rear takes my head back to Charlie’s place. A fellow bouncer i
s dragging a cigarette to death next to the fire door.

  ‘Jools.’ He offers a hand.

  ‘Craig.’ I shake.

  ‘Quiet night.’

  ‘Club’s busy.’

  ‘Club’s quiet. Wait till ya get the weekend. That’s busy.’

  ‘Who owns the place?’

  ‘Mr White.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Rich and ya don’t ask questions like ‘who’s he?’’

  ‘OK. Can I ask about you?’

  ‘Sure. Born on Treasure Island. Live on Treasure Island. Went to school on Treasure Island. Had a job on Treasure Island. Got married on Treasure Island. Got divorced on Treasure Island. Ma’ and Da’ died on Treasure Island. You?’

  ‘Drifting. Always drifting.’ My mother’s face tries to take shape in my head. A fuzzy ball that has more to do with the one old photograph that used to sit in my wallet, than from any real memory.

  Jools speaks. ‘Where’s ya home?’

  My mother’s face fades. ‘Nowhere really. I’m from Springfield, New Jersey.’

  ‘The Simpsons.’ He sings the words.

  ‘Not the first time I’ve heard that.’

  He ignores the response. ‘Ma’ and Da’ from there?’

  ‘No. My dad was from Brooklyn and my mother was from Glasgow in Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland?’

  ‘I’ve never been. My mother came over when she was three.’

  ‘How did they die?’

  Odd question.

  ‘How did you know they were dead?’

  ‘I didn’t. Mine got hit by a train. Unmarked crossing. I was in the back of the car. Nine months old ya know. They tell me that the police photos show the car sliced in two but I’ve never wanted to see it. You?’

  ‘Complicated.’

  And it was. Very.

  ‘I got five minutes. Don’t ya?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Because I might have killed them. I look at his face in case I have just spoken out loud. ‘They died in a fire. Our house. OK?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He finishes the cigarette in silence, and waves as he goes back to work. I inhale the last dregs of the secondhand smoke. A familiar craving creeps over me. I gave up smoking the day I left Hatch Roll but I could slip back with such ease.