by Brent Pilkey
“I’m not sure anymore,” Taylor murmured.
“I’ve got it!” Amy waved her cigarette triumphantly. “So Rico, he says . . .”
“. . . that guy’s got an ass cute enough to fuck.” Rico was sitting at the bar, a greasy smile on his face. As greasy as the shit he had in his hair to keep it slicked back from his pimply forehead. No one at Filmore’s knew if his bad complexion was from the oil trickling out of his hair or the ’roids he injected into his ass.
Rico was lounging on a bar stool, propped up on his elbows, a beer beside him and that nasty grin on his face. He’d been bouncing at the club for a year now and in that time the number of police visits had increased dramatically. Rico liked to hurt people and believed anyone who deserved to be tossed out also deserved a little something extra. Usually it was an extra shot to the face or ribs, bad enough that a lot of the ejected guests called police. So far he had escaped charges, mainly because the complainants were drunk and didn’t make a good impression themselves. To date, all the incidents had been written off as vindictive drunks complaining about being tossed out.
But the other night, a guest’s arm had ended up broken and the boss had to do a lot of negotiating to smooth things out. Rico was officially on probation. Deprived of his usual victims, it seemed Rico was turning his attention to the new guy.
Amy was sitting with a couple of the other dancers and they all watched as the new guy — what was his name? Timmy, Tony? — slowly stood up, a dark look hardening his face.
“What did you say?” the new guy asked in a low voice that carried in the suddenly quiet room.
Don’t do it, guy, Amy silently pleaded. It ain’t worth it.
“I said your ass is cute enough to fuck,” Rico repeated, grinning happily. He slid off the bar stool. “You got a problem with that?”
The new guy strode over to Rico so that they were nose to nose, except Rico was about six inches taller so it was more like nose to chest. Rico smiled down at the smaller man. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”
Dancers and staff were hushed, waiting to see how the new guy would react. If he threw a punch over a mere taunt, he’d be seen as a hothead and it could cost him his job. But if he backed down . . . No one could afford to look cowardly when doing this job.
“If you’re a fag, Rico, I don’t give a fuck,” the new guy snarled. “Just keep your fucking hands and comments to yourself.”
Rico’s nasty smile melted into an ugly sneer. “I’m gonna fuck you up.” He reached for the smaller man, but the new guy ducked out of the way and smashed a hard fist into Rico’s ribs, hunching him over. Everyone watching oohed as Rico took an elbow to the face.
Rico staggered back then shook his head to clear it. Droplets of blood, dark crimson in the low light, splattered the floor. The big bouncer gingerly touched his lip, wincing as his fingers came away bloody.
“You’re fucking dead, asshole.”
Rico stalked the smaller man, jabbing and throwing looping punches, but the new guy kept ducking and weaving, letting the bigger man’s fists swing by. The staff cheered them on as if they were watching a professional boxing match. Every time Rico’s fist missed its target the small audience roared its approval.
In the end, it was a chair that decided the fight. As he sidestepped another wild punch, the new guy hit a chair and, for a split second, took his eyes off his opponent. Rico may not have been the most skilled fighter — he was an untrained brawler who relied on size and strength — but he could capitalize on an advantage when it was presented. His next punch landed flush on the new guy’s chin and knocked him sprawling over the chair.
Rico tossed the chair out of the way, hauled the smaller man to his feet and hurled him against the bar. The new guy’s back hit the bar just below the shoulders and his head snapped back violently. His knees buckled and he sagged, only one hand clasping the bar keeping him from falling.
Rico hit him one more time, a sharp blow to the temple. The new guy hit the floor hard and Rico walked away, satisfied. The room was quiet as the big man lifted his beer and took a careful swig around his cut lip.
“We ain’t finished.”
The words were faint but clear and Rico turned to see the new guy back on his feet, a little unsteady but with his fists raised.
“Whatever you say, punk.” Rico downed the last of his beer and advanced on his prey, rolling his shoulders. “I’m gonna enjoy this.”
“Rico, leave him alone,” Amy called out, a few others echoing her opinion.
Rico ignored them, his eyes fixed on the smaller man. This time it didn’t take as long or a chair for Rico to land a blow; the new guy was still reeling from the last punch. Rico pummelled the smaller man to the floor then yanked him upright, his fists entwined in the new guy’s shirt.
Rico stared at the man’s battered face with curiosity. “Was it worth it, asshole? Maybe I should have just fucked your ass. It wouldn’t have hurt as much.” He opened his hands and the new guy dropped to the floor, as limp as a broken doll.
Rico wandered back to the bar, slowly flexing one of his hands. “Hey, Jimmy,” he called to one of the bartenders. “You got any ice back there? I think I broke my fucking hand on his head.”
“Never . . . again.” Unbelievably, the new guy was pushing himself back to his feet. One eye was already swollen closed and blood from his nose and mouth smeared his chin. But as punished as his body was, his one eye blazed with an indomitable fury. “Never . . . fucking again.”
“You gotta be kidding me.” Rico stared in disbelief then shrugged as if to say What can you do? and pushed away from the bar.
“No. That’s enough.” Gregory and some others stepped between the combatants. “He’s had enough, Rico.”
“Fine by me.” Rico didn’t seem overly concerned that the fight was over; he was looking rather winded from the beating he had administered. “Just tell that punk to keep . . .”
“. . . keep his mouth shut,” Amy finished. “That’s when we started calling him Rocky.”
Sandra looked at the other stripper, puzzled. “I don’t get it.”
“He kept getting up,” Amy explained. “Like that Rocky guy in the movies.”
“Oh, I get it now.” Sandra inspected Taylor’s face. “You healed up pretty well.”
“I’m a fast healer,” Taylor offered, needing to say something with Sandra so uncomfortably close.
“You must be,” she agreed, drawing her finger along his strong jaw. “Rocky, huh?”
“Yeah, but I don’t like it.”
A car pulled to the curb and Amy squealed, “My baby’s here, Sandra. Time to go,” breaking the silence that had started to grow between Taylor and Sandra.
Sandra stepped back from the bouncer, smiling a secret little smile. “See you tomorrow, Taylor.” She climbed into the car after Amy, waving good night.
Taylor lifted a hand in return then dropped it as the car accelerated down Dundas Street.
Don’t go there, he reproached himself. Don’t you fucking dare.
“You’re an asshole. You know that, don’t you?”
“Are you going to be this nice all night?” Jack asked as he tossed his duty bag and hat into the cruiser’s trunk. He slammed the trunk and glared at Connor. “’Cause if you are, I’m warning you: I’ve got a headache, my ribs still hurt like a fucking bitch and my wife gave me the silent treatment all day.”
Connor pouted at Jack over the roof of the car. “Big deal. I had nightmares because of you.”
Jack slid into the passenger seat and powered up the workstation. “You’re dreaming about me now?”
Connor’s face screwed up. “Yuck. You wish. No, asshole, because you sicced those fags on me yesterday, that’s why. You know you had the keys so I couldn’t roll my window up?”
Jack snickered. “Yeah, I guess I did have them. Sorry, force of
habit.”
“Yeah, right.” Connor started up the car, muttering, “Asshole.”
Jack almost smiled. Karen had ignored him when he got up and while he was showering she had left to meet her parents for brunch. And she hadn’t returned by the time he left for work.
“Jenny wasn’t on parade,” Connor commented as he fiddled with the AC vents. “That must have been one hell of a bachelorette party.”
“I guess.” Jack had been disappointed to see Jenny’s usual seat vacant during parade. But then again, maybe working with the woman my wife hates isn’t such a great idea.
“5106, just signed on,” the dispatcher called to them. “Are you still at the station?”
“Just leaving the lot. What can we do for you?” Jack released the mike key. “Saturday night in July. Bet we’re gonna be busy.”
“Let me see . . .” the dispatcher dithered, most likely scanning a lengthy list of pending calls. “5106, in your area, Moss Park. See the complainant by the baseball diamond. Threatening to overdose, no further details. cit attending. Time, 1747.”
“And awaaaay we go!” Connor chimed. He turned onto Shuter Street and goosed the car through the yellow light at Parliament Street.
Moss Park was a neighbourhood stretching from Parliament Street in the east to its western boundary of Jarvis Street with apartment buildings, the Salvation Army hostel and stores occupying the east end. The actual park was in the west half, unfurled between the community centre and the Canadian Forces armoury building. Not surprisingly, the police didn’t get many calls at the armoury.
A white Crown Victoria was parked on Shuter Street by the baseball diamond. Instead of parking next to the unmarked police car, Connor bounced the scout car over the curb and sidewalk to park by the bleachers. A small group of three people watched as the uniformed officers stepped out into the heat. Jack recognized two of them.
Sue Dennis, a pw with vibrant crimson hair tied back in a loose ponytail, was dressed in the Crisis Intervention Team’s semi-plainclothes uniform: police T-shirt and gun belt, jeans and running shoes. She was standing off to the side, a bored expression on her sulking face.
The Crisis Intervention Team, a relatively recent addition to the division, paired a copper with a mental-health nurse from St. Michael’s Hospital to respond to calls involving the mentally ill. The modified uniform was to alleviate any anxiety or stress with the team’s “clients.”
Aaron Wallace was a smaller version of Manny: shaved head, goatee, but not quite as stocky. Although he was equipped with a ballistic vest, his black T-shirt said CRISIS TEAM and he wasn’t wearing a gun belt.
Aaron was talking with a red-headed runt, but Jack ignored the runt and introduced himself to the nurse. “We met up in 53 and you tore a strip off my ass for the way I handled a depressed, suicidal male.”
“I remember that,” Aaron said. He leaned to the side, peering at Jack’s butt. “Your ass seems to have recovered.”
Jack laughed. “It has.”
“So you’re down here now?”
“Back where I belong, more like it. Let’s just say my time in 53 was a boring, temporary layover.”
Aaron pointed at the scar running through Jack’s right eyebrow. “Brought back a memento, I see.”
“Yeah. Messed up at another EDP call. Learned my lesson, though. What have we got here?”
Aaron sighed. “A pain in the ass.”
The ass pain was a few inches over five feet and weighed maybe a buck twenty with hair like a clown’s red wig. All he needed was a red ball on his nose, but Jack doubted one would fit on a snout that twisted and busted.
“I’m gonna kill myself,” Ass Pain declared.
“We could only be so lucky,” Aaron griped. To Jack and Connor, he said, “This is Joey Horner. He threatens to kill himself about once a week, more if he’s done something illegal. This is the third time we’ve dealt with him since Thursday and I’m getting ready to kill him myself.”
“He nuts?” Connor asked.
“Not really,” Aaron assessed. “More like a personality disorder: he’s an asshole.”
Connor laughed. “Gotcha.”
“I’m not an asshole,” Horner cried. “I’m gonna steal a bottle of Tylenol and take all of it.”
“Make sure you grab a big bottle,” Aaron murmured under his breath. Louder, he said, “Joey, I know you’re not going to kill yourself. You know you’re not going to kill yourself. If you want a ride to the hospital —” Horner’s face perked up “— jump on a bus.”
Dejected, Horner stood his ground. “You can’t leave me; you’re a nurse.”
“Joey, I get paid to help sick people,” Aaron said through clenched teeth. “And you’re not sick.”
“You have to take me to the hospital.” Horner sucked in a breath to carry on his tirade but Jack grabbed his arm, pulling him away from the frustrated nurse.
“Come and have a talk with me, Joey.” As he dragged Horner out of earshot, the little man continued to demand a ride to the hospital.
“You’re the police,” he informed Jack and jabbed his finger at the scout car. “‘To Serve and Protect.’ That’s what it says so you have to take me to the hos —”
“Do you have a dog?” Jack’s quiet question cut Horner off in mid-rant.
“I used to,” he replied slowly, suspiciously eying Jack. “But some asshole —” Horner stopped abruptly, truly seeing who was standing in front of him.
Jack smiled. He knew what it did to the eyebrow scar. “Glad to hear you don’t.” He pulled Horner in close. “Remember, I catch you with another dog and you’ll be lucky if the hospital is where you need to go. We understand each other? Good. Now fuck off.”
Horner scurried away, never taking his eyes off Jack. Only when he was a safe distance away did his courage reassert itself.
“Fuck you!” he screamed and gave Jack double fingers.
Jack jerked as if he meant to chase Horner and the little man bolted in terror. Jack watched, amused, till Horner disappeared around the community centre.
Too bad he didn’t run into a tree. That would have been classic.
Aaron was nodding in approval. “That was pretty cool. It would’ve been better if he’d turned around and run into a tree or something. What did you say to him?”
“Just reminded him of something,” Jack replied vaguely. “I’ll tell you another time. Will he really chug a bottle of Tylenol?”
Aaron shrugged. “I doubt it. Every time I see him he says he’s going to overdose. But even if he does, it won’t kill him. If he takes enough Tylenol, long enough, it’ll rot his liver but that’s about all.”
Jack cocked his head at Sue as she giggled with Connor. “What happened to the copper you usually ride with?”
“Holidays.” Aaron scowled. “I’m stuck with her for the rest of the week. Hey! You obviously have a certain way with people. Maybe you should sub next time.”
“Hm. Maybe I will. I like the uniform. Come on, Pest!” he hollered over his shoulder. “Time to get back to work.”
Lying on the south side of Dundas Street just a stone’s throw east of Filmore’s was a forgotten parking lot, its surface a ragged, heaving mix of hard-packed earth and tired asphalt. The tiny lot held only three cars, two of them junkers that were slowly rusting into the ground and a Corvette, its black paint so new it gleamed in the feeble starlight.
Taylor ignored the wrecks, headed for the Vette and climbed in the passenger side.
“’Bout time, man. I was starting to think you weren’t gonna show.”
“The boss held us all back for a meeting,” Taylor explained, not wanting to go into detail.
“I hated it when that prick did that.” A lighter flared, casting Rico’s face in an orange glow as he puffed his cigarette to life. “Leaving that place was the best thing I ever done.”<
br />
You say that like you quit and weren’t fired.
“Am I right?” Rico cuffed Taylor on the shoulder.
“Absolutely,” Taylor said, gazing out the windshield. He wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat, especially with a moron like Rico. Let’s just get this done so I can go the fuck home.
But Rico was in a happy, chatty mood, which was unusual for the big bodybuilder. “Damn fucking right it was a good move. Gave me time to concentrate on my business.” He spread his arms expansively to encompass the car’s interior. “What do you think of my new baby?”
“I thought you just got a new paint job.” Taylor made a show of appreciating the ego extension he was sitting in. “Why’d you buy a new one?”
“Because I can, man! Shit, the other one was last year’s model. Old. Time to upgrade.” Rico dragged on his cigarette. He blew the smoke out through a crazy grin. “And I got the cash now, man, so why the fuck not?”
An uneasy quiver danced down Taylor’s spine. Rico wasn’t just in a good mood, he was downright cheerful and that made Taylor nervous. He knew Rico dealt in more than steroids and other illegal performance enhancers, but was the former bouncer sampling some of his own product?
“Yeah, I got some new customers now.” Rico flicked his butt out the window. “They want quality, so they come to me and the cash is fucking rolling in.”
Taylor nodded, not knowing what else to do.
“Lighten up, man.” Rico cuffed him again then grabbed Taylor’s shoulder. “You’re putting on some size, man. Lemme see the guns. C’mon, man, show me.”
Taylor obediently flexed his bicep, the paper-thin skin wrapping tightly around the hard muscle.
Rico nodded appreciatively. “Good definition, man. Good size. I mean, you won’t ever be as big as me but not bad.”
Taylor shrugged. “Haven’t got the genetics for that size.”
Rico snorted. “Right. The genetics.”
Taylor shot Rico a look. What the fuck was going on? Normally Taylor passed Rico the money in exchange for a new supply and Taylor was on his way.