I know the two guys manning the door, Richard and Tank, and they both give me a curt nod and step aside.
The Crystal Floor Nightclub isn’t cheap. The furniture and counters are made of Brazilian rosewood—technically illegal to trade—accented with ebony leather and silver. The lights are every hue and intensity, shimmering with the low-key music. The violins give my ears a good massage as I walk back to the VIP area. Nicholas Vice doesn’t deal with anything but the best.
I spot him sitting at the corner table with his wife. They’re a pair straight out of a movie. Both are in their sixties, I know intellectually, but they aged well, no doubt thanks to copious amounts of money and privilege. Nick eyes me and motions me over.
The dance floor bustles with the wealthiest of socialites and corporate criminals. There aren’t any gangbangers here, outside of the muscle guarding the doors, and I know I must stick out like a sore thumb. The bar, lined with all sorts of alcohol, chasers, and “additives,” stands on the far end of the room. The bartender, a woman by the name of Trista, holds back the muscle before they attempt to throw me out.
I weave through the crowd and stop only once I make it to Nick’s table. He’s stationed behind the speakers, giving the table a bit of privacy and seclusion. His wife, Anita, throws back her perfect inky locks and smiles. “Pierce. I’m so glad you could make it this evening.” Her beady, overly critical eyes scan my clothing. “What happened to your shirt?”
“I got into a tussle. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“I see. Well, I have other matters for you to handle.”
Of course she does. I force a smile. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Vice.”
“You remember our old mortician? Juliet? She needs help with her basement. Everyone I’ve sent there has done nothing but anger her. I know you won’t fail me.”
“I’d be honored to handle it.”
A mortician needs help with her basement? Yeah, this is going to be a terrible job; she’s just not giving me all the details. My to-do list is getting out of control.
Nick swirls his wineglass and takes a sip. He grimaces while setting the glass down, his eyes held shut for a few seconds. His drink is laced with something potent. That’s the way he likes it.
“Pierce,” he says once the initial shock of the drink wears off. “Take a seat.”
I comply, sliding into a chair next to him. His on-hand guards wait off in the corners, barely visible thanks to the shadows, eyeing me as I get close.
“What is it?” I ask.
“We have a problem. Those Cobras thugs seem to know every little thing about our operations, right down to where our guys stick their dicks for fun.”
“I found Mikey dead at the Getaway Inn,” I say, confirming his suspicions. “And last week Marty and Jay were gunned down at their house just outside of town.”
“Cobras?”
“Everything points to them.”
“I trust you can hunt down Mikey’s killer?”
“It’s already on my list.”
Nick faces me, his hard black eyes as cold as the rain outside. “Do whatever it takes. I want these killings to stop. I’ve been cracking down on moles. Any turncoat is to be shot. No questions asked. I’ve lost too many family members to take this lightly. I fear they may be coming for my kids.”
His wife squeezes his arm. “What did I say about talking like that? I don’t want to hear it.”
“Then leave,” Nick says, half a command and half-restrained anger. “I’m talking business. You can mingle while I finish things up.”
Anita slithers from her chair and stands, her magenta dress snug up against her taut skin, flat stomach, and hideously oversized breasts. “I trust you’ll remember to handle my problem?” she asks me over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed.
“Of course,” I reply.
“Good.”
With her last remark, she leaves. Nick gives a deep exhale as he takes another drink from his glass. He slams his hand on the table as the drugs rip through his system for a brief shocking second. “Refreshing,” he says. “Try some.”
He isn’t offering—he’s commanding. I grab an empty glass, and he pours me a drink from his own personal bottle. It’s just wine until he throws in a couple of dissolving tablets. I hate taking this shit, I always have, but I won’t tell Nick no. Not when he’s in a foul mood.
I throw back a gulp and instantly regret it. I have no idea what’s in those tablets, but they break my eyesight, ability to taste, and hearing all in one intense world-shattering moment. Fucking drugs! I cough back the foul substance and thank God that my eyesight and hearing return. I’m not ready to be blind, despite what my body wants.
“Invigorating, right?” Nick asks with a chuckle. “Makes you feel alive.”
Funny. It made me feel more dead than alive, but whatever. I nod to his statement. “So, what do you want from me, exactly? To catch moles spying on us for the Cobras?”
“I want you to keep an eye on my kids.”
“Should be easy enough. I’ll be meeting Jeremy on Monday regardless. He wants to speak to me.”
“He does? He never told me about that, the little fink.” Nick strokes his peppered goatee. The man has the posture of regal confidence not a lot of people possess in Noimore. His suit, unwrinkled, hugs his muscles, and his hair is clean and brushed back, white at the temples, dark up top. I get weak in the knees around the guy—the only man I think I wouldn’t mind playin’ bitch for—but I’m sure he gets that all the time. If he wanted a man, he could have a better man than me, that’s for sure.
“Fink?” I repeat once I stop salivating. I’m not myself tonight. Drinking isn’t helping anything either.
“Yes. A fink. The little rat keeps doing things against my express orders.” Nick shakes his head and lights up one of his long European cigarettes. He offers me one, but I decline. I’m addicted to my knockoff brand of cancer. Paying five times as much for the same goddamn thing would only make me angry.
“You don’t want me to see Jeremy?” I ask.
“I told him not to talk to you. I told him you were my go-to enforcer and that he should keep his ass planted in the backseat while I’m still in charge. The kid thinks he deserves more action when he barely knows what that means.”
Great. Now the Vice family is having in-house conflict? No wonder the Cobras are doing so well. “I’ll tell Jeremy to lay off. For his sake.”
“I told you I thought he was some milkman’s baby, right?” Nick asks me, a smirk on his face and smoke lingering on his breath. “I had DNA tests run in secret. Much to my disappointment, my wife didn’t have an affair. The ugly bastard is mine.”
I chuckle. As I open my mouth to continue, I spot something odd in the crowd in my peripheral vision. A pair of twentysomethings dive to the floor, covering their heads. They saw it before I did—a guy tosses out a concussion grenade.
Fuck me.
CHAPTER FIVE
I KICK up the table and push Nick down as the blast shatters lights and eardrums. I see bullets flying, but I sure as fuck don’t hear them. My ears ring down to my spine, deafening me to everything. Nick opens his mouth and yells something, but it’s all lost. He pulls his gun and I pull mine—it’s a universal language.
Bullets rip through the expensive wood of the table. I roll out and behind the largest speaker, hoping for better cover. Nick’s “guard” shoots—not at the men attacking the nightclub—but at me. The guard clips my jacket three times as I wheel to face him and fire twice: one to the body, one to the head. This isn’t my first fight, and my body remembers all the motions it needs to survive. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, chilling my nerves and tensing my muscles.
Another turncoat bodyguard rounds the speaker to face me. I lift my gun, and he smashes it out of my hand with his own. I surprise him with a strike to the kidney—so hard he’ll be pissin’ blood in the morning—dropping the man to his knees. I fetch my gun and coldcock the guy in the back of the head with the
metal butt. In the heat of the moment, I remember that we’ll need someone to question after this.
The ringing in my ears dies down only to get drummed back in when I hear the explosion of gunfire all around me. I take a deep breath and concentrate.
I spot Nick leaning behind the ruined table. He’s bleeding from the shoulder, one hand gripped tightly over the injury and one hand holding his .45 handgun with little conviction. I jump back behind the poor excuse for cover and lift him off the ground, offering my strength to support him. Nick holds on as I rush him back behind the speakers.
Sparks fly from the electronics as bullets chase us. I release Nick and lean out around cover, firing wildly to deter them from following. The terrible lighting and my bad eye make for inaccurate shooting at a distance. I contemplate rushing out to deal with the gunmen, but I stay sheltered instead. Nick isn’t in any shape to fight off attackers.
A gunman gets the drop on me, jumping around the other side of the speaker with an automatic rifle in his hands. Nick blasts the guy through the neck, sending him back against the wall gasping down his own blood.
The shooting stops. I listen. The place sounds devoid of life. Only the creak of the damaged structure echoes throughout the dust and smoke. Nick turns to me, regal and dignified despite the bloodied wound, and offers an expression of mild exasperation. He says something. I furrow my brow, my ears ringing with a trumpeting cacophony. I strain my senses and manage to make out words.
“Go find my wife,” Nick says.
I motion to his injury. “You sure about that?”
“I can handle it.” No hint of reservation in his voice.
“Careful around your ex-bodyguard,” I say, pointing to the guy on the floor. “He’s technically still alive. For questioning.”
Nick nods and holds up his gun. I return the gesture before creeping out of cover. The Crystal Floor Nightclub sits in the nicer district in town. I know the cops will be here soon, but I’ll leave that to Nick. He has contacts within the authorities. No charges will stick to him, but I’m not as lucky.
The place is empty save for the bodies strewn about the floor. Most are dead, but some are writhing about in agony. Our turf war is getting out of hand—more so than I thought before. I see Trista, the bartender, slumped behind the counter. The bouncers, Richard and Tank, spread-eagle near the front door, twitch with the involuntary movements of a violent death. Even Pete, who I didn’t know had been in attendance, sits rotting by the bathrooms, riddled with holes.
Damn. I’ve known most of them for over a decade. The realization chills me. I don’t like getting pensive, and this is why. I curse under my breath as I search the corners of the room. My thoughts turn to Miles. He asked me about pointless death…. Of course I’m tired of it. Who isn’t?
I finger the holes in my jacket. It could’ve been me.
Glancing up, I focus my attention on the mezzanine floor. There are offices up the metal wire steps reserved for the club workers. Anita Vice is a smart woman. If I had to guess, I’d say she sought shelter. I jump up the steps two at a time and knock on the metal of the door.
“Mrs. Vice?” I ask.
The door opens. She stands before me, ten or so others behind her. From the looks of it, they’re nightclub patrons.
“Where’s my husband?” she asks. “Where is he?”
The others push their way past each other and crowd the door in an attempt to exit all at once. I allow them through, unconcerned by their presence. The moment they leave I say, “Nick is downstairs. He got shot, but I’ve seen worse. He’ll make it.”
She half covers her mouth in as silent gasp. “They were here for him.”
I nod.
“And you let him get shot?”
“His own men turned on him.”
Anita glares, her eyes wet with tears. “These bastards don’t know whose family they’re dealing with. Pierce, you’ll get my children out of town. I know my husband wanted them to stay here under your protection, but this is different. I won’t have them harmed!”
A small piece of me remembers that Jeremy, their youngest, is twenty. I’ll take them from the city if Anita wants, but her kids are grown-ass adults.
“Do you understand me?” Anita asks, grabbing the collar of my jacket and yanking down with enough force to rip a hole with her manicured fingernails. “If anything happens to them, I’ll hold you responsible!”
Her hysterics grate, but I remain silent. She releases me and rushes by, her heels clicking against the mezzanine flooring.
Sirens ring in the distance. I need to leave. My eyes catch a bottle of fine vodka, and I snatch it up on instinct. I gulp down a mouthful on my way to the front door. I need to wash away the grit and grime of the night—it hangs on my thoughts heavier than ever before.
MY HEAD hurts.
I wake in a pool of misery and regret. I remember getting out of the limo, getting back to my car, and then… everything else is a blank. Well, I see flashes in my mind’s eye of other places and people… and feeling as though I need to do something urgent… but otherwise last night remains a mystery to me. I haven’t gotten blackout drunk in quite some time, specifically because I hate not remembering what happened. It’s a good way to get yourself killed or wind up naked in a back alley, missing more than just a wallet.
With an unsteady hand, I rub my face. I don’t even open my eyes, but I know it’s the middle of the day, too early for me to be up. Panic hits when I remember I have a shit ton of assignments on my plate. What the hell am I doing in bed?
Rolling to my side, I freeze up. The blankets are tightly woven around me and someone else. A combination of anxiety and confusion fuel my desperate leap off the bed. With deep breaths I stare down at Miles, the expression on his face mirroring my own.
“What’s going on?” he shouts, jumping sideways and glancing around the room with a wild look in his eyes.
“What’re you doing in my bed?” I yell back.
“What?”
“Why the hell are you in my bed?”
“You—you told me to sleep here!”
I grab my forehead in an attempt to contain the throbbing with the palm of my hand. “Stop yelling!”
“Me? You’re the one who woke up like this!”
“Quiet, goddammit!”
Miles flinches back and goes silent. I rake a hand through my hair and take a series of deep breaths. What time is it? What happened last night? What’s going on? There are too many questions and not enough painkillers in the world to get through them all.
I open my good eye and squint across the bed, getting a solid look at Miles. He, like me, stands in nothing but his boxers. The light streaming in from the window reveals the colors of the room I rarely get to see, but I can’t rip my attention away from Miles long enough to enjoy them.
“Are you okay now?” he asks, his tone softer.
“What happened?”
“There was a shootout at the Crystal Floor Nightclub and—”
“I remember that part,” I interject. “What happened after that?”
“You told me to report the shooting as an act by Cobras, and then we drove out to Big Man Vice’s house to talk to his kids, but they weren’t there…. Then we went looking for a guy with a tattoo of some lady’s tits on his neck… and then you were a little too wasted, so I drove us back here. I think there might have been something else in your drink. You kept rambling, and it was hard to get you to say anything coherently.”
I shake my head and groan. Jesus Christ. Why was I drinking in the first place? To drown out my thoughts? To escape the turf war in the easiest way possible? “This is all your fault,” I say. “I haven’t gotten this drunk in years.”
“Hey, don’t look at me! I didn’t even drink that much! You were the one getting wasted!”
“Shh!” I hiss. “No more yelling!”
Miles exhales and rolls his eyes. He takes a seat on the opposite side of my bed.
“Get off,” I comma
nd. “I don’t let anyone else sleep on my bed.”
He stands. “You told me to come in here.”
“Impossible. I know drunk me. Drunk me wouldn’t have asked anyone in here. Ever. Hell, I don’t even bring my flings in here—I fuck’ em in the guest room.”
“Wait, the room you let me stay in is your sex room?”
I growl in irritation.
Miles crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “Look. I don’t know what to tell you. We got back to your apartment, and you asked me to come in here and sleep with you. At one point you even said I don’t normally do this, and then you demanded I strip down and get on your bed. I thought… something else was going to happen… but then you just got in the bed next to me and fell asleep. We were practically spooning.”
Flushed for the first time in years, I turn away.
“You were surprisingly nice,” Miles murmurs, his eyes on the bed.
“What’re you talkin’ about?”
“I thought you would be an angry drunk. Turns out you’re more of a talkative drunk. You were tellin’ me all about when you were younger, and how you wanted to be a detective. You kept going on about how I was too good for all this and that maybe I should just go be a cop.”
“Enough,” I snap. “Clearly I was out of my mind.”
I storm into my bathroom and slam the door behind me. I flip on the shower, glaring at myself in the mirror. I look like shit. Bags under my eyes, bruises from God only knows what…. I need more sunlight. At least I still have muscle—though I’m sure that won’t last if I keep smokin’ and drinkin’ like I do.
I exhale. I had forgotten about wanting to be a detective. That was decades ago, when I still thought the cops were tantamount to superheroes. I was naïve then. Just stupid and naïve and alone. Nick got me out of the gutter and workin’. Not the cops. Nick.
After stripping off my boxers, I slide into the shower and allow the water to wash away my woes. I use a razor on my chin, regretting the fact I have no shaving cream, and cut myself twice. My head hurts, and I got no more than a couple of hours of terrible sleep. It’s better this way, considering that I need to pick up the slack and help the Vice family.
Vice City Page 5