The Bouncer

by David Gordon

The call came from Uncle Chen’s people. Apparently Chen’s nephew, a kid named Derek, had turned up full of bullets when some caper went wrong, a weapons heist out in the boondocks. The contractor who’d set it all up was MIA, a heister named Clarence, whom Gio had never heard of. Then there was someone called Lex, also a corpse, nearly headless from what Chen’s sources said. And the other missing player? Joe Brody, who worked at Gio’s club. Uncle Chen wanted to talk to Joe. Very badly. And very soon.

  This was a problem for Gio. If Joe worked for him, then he was one of his people and Gio was responsible for him. If Gio admitted that Joe was out of pocket and, in fact, on this job without Gio’s approval, then he was admitting that he could not even control his own men, much less run the kind of citywide plan he’d just talked everyone into. On the other hand, if he took responsibility for Joe’s actions, then he’d be putting himself and his family in a potential conflict with Uncle Chen’s people. And fucking with the Chinese Triads was something you wanted to avoid. He dialed Joe’s number again. It rang and rang, and then a robot told him that the subscriber had not set up his voice mail. For fuck’s sake, why even have a phone? He hurled his own phone at the wall so hard it shattered, and Paul, his accountant, jumped, dropping a sheaf of P&L reports. No big deal, another disposable, but still, here he was in his beautiful office behind his beautiful desk in his beautiful suit, with his beautiful, Princeton-educated, blue-eyed WASP accountant tallying up his fortune, and he was raging and cursing and smashing phones like a street corner thug.

  It showed him how much stress he was under, how close to losing control.

  “Sorry, Paul,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “No,” Paul said. “You shouldn’t have.” He started picking up the spilled papers.

  Gio took a deep breath and then got the Scotch out and took a deep shot. He called his assistant out front and told her not to let any calls through while he was in conference. Then he said, to Paul, “Lock the door and get out the flogger.” He went into the bathroom to change.

  13

  Joe got back on the highway and drove till he found a turnoff for a motel, a single-story U-shaped building with parking in front of the rooms and a small pool in the interior courtyard. It was near a couple of restaurants, a truck stop, a 7-Eleven, a car wash, and a three-story office building. Joe parked in back, behind some trucks. He went through Clarence’s pockets and took his wallet and a Swiss army knife, then left him snoring while he went to the office, wearing sunglasses he’d found in the visor. He put a smile on his face, though his head still pounded.

  “Hi there,” he said to the lady behind the counter. She was chubby and white with stringy black hair and some colorfully inked roses climbing up her arms.

  “Hi, can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m beat. My cousin and I have been driving nonstop. Can we get a room with two beds? The quieter the better?”

  “You’re in luck,” she told him, looking at her screen. “Number thirty is free. That’s the farthest back.”

  “Terrific.” He pulled out a card from Clarence’s wallet, then pretended to hesitate and pulled out a hundred. “You know what, if you don’t mind I’d just as soon pay cash. Been racking up the gas charges.”

  She laughed. “Sure, hon. I know how it is.” She made change.

  “And while I’m here,” he added, leaning forward and grinning. “Could I maybe borrow a needle and thread? A button popped off my other pants.” He laughed and she laughed with him. “And, oh yeah, scissors.”

  Joe stopped by the 7-Eleven, bought one beer in a bottle and some water, then pulled the Jeep around to the spot in front of the room and shook Clarence awake. He helped him inside and onto one of the beds and drew the shades. He was moaning again, so Joe opened the beer, dumped it into the sink, and used the cap and Clarence’s lighter to dissolve two Dilaudids in some of the water. He unwrapped one of the syringes and filled it, pushing the liquid back up until a drop formed on the needle’s tip. He took off his belt and tied Clarence’s arm off, smacking his forearm till a vein swelled, then eased the painkiller in. He loosened the belt. Clarence quieted immediately, shutting his eyes. Then Joe went back out, locking the door behind him, and moved the Jeep back to its more hidden spot.

  When he returned Clarence was totally out. Sliding a folded bath towel under Clarence’s leg, Joe cut off the leg of his pants, exposing the wound, a jagged star torn in the thigh. He washed it with alcohol and the gauze pads, cleaning away the blood as if he was wiping a small drooling mouth. Then he used the blade of the knife to poke around gingerly until he saw the slug. He tried to draw it out with the tweezers, and managed to work it loose, but it kept slipping free, so he used the pliers to slowly extract it like a bad tooth. He washed the wound again. Then he threaded the needle with dental floss and sewed the hole shut, cross-stitching and sealing it as best as he could. Then he bandaged Clarence up.

  He cleaned up, careful to put the slug, the syringe, and all the bloody gauze in the plastic bag from the drugstore. He took his own clothes off and got in the shower, turning it up as hot as he could stand it. He soaped up, washed his hair, and then stood under the showerhead a long time, letting the hot water pound his aching head and stiff shoulders. He brushed his teeth with the little free toothbrush and drank several glasses of water—getting rid of the vomit taste—but he still felt like shit. He wrapped a towel around his waist and crossed the room to peek out through the curtains. Kids were jumping into the pool, screeching, then climbing out to jump in again while their parents watched. He knew he should probably eat something, but the thought of walking back across in the sunlight, of passing people, of hearing those screeches, filled him with dread.

  He pulled the curtains tight again and checked on Clarence. He was breathing steadily and his pulse was okay. Some red had seeped through the bandage, but it looked as though the bleeding had stopped. Clarence needed a real doctor soon, but he’d live. Joe got a clean syringe out and cooked up another, smaller dose of Dilaudid. This time he tied off his own arm. When he found a vein, he slid the needle in, then drew back the plunger until a tiny flower of blood unfurled in the barrel. Then, very slowly, he pressed down.

  14

  Cute or not, Joe Brody was a classic fuckup. Donna was a little disappointed but not particularly surprised. He might or might not be the gentleman bandit who apologized graciously before shooting her, but with his mask off, he was yet another charming loser in a long line, beginning, of course, with her own dad. Her kid’s dad was the exception, the career-driven hyper-achiever and regular guy—and he’d turned out to be the biggest nightmare of all.

  As for Joe, he was a hard-luck kid from Queens whose file read like a roller coaster of comebacks and blown chances. His alcoholic grifter parents died young, and he ended up with a grandmother, Gladys, who boasted an impressive, decades-long rap sheet of her own. After a host of juvenile offenses and truancies, Joe got a scholarship to St. Anthony’s Academy, an exclusive local Catholic school, where he suddenly produced straight As, aced his SATs, and hit the jackpot—a scholarship to Harvard. Two years later he was expelled. This time it was for beating up frat boys, missing classes, and the final straw, scamming the other kids, though the rich parents and the school dropped the charges when he enlisted in the army. For a while at least, it seemed he’d found a home. But sure enough, ten years later, the future bouncer was bounced again, with a less than honorable discharge. He ended up back where he started, in the old neighborhood, working at a strip club controlled, of course, by Gio Caprisi, who, as she found when she cross-referenced his file, went to the same Catholic school.

  Donna was about to exit out of the file and forget it, when she noticed that his military record had not turned up on the search. Curious as to why they kicked him to the curb, she logged into the system and requested it. Locked out. Classified. High security clearance only. Donna frowned. She was high security clearance. She tried again, reentering her username and passcode
. Another big red X and this time a warning not to proceed.

  Donna sat back, absentmindedly touching the spot on her chest that still ached slightly. Why was a small-time loser who’d been booted out of the army so important that she, an FBI agent chasing terrorists for the security of her nation, wasn’t even allowed to set eyes on his file? It seemed old Joe the Bouncer was interesting after all.

  Gio got in the stall shower and started rinsing off. It wasn’t really necessary. He could easily have washed the makeup off at the sink, stashed the blond wig and the dress back in their hiding spot, and driven home to take a shower, or even a Jacuzzi in his own luxurious marble tub. But soaping up and cleaning off helped him transition psychologically and, he supposed, scrub his conscience clean before he returned to his wife and his children. That way he left the naughty little slut Gianna behind him and went home as Gio, the family man.

  Ironically, it was only when he took over the family business that this side of him had emerged, though looking back now he saw how it was always there. Of course, in the hypermasculine, weirdly sheltered world into which he was born, such things didn’t even exist. He played football and baseball. He kissed girls at church dances and chased them at the pool club in the summers, and when he was fifteen his uncle took him to lose his virginity with a high-priced call girl. And though toughness was stressed, and he’d even taken some boxing lessons, the fact was that everyone knew him, so no one messed with him, and he was never bullied at all. Then one day when practice was rained out, he took the bus into a sketchier neighborhood close to his own. He had some idea about seeking out a fake ID like the one his friend had been showing off. As he was walking past a public school playground, two tough Irish kids jumped him and beat him down good, while a small crowd of kids watched, some holding basketballs or jump ropes, or licking cones. Turns out, boxing lessons aren’t much help when your opponents refuse to obey the rules. The bloody nose and the black eye were no big deal, though. The big deal was his watch, which they took along with his pocket money. A gift from his grandma. If he came home without that, he would probably get beaten again, this time with his dad’s belt. So, as they walked off, he went after them, pushing from behind and demanding the watch. They laughed and knocked him down again. He popped up. This went on a few times, to the amusement of the crowd. Then finally another kid stepped out.

  “That’s enough,” he told them. “Give him his watch back.”

  “What?” They paused the beating and looked at him.

  “I said that’s enough, man. Keep the money but give him his watch back.”

  The bigger one, who was wearing the watch, scowled. “Fuck off, Brody. Who do you think you are? Go home, asshole. I think your grandma’s calling.”

  Everyone laughed. This new kid, Brody, even smiled. Then before Gio could really tell what was happening, the new kid’s hand came out of his pocket holding what Gio found out later was a broken piece of brick in a sock. He slammed the big kid right on the skull and he went down like a tree. Everyone went silent. Then they all fled, including the other bully. The Brody kid took the watch off the whimpering boy and handed it to Gio.

  Later, when they became pals, Joe would explain that he’d been impressed with the way Gio kept getting back up and taking more hits without ever surrendering. To him that showed heart. What Gio did not dare to tell even his new best friend was that he had been strangely exhilarated, even thrilled, and that a weird joy shot through him with each punch the bigger boys had landed.

  Years passed. He was running parts of the family’s far-flung holdings and had gotten to know some pro dominatrices, seen leather bars, even dungeons. He was also married by then, happily, to his college sweetheart and not even tempted to cheat. But while he was having a drink with the high-level domme who ran one of the city’s most exclusive dungeons, she told him something that stuck. Rather than pathetic losers, most of her clients were big winners in the real world—they had to be to pay her rates—men of power, like CEOs, top lawyers and bankers, a retired general, even cops. These were guys who spent all day bossing people around and making decisions that changed lives: firing people, foreclosing on their homes, sending them off to prison or even to danger and death. The only way to relieve the pressure, and the guilt, was to give up control and take their just punishment.

  From then on, Gio found himself fascinated with this idea. He didn’t talk about it, but it was never far from his mind. He even considered telling Carol, but he was afraid of what she’d think, and honestly, he couldn’t imagine her overpowering him, even just for pretend. It was always a man he pictured, a strong young man. So he found himself “checking” on the leather bars and kink joints more than he really had to. Meanwhile, as he prospered, he found a more sophisticated money guy to help him launder his profits and hide them in overseas accounts. And one night, checking the receipts at a gay S&M bar, he went to use the john, and there was Paul, his new accountant’s junior partner—smart, young, and handsome—washing his hands.

  15

  The cave was supposed to be abandoned. That was the whole fucking point, the thing they’d been so proud of during the briefing, that made them feel clever as shit. It was an old smuggler’s tunnel leading a couple of miles underground and coming up into a long-forgotten cave, hidden behind rubble and weeds now, that would put him right over the al-Qaeda compound. It hadn’t been used since the old days, running opium past the Russians, and only the local warlord they were helping retake this territory remembered. Perfect.

  Joe crept through the tunnel, in darkness, sometimes on hands and knees where the wooden braces had cracked, and emerged, before dawn, in the cave. With his night vision goggles, he reconnoitered the terrain, the camp, as promised, laid out below. He set up his sniper rifle and settled in to wait, maybe an hour, maybe ten, for the target, a high-level commander, to emerge. They knew which of the buildings he slept in, and they knew he’d be out sooner or later to join his men. Joe would confirm the target and take him out, then retreat back through the tunnel. He’d already wired the mouth of the cave to blow, so that when he fled, the tunnel would collapse and seal behind him.

  Perhaps he was too intent on the target, who had finally emerged, laughing and chatting with a few other men. Perhaps with his earpiece in he just wasn’t sharp enough to hear the approach of someone who knew this ground so much better than he did. In any case, there he was, eye pressed to the scope, waiting for permission to shoot, when he heard a scuffle off to the left and, rolling over, turned to aim his high-powered sniper’s rifle at a little kid who was popping out of the cave. They both froze, looking at each other in amazement. The little boy was in raggedy brown clothes, dirt in his hair, dried snot on his nose. This was probably his tunnel, his cave, where he’d played his whole life. No doubt he knew every inch of it and had wandered in from another underground branching. Joe smiled and tried to speak a few words of Pashto, telling him, “Don’t worry, you’re safe.” But apparently the kid didn’t believe him or didn’t understand, and meanwhile, right at that moment, the voice in his ear said, “Take him, Falcon, target confirmed. Are you there, Falcon? Come in. Take your target,” and that distracted him for a split second. Maybe he even moved a fraction of an inch. Whatever it was, the kid spooked, like a stray cat, and took off at full speed, running back into the cave. He knew it well, but of course he didn’t know the trip wire Joe had hooked up, and as Joe screamed, “Stop,” the kid screamed, too, while the cave exploded all around him, blowing him to pieces as the rubble fell.

  Joe woke up the way he always did, with a jerk, right when he heard that scream and that explosion. Breathing hard, he looked around him, trying to guess where he was. On his cot in his tent? Or back at the base? Or in a dusty back room down a dark alley? They said he was heroic because, after the cave blew, he’d re-aimed his rifle; found his target, who was now ordering his men up to investigate the cave; and taken him out with a single bullet between the eyes, before fleeing over open ground—the cave now i
mpassable—pursued by the enemy and holding out till the chopper came in to extract him. He didn’t feel heroic. He’d merely completed the mission, no matter what, as he’d been trained, and then survived as he’d always done. Later, when he was with the old warlord’s youngest son and saw his stoned eyes, he’d gone off with him to a dark, dusty room and smoked up some of the opium that his family made so much money smuggling.

  “Hey,” a voice said. “Wake up.”

  Joe rubbed his eyes. His vision cleared. He was in a motel room. He remembered.

  “Hey, it’s time to go. Here’s coffee.”

  Joe sat up. Clarence was sitting on his own bed across from him, smiling. Joe could see that he’d changed his own bandage and made two Styrofoam cups of coffee from the instant the hotel had provided. Joe took it and drank.

  “I guess you’re alive,” he said to Clarence.

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “Thanks to you. I owe you. Big-time.”

  Joe got up and started dressing. “Now what?”

  “Now we go. I called my people. They’re waiting for us at the safe house where we turn over the goods, with a doctor, clean clothes, food, everything we need.”

  Joe zipped his jeans up. He drew his belt through the loops. “All I need is my money.”

  16

  It was six A.M. Donna had finished her morning yoga routine and was just settling down to meditate before she woke Larissa, or, as sometimes happened, she fell back to sleep and Larissa woke her, when the CIA knocked on her door. At least they knocked. She was in her underwear and a T-shirt, so she pulled on sweats, thinking maybe it was the super, since her mom, who had the key, wouldn’t bother to knock. If Donna ever again had a man stay over, she’d have to remember to put the chain on.

  She peeked through the peephole and there he was, suit and tie, sharp haircut, fresh shave, at six A.M.: her friendly local CIA field agent, Mike Powell. With a sigh and an unconscious hand smoothing her hair, she unlocked and opened the door.