by Zoey Parker
I pulled into the employee parking and came in through the back, listening to the noise inside. It reeked of cigarettes and decades of spilled booze; I kept my own bartenders to higher standards than the ones before had had, but some things just don’t clean out.
Since Flat Tire was mostly an after-hours place, it wasn’t too busy when I got to the front of the house. Claire was at the bar, along with Tony; there were a couple of girls scattered around, talking to potential Johns, but I saw that most of the girls were off on calls. Good.
I looked around the bar, trying to spot one of my two guys; they took turns checking on the girls in the rooms at the building, and hung out at the bar where the deals got made in between. Manny was a big guy—hard to miss, the center of the fucking party wherever he went but ruthless when it came to dealing with bullshit from clients. I’d seen him break a guy’s arm over a payment dispute. Rob, my other pimp, was skinny, looked like he belonged in one of the hipster dives that looks cruddier than it really is, with tattoos all over his arms and a goatee; and when he’d first come to work for me I’d thought he was out of his mind—what could he do in a business like mine? But he’d taken care of business for me just fine.
I saw Rob nursing a whiskey on the rocks, smoking one of his shitty 305s at the bar. Manny must have been doing the check-up. The girls, spotting me, turned to start working harder at hooking their targets, and I sat down next to their boss. I looked around at the general area, making mental notes. I wanted to move up my business—to get it a better reputation, make it more upscale—but I didn’t know how to begin, not really. The drug add-on was showing signs of working out the way I wanted it to, but that wasn’t going to be enough for the kind of moves I wanted to make.
The real goal I had in mind was to get access to the big-spending clientele. Most of the girls managed to pull in a few hundred a night. The better ones made me about a thousand. But I knew guys in other cities in the same line of business whose girls were making a few thousand a night; most of them went after the executives, did longer calls, worked the hotels and resorts. I didn’t even know where to begin with that, where I could get an in with the kinds of johns I wanted the girls to go for.
“How’s the night going?” Claire brought me a tumbler with some Hennessey in it and I sipped. I didn’t need it—I knew I didn’t—but it would help clear my head a bit after that chick in my office. I could still remember how tight and hot and wet she’d been, how good she’d felt. Should have told her you’d forgive Chris if she’d give you a month. A month of fucking whenever you want it, however you want it—the works. Heat pooled at my groin and I could feel my cock starting to harden again. I had to stop thinking about her.
“So far, so good,” Rob said, flicking ash into an empty tray. “Some of these are on their second or third of the night.”
“Who isn’t?” I looked around at the girls. There were maybe a dozen women in the club. Of those, only four were mine. If one of those four wasn’t pulling her weight, she’d have to be watched.
“Lisa,” Rob said with a shrug. “She usually pulls in big fish though so I’m not worried. Look at who she’s sizing.”
I glanced at the girl; the guy she was with looked out of place in the dive, but looking at him, he was probably some out-of-town business douche, looking to get spendy while he was away from his wife, find someone who would do all the things she wouldn’t.
“Keep an eye on her anyway,” I said. “I don’t need any fucking divas in this org.”
Rob snorted. “Then you should get rid of Manny,” Rob said, giving me a look.
“Oh?” That was news to me—normally my employees kept their disputes to themselves. But I had what those corporate jokers called an “open door” policy. If someone thought their fellow employees were really, truly trying to fuck something up, they could come to me and I’d handle it; but they also knew that if they ratted someone out and turned out to be wrong, they’d get handled, too.
“Manny’s up to something,” Rob said. I sipped the cognac and considered that. Rob had had a temper for as long as I’d known him; in fact, it was watching him go ape on a bunch of bikers at one of my bars before I’d even agreed to let him work for me that had convinced me to give him a shot. Manny was harder to piss off, joking around with the girls and even some of their johns, jolly and happy most of the time. I’d figured they weren’t a great match personality-wise, but I didn’t figure that it would come to sniping like this.
“You got any proof of that?”
Rob shook his head, stubbed out his cig, and then lit another one, blowing the smoke away from me. “Just a feeling I have,” Rob said. “He walks around like he owns this place, the slick bastard.”
I shrugged it off. “Get me proof of something and we’ll talk,” I said. One of the girls left the bar with a guy, headed for the street—a good sign. “Meanwhile, you’ll never guess who I met this evening.”
“Cher?” Rob smirked at me.
“Chris Bamber has a sister, apparently,” I told him.
“Bamber? I told you, boss—you never should have hired that little shit.”
“All I had to go on was his reputation,” I pointed out. “Anyway, his sister is apparently named Sadie. She came offering to pay off Chris’ debt.”
Rob knocked back the rest of his whiskey and gave me a skeptical look. “Pay it off how?” I saw Rob look out over the bar. “We’re full up on rooms as it is.”
“Nah, she’s not hooking—or even asking to hook,” I said, shaking my head. “She’s going to collect some of my old debts, apparently.”
Rob laughed hard enough to give himself a coughing fit. “No shit?”
I nodded. “Was spouting a bunch of shit about principal, interest, write-offs.” I shook my head and chuckled to myself. “Obviously she got all the brains from that gene pool.”
“Obviously,” Rob said, sounding bitchy again. “That Bamber kid—I told you he was going to screw up.”
“I gave her a list,” I told Rob with a shrug. I finished off my cognac and on cue, Claire appeared again, with a water for me and a beer for Rob. “If she doesn’t come up with the money by next Friday, you and Manny can find Chris and sort his shit out.”
Rob nodded. “I can’t believe you’re even letting her try,” Rob said.
“Whatever,” I countered. “If she gets some of my money back it’s a win. Bamber’s black list anyway, but hell—who am I to turn down money?” I smirked. “If she can’t, then Bamber gets to be an example.”
“You’re giving her just over a week to get six thou off of people who aren’t paying you?” Rob whistled lowly. “She’s never going to do it.”
“Of course not,” I said, shaking my head. “But she might get one, maybe two. And that’s one or two thou I’m missing right now.” I thought about the determination on the chick’s face, the way she’d kept herself under control right up until I’d offered to knock a thousand off her brother’s debt if she’d fuck for me. Even that—I had to respect a chick who’d go through with that much for her brother. But it wouldn’t change anything much for Chris once she wasn’t able to come up with the cash. Maybe Chris doesn’t have to die—just get jacked enough to make her want to come to a new agreement with you. I pushed the thought out of my head. She was a good lay—but I couldn’t go catching some kind of feelings for a chick who was supposed to be working for me, especially not when her brother was on my shit list.
Another one of the girls left with a john. “When she doesn’t get the money, you and Manny will visit her brother,” I told Rob. Rob nodded with satisfaction.
“Can’t let people think they can get away with shit like that, can we?” I shook my head. It was always good to have my employees on the same page as me.
Chapter Six
Sadie
I looked up at the buildings that Chris had parked in between, feeling my heart beating faster in my chest. I’d picked one of the names at random from the list and put it into Chris’
GPS, and he’d pulled off into an alley off the main street when we arrived. It was in the seedy part of downtown—cheap, low-quality apartment flats above shops and restaurants, pawn and dry cleaning places.
“You’re sure this is the right place?”
I shrugged off my brother’s question, feeling almost irritable at him. This is all your fault, you stupid, self-centered jerk. I took a quick breath; it wasn’t entirely Chris’ fault—even if he had been stupid enough to get involved with a mafia operation, he hadn’t intentionally gotten himself robbed. He’d come to me because I was the only person that he could trust, and I was going to help him. I had to help him—he was my only brother, and I loved him.
“The list says it’s verified—one of Micah’s guys checked it out already,” I told Chris. “There are only a few on the list that say they’re not sure.” I’d figured out the system quickly enough: two check marks next to an address meant that one of Micah’s people had tracked the person down, and another had already visited him. One check meant that someone had tracked the person down at the address, but no one had gone there yet. A question mark meant that it was the address the person was known to live at—but they weren’t sure the person was still there. Chris’ name on the list had given me chills.
I’d spent the drive reading over the list, trying to piece together the notations. The guy in question I was about to confront was named Chester. According to the list, he owed Micah $800; I’d decided to go for him not just because I could be pretty sure to actually find him, but because it would—if I could get at least half the money—knock out a good chunk of Chris’ debt in the first night. If he has all of it, then even better. All Chris will owe then is 4200. I had no idea what Chester owed the money for, and I didn’t care.
“What are you going to do?” I looked at my brother and smiled a bit. I hadn’t planned anything; I knew it was probably stupid, but all I could think of was knocking on the door and winging it from there. Some criminal mastermind I am, I thought wryly. This is insane. Surely you can find some other way to get the money—get someone at work to rubber-stamp a loan or something.
I took a quick, deep breath; I’d already struck the deal with Micah. I had a gun—and even if the guy in the apartment I was about to confront had a weapon of his own, I doubted he’d be expecting me, or anyone like me.
“I’m going up there,” I said. I unbuckled the seatbelt. “Keep the car running—I have a feeling we’re going to need to get away fast.”
Chris looked at me from the driver’s seat, pale and worried. “Be careful,” he said. “I mean it, Say—you have no idea what this guy is going to try and pull. This isn’t your thing.”
“He has no idea what I’m going to do either,” I pointed out, more confidently than I felt. I kissed my brother on his cheek. “If you don’t see me in 15 minutes, come check on me. Okay?”
Chris nodded.
I made sure the gun was hidden under my blazer, tucked into my skirt, and got out of the car. The building was one of the old-school kind, with stairs outside leading up the back to the apartments as well as the stairs inside. I definitely thought it would be easier to go up that way: fewer people to see me, no risk of reaching a dead end. I climbed up to the guy’s floor, heart beating faster and faster in my chest.
I found his unit number on the door, and looked around the area. It was pretty quiet—of course, it was starting to get late, so I should have expected that—and whoever might have been in the adjoining units was either out still or asleep. I could see light coming through the blinds at the window for Chester’s apartment, and crouched down where I could see a broken panel. I peeked into his living room, and saw a tall, skinny guy, seated in a beat-up La-Z-Boy recliner with a tallboy; I thought it looked like it was a Steel Reserve. He was watching something on TV, and when I managed to contort myself so I could catch a glimpse of his face, he was wearing a half-drunk scowl. Okay, so he’s probably had like three of those already—he won’t be ready. But don’t count him out.
I stood and stepped back to the door as quietly as I could, pulling the baby Glock out of my waistband and getting it in my hand the right way before I hid it behind my back. I didn’t want the guy to see it right away—but at the same time, I wanted to be ready to use it in a heartbeat. I balled my other hand into a fist and pounded on the door as hard as I could. I felt it shudder in the frame—it obviously hadn’t been hung right—and then the muffled noise of the TV from the other side went silent. I waited a moment, and the door opened; it was just a crack, but enough for me to see a slice of Chester’s face.
“Excuse me,” I said, giving him my best, helpless, apologetic smile. “Are you Chester?”
I heard the guy on the other side of the door pull the chain and then the door opened wider. Chester—assuming it was him, as I strongly suspected—was dressed in a dirty, stained white shirt for a local band that had broken up maybe three years before, and a pair of dirty cargo shorts. “Who the hell are you? And what the fuck do you want?”
That was my cue. I pulled the gun from behind my back and steadied it with my other hand as I pointed it directly at Chester’s face. Chester’s eyes went wide and he stumbled backwards, hands up defensively. “What the fuck?”
I followed Chester into the apartment; for a moment I thought about closing the door behind me, but I needed to be able to get out fast. I pushed it to with my foot and advanced on Chester. “Micah Rintley wants his money,” I told the guy.
“What?” the guy stumbled backwards another step or two, staring at me wild-eyed. “I thought that shit was settled.” He shook his head, and by the look on his face I knew he was trying to decide whether he was more weirded out by being told I was collecting money for Micah, or the fact that it was someone like me doing the work, holding a gun on him. I felt weird: powerful, both in my own head and outside of myself, watching myself, at the same time. “I already took my lumps for that bullshit, man—Micah’s people came at me and beat the shit out of me last week.”
That explained the second check-mark. If I were him I’d probably have changed addresses after getting a beat down, I thought. But then, if he’d thought it was over and done with, why leave?
“Well plan’s changed. Micah wants his money.”
“Man—shit.” Chester let his hands fall to his sides. “It wasn’t even my fault anyway. I was out selling and someone jumped me for it—took the stash and the money.” The story sent a tingle through me—but I ignored it. No time to get distracted.
“Micah wants his money, and he wants it now,” I said. “Tonight.” I dropped the muzzle of the Glock a bit, pointing it dead center between his hips. My heart was pounding, my blood rushing in my ears; I didn’t know for sure whether I could make myself shoot the guy, but I had to make him believe that not only I could, but that I would, if he didn’t do what he was told.
“Hold on,” the man said, raising his hands again. “I’ve got some of it—not all of it, but I’ve got some.” He turned slowly toward a ratty, old-looking desk pushed up against the wall. “Don’t shoot, okay? I’m just going for the money.”
I nodded; I didn’t trust my voice. My hands felt slick on the gun’s grip, but at the same time I felt so powerful I almost wanted him to make a wrong move.
Chester moved to the desk slowly, no sudden movements, and I watched him open a drawer. He took out a jar, and I could see a wad of cash in it. “Man, I thought this shit was over and done with,” he muttered; I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or to himself. He pulled the wad of cash out of the jar and started counting it out. He looked at me. “All I’ve got is three-fifty,” he told me.
“Hand it over,” I said. “It’s not enough, but whatever.”
Chester reached into the drawer again and I cocked the gun.
“Just—just hold on,” Chester said, hearing that gut-wrenching sound. He took out a baggie with what I thought was probably crystal meth, put it with the cash. He turned toward me, the money and drugs in one ha
nd, the other down at his side, almost behind him. “Here. Tell Micah I’m definitely out of the biz.”
I shrugged; I didn’t think Micah would care. I took the money from him and stepped back, trying to think of how to make my exit.
All at once, Chester lunged at me, and in the dingy, dim light of his living room, I saw the gleam of the knife he’d taken out of the desk at some point while I wasn’t paying attention. I scuttled backwards, away from his slashing arm, and Chester stumbled. Acting on instinct, I brought my knee up, grabbing at the back of Chester’s head and pushing him down against the bony part of my knee. I heard a crunching sound and Chester screamed, falling to the floor.
I had the money, I had my gun still, and I was pretty sure Chester hadn’t somehow managed to slash me with the knife anywhere even in falling. My heart was racing. I turned on my heel and ran out of the apartment, thanking my own forethought at not closing the door completely. I stumbled on the stairs on the way down, but managed to keep from twisting my ankle or falling on my face before I got to the ground level.