Secret Rage

by Brent Pilkey

  She smiled at him, embarrassed, and he felt that familiar flutter in his stomach. The same one he got whenever she smiled at him.

  Man, I’ve got it bad.

  “This is going to sound stupid, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “Well, you have gotten bigger since last summer, and when that troll guy was challenging you, you suddenly changed. Like you wanted him to fight, wanted to hurt him. And like Connor said, the guy backed down. He saw it in your eyes and he didn’t want any part of it.”

  “And you were thinking ’roid rage, right?”

  “I guess,” she confessed.

  “Well, don’t worry, I’m clean.” He tugged up the short sleeves of the black uniform shirt and held his arms out for inspection. “See? Some veins but no needle marks. No ’roid rage, just stress.”

  “Over what?” She put her duty bag down and set her butt against the car Jack was resting on.

  “Don’t you have a party to go to?”

  “It can wait.” She crossed her arms and Jack could tell from the tilt of her head there’d be no dissuading her.

  Jack looked up at the darkening sky, drank in a deep breath. The excessive heat and humidity had fled with the sun and the evening air felt almost cool in comparison.

  “The usual shit, I guess,” he owned up. “Months of waiting to see if the SIU was going to charge me or not, then to find out through the news. When I got home last night, Karen and I had a fight about me going back on the road. Did I tell you she’d known I was cleared since the early afternoon? Yup, her mother read it in the paper and called her.”

  “She didn’t call you at the station?” Jenny asked, shocked.

  “Nope. Guess she and her mother were too busy planning their next move on how to get me to quit.”

  “I guess they’ve given up on the baby idea?” Jack had kept Jenny well informed on the tribulations in the Warren household. Sometimes she seemed the only thing that kept him sane.

  “We’re back to using condoms. Or we would be,” he corrected, “but we haven’t had sex since the whole Kayne thing.”

  “Ouch.” She was silent for a minute, feeling his frustration. “Getting many headaches?”

  Jack laughed without humour. “Only one, but it’s lasted since Kayne hit the bottom of Rosedale Valley.”

  Jenny’s eyes widened in alarm. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  He shook his head, forcing a smile. “No, but I get one so often now it seems like just one big headache.”

  “Migraines or headaches?”

  “The odd migraine. Mostly tension headaches, though. Not surprising, I guess.” Jack figured there was no need to worry Jenny with the truth, that the migraines, once a monthly occurrence, were now pretty much weekly. He was downing his prescription medication like it was candy.

  “How’s Justice?”

  Jack immediately brightened. “He’s doing great. You won’t recognize him. He’s put on weight, his coat looks good and he’s growing like mad. I bet he puts on another ten or twenty pounds as he fills out. I’ll tell you, Jenny, I’m so happy I found him. Sometimes, when things are really bad between Karen and me, he’s the only reason I go home.”

  “You have to try and fix that. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.” He rubbed his face, suddenly tired. “I just don’t know how.”

  “Well, I’m here for you. If you need an ear or a shoulder, let me know.” She kissed his cheek and was it Jack’s imagination or did her lips linger longer than a friendly smooch required?

  “Aha!” Connor cried triumphantly. “I knew there was something between you two.”

  Jack groaned. “Jenny, you’ve met my sidekick, right? I call him Pest.”

  “The new dancer’s pretty good, eh, Taylor?”

  Taylor watched the woman on stage as she spun inverted on the stripper pole. “Sure,” he replied noncommittally. “If you like blondes with long legs and nice tits.”

  Gregory laughed. “Yeah, and you don’t.” He slapped Taylor on the back.

  The dancer finished her set to healthy applause. Filmore’s was busy tonight. Taylor figured it had more to do with the air conditioning than the girls. He wasn’t looking forward to trying to sleep with his shitty little window AC unit.

  Give us a few months and we’ll be bitching about the cold.

  The two bouncers stood near the entrance, their black golf shirts meshing with the shadows and dim lighting, keeping them from the eyes and minds of the patrons. No one watching nude women liked having a hulking doorman looming close by, but the bouncers were always close enough for the times someone forgot about them entirely.

  His colleague tapped Taylor on the shoulder. “I gotta take a leak,” he told Taylor, leaning close to be heard over the music. “You got this?”

  Taylor gave him a confident nod and the large bodybuilder ambled toward the back. Alone, Taylor felt bigger. At five-nine, he was by far the shortest man on the strip club’s security force. Most of the other doormen could quiet rising trouble simply by stepping close, reminding patrons that there were rules even where there were no clothes. But in his three months at the club, Taylor had only resorted to force a handful of times despite his diminutive stature. Although short — by bouncer standards, at least — he carried enough muscle, clearly evident in the snug shirt, to give most troublemakers second thoughts and he had a way of speaking, when needed, that his co-workers called his “assassin voice.” It was a tone that said, “If I have to fuck you up, I will, and I will do an extremely good job of it.” More than one drunk had sobered up when Taylor had whispered in his ear.

  But being the smallest was nothing new for him. Throughout high school he had been the small one, slender of build, and had to constantly prove himself to his teammates, the coaches, his father. Always his father.

  You’re not good enough, boy! You play like a girl. You’re useless.

  Taylor chased away his father’s ghost as the new dancer, Chantelle — not her real name, of course; any dancer with half a brain used a stage name — wandered over, a red silk scarf wound interestingly about her lithe figure. Hired just a week ago, she no longer wobbled in her stilettos. With the four-inch spikes, she met him on eye level.

  “Hey, Taylor, what did you think of my routine?”

  “Real good, Sandra,” he said, using her real name only after confirming no guests were close enough to hear. “You’re working that pole like a gymnast.”

  She smiled and Taylor could tell it was genuine from the way her eyes lit up. A dancer’s emotions rarely reached her eyes when she was smiling for a patron.

  “Thanks.” She gave his hand a quick squeeze before strolling away, her hips rolling seductively. She glanced over her shoulder to see if he was watching. He was.

  “She’s got the hots for you, man,” Gregory said, back from his restroom break.

  “I thought the dancers were off limits for us.”

  “Technically, they are, but the boss man don’t care as long as you keep it off the floor and it doesn’t get in the way of anyone working.”

  Taylor nodded, searching for Sandra, but the club had swallowed her from sight. “Thanks again for loaning me your car last night.”

  “Anytime, man. You sticking around for a drink after closing?” Gregory was an easygoing guy but he talked too much and asked way too many questions.

  Taylor shook his head. “I’m gonna head home, try and get some sleep before the sun comes up.”

  “I hear that,” Gregory said over the music then, miraculously, fell silent. Taylor took the opportunity to sidle away. He was feeling good tonight, calm, at ease with himself.

  It pays to vent once in a while. Now if his knuckles would just stop aching.

  “Are you saying you never go shopping in uniform?” Connor was flabbergasted.

 
“I’m not going to walk around a grocery store in uniform. Are you nuts?”

  “Not grocery shopping, you moron.” Connor shook his head at Jack’s stupidity. “Electronics. Appliances. Cars. You’ve never shopped for anything like that while you’re working?”

  “Nope,” Jack confessed, not bothered by Connor’s animated disbelief. He swung the scout car onto Jarvis Street. Connor had gladly handed over the steering wheel when Jack had asked to drive. “This uniform attracts enough attention as it is. I don’t need it while I’m shopping.”

  “And paying full price.” He wagged his head sadly. “Jack, Jack, Jack. The uniform is an automatic discount in the right places. And a chick magnet.” Connor looked at Jack, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re not one of those, are you?”

  “One of what? Gay? Come on, you’re the one telling me I’m banging Jenny all the time.”

  “Ah, sweet, sweet Jenny.” Connor crooned, smacking his lips.

  “You sound like Taftmore,” Jack observed.

  “Who’s that?”

  “A guy up in Major Crime. He has the hots for Jenny, too. But —” Jack threw up a cautionary hand “— before you take any pointers from him, ask him how he ended up with a chair in his balls at a search warrant briefing.”

  Connor cringed. “Ouch. But I didn’t mean a fag, dope, although that would be pretty fucking bad, too. Yuck.” He shivered. “I meant one of those happily married suckers.”

  “Yeah, I am,” Jack said defensively, then muttered, “most of the time.”

  “I heard that.” Connor laughed self-righteously. “I don’t know why guys get married but I’m glad they do. Wanna know why?”

  “Not really,” Jack sighed. “But I imagine you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “Bud, I only date married women. It’s fucking awesome. Find a woman who’s been married for a while. Hubby’s packed on a few pounds, got the old beer gut going and pays more attention to football on TV than he does her. Bud, women like that are just dying for some loving and that’s where I come in. I may not be as big as you or Townsend, but the ladies dig the six-pack.” He patted his flat stomach through his Kevlar vest. “No strings, just fucking. Married women, bud. You gotta try it.”

  “No thanks. I’ve got enough trouble with one married woman right now.”

  “More for me, then.” Pest sighed happily. “I tell you, bud, I was made for married women. If the uniform doesn’t get them, the bod does, and with this complexion —” he appreciatively caressed his tanned cheek “— I can be anything from Asian to Latino or Hawaiian. I’m a walking fantasy factory.”

  “Latino? Really?”

  “Hey, we’re not talking rocket scientists, you know.”

  Finished gloating, Connor fell silent and Jack was willing to let the conversation rest. Connor was a decent guy and a good cop but he sure liked to talk, primarily about sex. Who he was having sex with, who he wanted to have sex with and what he liked to do when having sex. Jack wasn’t really that keen on knowing the intimate details of Pest’s latest conquest. They drove in silence until Jack turned off Jarvis Street onto Wellesley Street.

  “Whoa!” Connor shouted, straightening up so fast he almost brained himself on the roof. “You’re not going there, are you?”

  “Where?” Jack glanced at Connor, puzzled.

  “The fag coffee shop. We can’t go there,” he protested. “I heard they jerk off into the coffee.”

  “Listen,” Jack explained patiently. “We almost got stomped into hamburger a little while ago and the night’s just half over. The Second Cup is the only place I can get honey in my tea.”

  Connor drew back, eyeing Jack distrustfully. “You sure you ain’t a fag?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Jack knew Pest was only teasing — at least he was pretty sure he was — but he was getting irritated nonetheless.

  Connor pointed his crossed index fingers at Jack. “Back, foul beast.”

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  The Second Cup at Church and Wellesley streets was a bit of an iconic institution in the heart of Gaytown, also called “the village.” Manny had taken Jack there last summer and he’d been a regular customer since.

  Jack pulled to the curb in front of the coffee shop. “What do you want?”

  Connor crossed his arms defiantly. “I’m not going in there.”

  “Oh, for . . .” Jack rubbed his right eye. He could feel a migraine stirring behind it. “I’ll go in. What do you want?”

  “I don’t want anything from there.” Pest pouted and clamped his arms tighter around his chest. After a few moments of sulking, he turned to Jack. “Fine. I’ll have a coffee.”

  “Finally.”

  As Jack got out of the car, Connor told him, “If you get raped in there, it’s not my fault.”

  “I bloody don’t believe it,” Jack grumbled as he crossed behind the scout car.

  The short climb of steps from the sidewalk to the front door was a local hangout sensibly known as The Steps, and on this sultry evening they were well occupied. As Jack mounted the steps three gentlemen, rather flamboyant in their shorts and mesh T-shirts, watched him warily. Police — especially 51 coppers — didn’t have the greatest reputation in the village.

  “He’s afraid to go in there, isn’t he?” one of them asked, gesturing to Connor, who was rigidly staring out the windshield.

  Pest’s window was down and Jack had the keys. “Yeah, he is,” Jack confirmed. “Why don’t you go down there and talk to him?”

  A huge grin broke over the man’s face. “Let’s go, boys!” he cried and the small troop flounced down the steps to descend on a helpless Connor. There was nothing like a homophobic cop to bring out the gay in some people.

  As he opened the coffee shop’s door, Jack thought he heard Connor whimpering.

  Saturday, 21 July

  0145 hours

  Sandra swayed off the stage to raucous applause. Last call had been announced prior to her set and soon would begin the task of ushering all the guests out the doors. Taylor wanted a quick look around for any potential problems: a table with a reserve of untouched drinks hoarded at last call, mean drunks itching for a brawl, or worse, the sober ones looking to scrap. All appeared calm, the most activity coming from the dancers as they escorted guests to the back for a final lap dance.

  Taylor caught sight of Sandra as she weaved between the tables, stopping to chat and flirt, working the floor like a seasoned pro. She passed a table holding a lone drinker and the man grabbed her ass as she walked by. Sandra spun around and Taylor watched approvingly as she smothered the flare of anger in her eyes and slipped a smile onto her lips.

  “Looking’s free,” she corrected the man. “Touching costs you a bit more.”

  The man lurched drunkenly to his feet, his hands pawing for the dancer. Sandra skittered out of reach just as Taylor slid in beside the man, grasping his wrist and neck. The drunk suddenly found himself face down in his own beer with his arm twisted up painfully behind his back.

  Taylor leaned in to speak softly into the man’s ear. “Calm down or I’ll snap your arm,” he informed the man pleasantly, giving the trapped arm an extra tug for emphasis. “It’s time for you to leave now.”

  Taylor hauled the man upright and walked him to the door, Gregory and another bouncer silently falling in alongside. Gregory opened the inner door for Taylor and his charge but Taylor opened the outer door with the man’s face. Taylor shoved him onto the sidewalk with the simple warning, “Get going and stay gone.”

  The man was staggering erect as Taylor closed the door on him. “Idiot,” Taylor muttered, taking up his position by the door once more. Gregory flanked Taylor on the opposite side of the door, and patrons passed between them on the beginning of their journeys home. When all but the stragglers were gone, Sandra cuddled up next to Taylor.

/>   “Thanks again,” she whispered. “That guy really frightened me.”

  “Just a drunk,” Taylor dismissed. “Do you have a ride home? You know, just in case he’s still hanging around outside.”

  She nodded. “I’m getting a lift with Amy and her boyfriend.”

  “Good.” Taylor kept his eyes on the last of the guests as they shuffled out. “I’ll wait with you till he gets here.”

  The air outside was thick, damp. It was hard to believe dawn was just a few hours away. Taylor, with a white tee in lieu of the club’s black, stood on the sidewalk with Sandra and Amy, a leggy black girl, waiting for Amy’s ride.

  Amy was wearing a red miniskirt and matching halter, bought small to show off the breasts she had recently purchased. Sandra was more conservative with denim cut-offs and a T-shirt. Looking at them, Taylor had to fight to keep his face neutral.

  Sandra caught him looking. “Do you think I should get a boob job? Amy gets more dances now.”

  Taylor shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m not much of a boob man.”

  Sandra giggled. “God, I hope you’re not gay.” Her hand flew to her mouth in embarrassment when Taylor’s face went stony. “Oh my God, you are gay. I’m so sorry.”

  Taylor’s stomach churned unpleasantly but before he had to answer, Amy broke in, laughing a high, edgy snicker. “Him, gay? I don’t think so, girl. No fag could take what he took from Rico.”

  “What’s that?” Sandra asked, eying the tall dancer.

  “Haven’t you heard that story? It’s crazy.” Amy paused to light a cigarette. “It happened . . . what? Two, three months ago?” she asked Taylor as she tucked her lighter away into her tiny purse.

  “Two,” Taylor said unhappily, but Amy was already pushing ahead with the tale.

  “It was one night after closing and a bunch of us were hanging around, you know, just having a couple of drinks before heading home.” Amy dragged on her butt. Blowing smoke into the hot air, she dove into the story. “Taylor had just started working here and there was this other doorman, Rico, a real asshole. And he, Rico, says to Taylor . . . What did he say to you, hon?”