Quintic

by V. P. Trick

  Her friend had graduated from the sit-drink-beer-look-at-the-girl’s-tits-and-ass class. He had yet to do schoolwork on the lap dance, but she was so not buying him one. She might do some foolish, even scary things for research, but lap dancing was a hard limit. As were prostitution and murder. Until tonight. Had she not promised herself to pack a gun for their next encounter? Or a bazooka. For sure Scar was carrying a gun or two, so a judge might rule her attack as self-defense, could he not?

  A stroll to the bathroom without the cap and jacket was all that she needed to do to let the asshole take a good look. Let him see and remember. Would he? On her last visit here, she would have bet on a no. Tonight? He might not recall her face, not at first; he had not looked at her face all that much back then, only long enough to make sure she was afraid. He had frightened her. Then, he had angered her. He and Joshua. When she got scared, really scared, she got angry. Raving mad. She always reacted like that, didn’t she? Defence mechanism.

  He had not seen her coming; the jerk hadn’t been ogling her face then. And there he was again. And there she was again! Fear had seized her, but now her anger grew. Into panic. Into rage. Pure. Blind.

  Keeping the cap, the jacket, the collar, she headed for the toilets. In her last four days of strip club hopping, she had not once gone to the ladies’ room. When needed, she used the gas station toilets in-between clubs. In the corner of her eye, she saw Charles’s startled frown, but she marched on. She felt Charles jumped up, but her feet kept on moving her forward. She couldn’t take her eyes off the scar.

  Charles trailed behind her. What was it with cops on that team, always following her two steps too close? When she was just about level with the scar, the jerk’s eyes faced her way, his leer detailing her up and down casually. Not a blink of recognition. His gaze went back to the dancer.

  She strode right behind him, almost passed him, a step, two steps, but at the last second, she whipped around and pushed Charles back out of the way. Her movement came too blunt, and she caught Charles by surprise. He crashed back into some guy coming their way. The guy, a big beard guy, sent Charles back her way. To steady himself, Charles gripped the scarred bastard’s table, rattling it, knocking down Scar’s and his buddy’s bottles. Buddy got up, grabbed Charles, and tried to punch him.

  Their first club fight scenario kaleidoscoped itself in her mind. Charles was with the programme tonight, though. He ducked, and the buddy’s fist ended up in the beard guy’s face, not hard but insulting. Beard charged. Scar jumped in.

  It all happened so fast; she hadn’t stepped away from Scar’s back yet. As the salaud got up, her first instinct was to take a step back. Fear. Then, action-reaction, anger kicked in. She lunged forward, fisted his beer bottle by the neck and smashed it into the back of Scar’s head. She swung again angrily; Scar ungracefully dropped to the floor. She kicked him. No more thinking. Her boots hammered his back, his ribs over and over again. Turn around, salaud. Look at me. She ached to kick his face. His groin.

  Buddy aimed at her. Charles threw himself in between. Two against one. Beard in for himself and Scar out for the count, that made her and Charles two against one against one.

  Four cops invaded the club. Then two more. And two more. More still. One of them got hold of her. Everything went black.

  Her Plan

  She heard noises.

  Que c’est bruyant!

  The noises turned into voices. Angry voices. Arguing. Yelling.

  Qu’ils sont bruyants!

  Was she having a bad dream? She didn’t dare open her eyes, though; the voices might get worse. She remained immobile, eyes closed.

  A voice seemed familiar. Somewhere close by, it called her name. Sorry, I’m sleeping.

  The voice grew worried. More yelling. Damn, now she too was worried. Did she need to open her eyes to make the yelling stop? Another voice. Irritation laced the noise, yet the tone came calm, soothing almost. It too called her name.

  Merde, mais taisez-vous! The voice grumbled; she knew that voice. Please, speak amongst yourselves and pretend I’m not here.

  The floor was cold. Hard. Uncomfortable. Something touched her shoulder. A hand? Il est où le salaud? She didn’t want anyone to touch her, not with Scar around. Where was he? She shouldn’t be lying down. Not when le salopard might be near. The fear cut through her foggy head. She needed to get up.

  She opened her eyes and pushed off the floor. Bolted. Too fast. She went down but surprisingly gently. Hands under her armpits slowed her fall. Charles. She wanted to throw up. Normal reaction considering, wasn’t it?

  She swayed on her knees, one steadying hand on the floor because the room spun. Charles didn’t let go of her arm.

  “You’re going to be all right. Just breathe, Patricia. You’re going to be fine. That’s a girl. Breathe. Everything’s going to be fine,” he repeated over and over.

  Mais qu’est-ce qu’il en sait? What the hell did he know? Where the heck was Scarface?

  She recognised the other voice in her dream, Not-so-dumb, as he took her other arm, “Up you go, sweetie. We’re going to check you out. We’ve an ambulance waiting for you.”

  “Non. No, no way. I’m fine. Truly.” Someone must have knocked her lights out. As she had the scarred jerk. The thought made her so happy that she giggled. Good for him. Maybe she had killed him. Her chuckles intensified, no regrets there. “What the heck happened?” She managed to ask in-between hiccups of glee.

  “Not much. The cops broke the fight. Stun-gunned you.” Bummer.

  “What happened to our, hum, attackers?”

  Not-so-dumb lifted an eyebrow at her question. “A guy’s en route to the hospital, and I’ve got two under arrest. They’re cooling off in police squad cars outside. As for you two−” Not-so-dumb shrugged. Universal police sign language meaning anything from, “We’ll see,” to, “You’re going to the loony bin,” to, “Let’s do this again sometime,” to, “We’re about to cuff you unless−”

  “Stop frowning, you’ll get wrinkles, Patricia,” Not-so-dumb said instead. “Come on. The tech will examine you, and we take it from there.”

  “Okeydokey.” She focused on Charles. His lower lip was swollen, so was his left cheek to his eye; blood smeared his knuckles and shirt. “Are you OK, Charles sweetie?” Her voice was breathy.

  “Yes.” He smiled, adding, “You should see the other guys.” Guys. Plural. Lame but cute. At that moment, his eyes had the same gleam as Christopher and Hamilton. He was a mess nevertheless.

  She sighed. No doubt she didn’t look any better.

  “Patricia, stop stalling. Ambulance’s that way.” Not-so-dumb urged, true to his name.

  “Let me give you a hint, Officer.” She glared at him. “If the victim can walk to the ambulance, then the victim doesn’t need the ambulance.” She didn’t want to go to the hospital.

  “Let me give you a hint, Babe sweetie. If the victim can smart-mouth the cops, then maybe the victim’s well enough for a trip to the police station.”

  Good point. She didn’t want to go to the police station either.

  “Like I already explained, Steve, it’s all a misunderstanding. I bumped into the guy−” Not knowing why she had shoved him back, Charles’s explaining was a little shaky.

  Not-so-dumb insisted on sending her to the hospital nonetheless. When the arresting officer came to join them, he insisted on arresting them. Christopher arrived at this point. She glanced at the tightly set jaws, the clenched fists, the half-smoked cigarette he was crushing between his fingers; she looked away. The Big guy was beyond angry.

  When he came to stand next to her, Charles straightened his stance. So did Not-so-dumb Steve. She didn’t, suddenly too exhausted. As her eyes grew moist, she decided to concentrate on holding back her the tears. She had expected the waterworks. Scared, then angry, then exhausted and sad was a typical chain reaction for her when under stress. She usually managed to hold the last for when she was alone, though, but maybe not this time. They nee
ded to hurry.

  Christopher didn’t hug, hold, or speak to her. He chatted with the arresting officers. He yapped to Steve-not-so-dumb. He lectured Charles. When everyone agreed on whatever they had discussed while she was silently going into shock, Christopher gestured her to the door, and once outside, to his truck, all without a single word or a comforting caress. Charles helped her sit in the back of Christopher’s vehicle before sitting with the Big guy in front for a silent ride.

  She sighed and closed her eyes when she saw the red emergency entrance sign. Steve had arrived ahead, and a nurse was expecting them. Two minutes after their arrival, the nurse ushered her into an examination room where a doctor was waiting. How ridiculous. Charles was the one who had stopped the punches. She only sported a few bruises, mostly to her feet. Her sore shoulder might be acting up again, but ice would take care of that ache once she got to her hotel. She had a nasty-looking red welt where the stun gun had hit and contusions from her fall to the floor.

  She tried to escape the good doctor. “All in all, I’m in good shape.” Physically. “No need to make a fuss.”

  The annoying doctor probed, cleaned and creamed her nevertheless before the nurse brought her back to the waiting room. Charles had also been patched up. She found it ironic that Steve and the arresting officer released them into Christopher’s custody. Again.

  Christopher drove back to the club so Charles could get his car back. Déjà vu. After that, they rode just the two of them back to her place. She anticipated the impossible man was going to drop her, alone, in front of the hotel and drive away. He was beyond mad. He drove without glancing her way. He drove and smoked while she felt miserable.

  The tears were threatening to spill over, but she didn’t want to cry in front of him. Her stupid idea! She was going to take whatever consequences came her way as a man. Even if she didn’t feel like a man anymore. Even with the stupid jacket and ball cap. Why couldn’t he drive faster? The streets were empty at this hour. She wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears much longer.

  He parked in front of the hotel and sat there. Damn child safety lock, he had to open her door from the outside, what was he waiting for?! She waited. Breathe. And waited. Don’t think. Finally, he got out and rounded the car. As soon as he opened her door, she jumped out and ran, through the front door, the lobby, up the stairs, to her room. Her hands were shaking so much she had trouble putting the card key in, had to hold it with both hands. All she wanted was to get in and lock the door, lock herself in.

  The locks didn’t make much difference, though. Christopher would bypass them if he wanted to, but right now she was sure he didn’t wish to see her. His anger had been oozing into the car. The way he drove, smoothly but with his knuckles white as he gripped the wheel, betrayed his thinning control. The more pissed he was, the less he cursed, questioned, yelled. He had been utterly impassive since the club. He had stopped smoking midway. That told he was way beyond smoking.

  I will not cry. That thought was all she had focused on during the ride. I will not cry in front of Christopher. When, finally, she managed to unlock her door, she lurched forward, the tears already rolling down her cheeks. She ran straight to her bed and, jacket, cap and shoes on, ducked under the covers. The night had been horrific. And scary. So crazy. Although, as afraid as she had been, the night was still a half-success. She had sent the bastard to the floor!

  “That man that was admitted earlier, the big bald guy with the scars, he’s not too badly hurt, is he?” She had asked the nurse.

  “Slight concussion, cuts from the bottle, bruising on his back.” Patricia had almost smiled at the nurse listed the bastard’s injuries. “Don’t worry, Miss, he sustained no serious damage. Fat’s a good cushion in fights.”

  Damn. The shoes she was wearing were soft-soled espadrilles, too damn soft. Maudit!

  “I believe he’s already been released,” the nurse had added.

  The nurse’s words had not surprised her. After all, the salopard was sleek, and he did have the surest way of getting out of sticky situations, didn’t he? All he had to do was flash the badge.

  Charles

  The Chief’s truck pulled away, leaving Charles alone in the club’s parking lot. The adrenaline that had spiked up during the fight had drained away. He was beat. His first trip to the strip club with Patricia had been more embarrassing than weird, but tonight? Tonight was the strangest night of his life.

  He liked that woman; she was sweet, smart, and very gorgeous.

  “Sexy as fuck,” to quote that jerk, Ham.

  She was beautiful, but Charles found her beauty accessible. Granted, he would never offer for a woman such as her. When she and the Chief had shown up at the motel that afternoon, was it only weeks ago? Charles was honest enough to admit his first thoughts had not been polite. Chief Officer MacLaren has secured himself a younger doll, a girlie girl. She had looked a decade younger than the man and had acted accordingly.

  Darn if she had not been two steps ahead of him that afternoon. And to this day, she was still.

  He was fond of her. He liked the way she smiled at him and teased. His cousin Lorena was the same. He had grown up with Lorena, the two of them running wild, playing in the fields, riding their bikes.

  Lorena had been reckless and was always calling to him, “Come on, Charlie, hurry up,” “You can do this,” “Let’s try that,” “Go for it,” “Just follow me, kiddo.”

  Even without her exhorting him, Patricia was as cocky as Lorena. He might describe her as rousing if he dared use such a word in regard to a woman. Much smarter and prettier but otherwise equally rousing.

  Lorena had got him into trouble also when they were kids. Lorena was married now, still playful and funny but all grown up and sensible. The world was a better place thanks to all the Lorenas. If Charles-type fellows populated the earth, imagine how boring a place it would be, Charles reflected derisively. And a MacLaren world would be frightening, safe but unnerving nonetheless.

  Charles suspected Patricia had saved his neck the last time. She denied it, insisting she never interfered with MacLaren’s decisions, but Charles believed otherwise. She may not have talked to the Chief, but MacLaren had given him a second chance because of her. MacLaren had taken into considerations how she liked the young, dull Charles. But now his time was up; his recap of the night’s incident had not convinced the Chief.

  “I see good things in you, Charles,” she had said their first night at the club. “I’m sure you’re going to find your place in Christopher’s team.”

  Not after tonight, I won’t.

  The hunt for the fight guy had been a splendid idea, her idea. How to go about it, the surveillance from club to club was her idea too. That the evening had been a disaster didn’t mean it hadn’t been a grand plan.

  Charles couldn’t begin to understand what had happened tonight. The night, their fourth, had started well enough. They were both a little tired but remained motivated. The first three stops had gone smoothly. She had seemed a little wired, preoccupied, but he had figured she was exhausted.

  “Are the late shifts getting to you?” He had asked at one point.

  “It’s nothing serious, Charles. I’ll sleep late and make up for it this weekend.”

  Not a woman’s job she was doing. Not really tough physically, more the tall and slender type she was, but what she lacked in strength, she made up for in stamina and stubbornness. He had seen her keep her grounds during that first fight at the club, never once hiding behind a table or him. Strange woman.

  He understood why MacLaren had been mad at him after; surely, the man knew how easily her ways ended up putting her in peril. He had contravened MacLaren’s direct order and let her put herself within harm’s reach again.

  “We won’t be at risk,” she had said. “I’ll dress like a guy but a non-threateningly small man.”

  And he, the chump, had fallen for that. In retrospect, he wondered how such a man was supposed to look.

  “
Don’t look so apprehensive, Charles, I’ll be fine. I’ll be with you.”

  Flattery. He had bought it all. That she still trusted him after the first fiasco had flattered him.

  Some might say he didn’t have much of a choice. He needed to find the guy if he wanted to stay in. He couldn’t do it with Hamilton as he didn’t feel comfortable with the guy, so that left Patricia and her ideas. And he couldn’t confide in Christopher, could he? He needed to bring the fighter in for the Chief, not tell him his girlfriend’s ideas.

  When they were kids, never once had he ratted Lorena out. He should have, though. He had been told to, warned about it. The Chief had made it crystal-clear, everything that concerned her should be discussed, cleared and approved beforehand.

  Charles sat in his car a long time. Thinking. Reflecting. So why hadn’t he snitched?

  He wanted on the team, wanted it bad. When he had seen MacLaren at the motel, the way the man carried himself, the way he took charge without once raising his voice, without showing muscles, Charles had wanted to follow him. The old man Floyd was competent, but he didn’t have it. The it that MacLaren had.

  The way the Chief had taken care of Patricia had also impressed Charles. His parents had been married since forever. His mother was a strong woman, probably stronger than his father. Even so, it was his father that shovelled the snow. And it was his father that drove up to the mall entrance and got out of the car and held the umbrella when it rained. His father was the one walking the longest in the rain. For his mother. And Charles had seen that in MacLaren as he hovered over Patricia without smothering her.

  So why hadn’t he gone to the Chief? Entering their floor at the precinct had been the highlight of his days in the force. He fantasised about working the cases with them. To be offered a chance to work with them was a dream come true. Officer Charles, detective. Wow. He had joined the force to become a detective one day. To solve crimes. He did not wish merely to stop any wrongdoings, but he hoped to crack the worst crimes of all, murders. And to do it for a man like MacLaren was awesome.