The Bouncer

by David Gordon

  He shrugged. “Sorry if that rattles you, but there you go.”

  “Also messy,” Yelena said with a shrug.

  “Hell yeah,” Juno added. “Dude’s going to have hooks and an eye patch. Be like a Halloween pirate for life.”

  “You have background information on this Shatz?” Yelena asked. “Maybe we get to him some other way.”

  “Oh yeah,” Clarence said. “I sat on old Bob for a week, and what a week it was. Monday he goes to work, brings his lunch, after work goes home alone and watches TV. Tuesday, goes to work, brings lunch, goes home to watch TV. Weds, same thing, work, lunch, but get this: after work he goes bowling. Then Thursday he’s had too much excitement, so after work he just goes home to watch TV.”

  “Okay, we get it. He’s a boring fucking wanker,” Don said.

  “And the weekend?” Yelena asked.

  “You didn’t let me finish. Friday night is party night. After work he stops by a strip club, has one beer and a few lap dances, then goes home and orders pizza. Saturday—”

  “Wait,” Joe said. Everyone looked at him. It was the first time he’d really spoken up. “Where is the strip club?”

  “The Bronx. Someplace called Circus City.”

  “I know it,” Joe said. “Did you see what kind of girls he likes?”

  “Redheads. Definitely. He dropped, like, a hundred on one.”

  He turned to Yelena. “If you’re willing, I’ve got an idea that might work. No mess at all.”

  “I like the sound of that,” Clarence said.

  “Me, too,” Juno muttered as he fiddled with the drone.

  “Let me see if it works,” Joe said to Don. “If not, you can always chop him up.”

  Don frowned but said nothing, testing the edge of his knife.

  “What must I be willing for?” Yelena asked him.

  Joe looked at her. “To wear a wig. And maybe to get naked.”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry about it. Wigs I have plenty. And I can kill a man just as easy naked or not.”

  Joe smiled. “In that case,” he told Clarence. “I guess I’m in.”

  20

  Yesterday, when Agent Zamora called, Norris had been with a client. He was out in the backyard, watching while the client, a scrawny white guy with a ponytail and bushy beard, fired a TEC-9 at a bunch of bottles. The gun was obviously stolen, with a filed-off serial number, but the client didn’t mind, since he was a criminal planning to use it for a bank robbery. Norris wasn’t sure how that was going to go, since the client was a terrible shot and kept moving closer to the bottles, wasting ammo. Not that Norris cared—he’d already have his money—but with all the racket, he didn’t hear his phone ring. Later he saw that she’d left a message, telling him to call back, but by then he was drinking beer with the client and another buddy who had turned up, and he sure wasn’t calling her in front of them. Agent Zamora was his FBI handler, whom he’d never met but who sounded hot, though sort of ethnic. What kind of name was Zamora? Anyway, Norris had made a deal with the Feds to feed them information in return for making his own charges for illegal sales go away. That was his business, getting people weapons, and when he couldn’t supply them directly he sometimes, for a price, helped people find someone who could. A middleman, like. So when this guy Clarence showed up with a whole lot of cash wanting a special order, something strictly military, Norris had checked into it. Turned out someone had recently stolen that very piece of property, but some other dealer, one of Norris’s competitors, had already found a buyer for it up north. So Norris sold Clarence the tip on the sale and killed two birds with one stone: hopefully the second dead bird would be Jed, that asshole rival dealer, and Clarence was the stone. Then Little Miss Zamora had called. She was looking for intel about the stolen military equipment and also reminded him that he was looking at prison if he didn’t come up with something good soon. So he’d given her the same tip, which was all he had to give at the time, figuring the Feds would swoop in, arrest or shoot everybody, and he’d end up killing who knows how many birds with, like, two or three stones, depending on how you counted.

  Anyhow, with one thing and another—going with his client and his other buddy to shoot pool and have some more beers, then for burgers, then back home to down a few more and pass out in front of the TV—he never got around to calling her back. He’d had enough of her shit to last a while. And in the morning, he was busy in his workshop, the garage, working on a special order, modifying a shotgun. He locked the gun in the vise and then, with his handheld metal-cutting saw, he chopped the barrel. He got out his welding torch and was all set to add the laser scope when the phone rang. Her again. He picked it up, feeling sly. “Hey there, special agent, you calling to say thanks?”

  But she was not calling to say thanks. In fact she was pissed, yelling at him, accusing him of tipping off a heist crew about the dealer along with her, calling him a sleazeball scumbag and lots of other shit that he did not intend to take from any woman, especially not a brownskin. Then she mentioned that Clarence had gotten away with the weapons, and Norris was too busy being terrified to be righteously angry. He told her he needed protection right away in exchange for his cooperation. She laughed and told him to screw off, that this info had earned him zero points. In fact, he owed her, and he should call back when he had something of value to trade. Then she hung up.

  Norris stood with the phone in his hand, thinking. He could use a beer, was his first thought. Then he figured he’d take the cash he had hidden in the house and lie low somewhere, down in Florida, maybe, do some fishing and figure this out, come up with something to put him back in good with the Feds and then go into witness protection, maybe get a name change or something. Or even better, just wait it out till they caught Clarence. He was the fugitive, after all, not Norris. He was the one being hunted.

  That thought calmed him, so he wasn’t that rattled when the couple walked into the workshop. It was a tall, thin dude with blue eyes and dark hair, and a blond girl who looked like a cheerleader, sexy and full of pep.

  “Good morning!” she called out. “Are you Norris?”

  “Yeah,” he said, wondering how she knew that. “But we’re closed now. I’m heading out. Sorry.”

  “Nothing wrong I hope?” the dude said. “Like a family emergency?”

  “No. Well, yeah, actually, my mom’s sick.”

  “Aw, that’s too bad,” he said, picking up the handsaw and flicking the power switch on.

  “Hey! Put that down!” Norris said, but before he could take a step, the cheerleader kicked him right in the nut sack. Hard. He gasped, fighting both to breathe and not to puke as he bent double, grabbing his groin.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, reaching for the blowtorch, firing it up. “We’ll give your toys back. As soon as you tell us what you told the FBI about Clarence.”

  Norris went for the gun, the .45 he kept under his workbench, but even as he was reaching his arm out for it, the blue-eyed dude was bringing down the saw.

  21

  After transferring all the stolen equipment to the van, they stripped the Jeep of plates and other evidence and left it in the barn. The couple Clarence had rented the house from would dispose of it once things cooled down. Then Clarence and Don drove the van to a nondescript business hotel in Yonkers, just north of the Westchester county line. Joe, Yelena, and Juno took the Volvo into the city to get whatever supplies they needed. The others all had overnight bags with them, so they stopped on the way at a Walgreens, where Joe bought a pack of socks, a pack of boxers, and a pack of black T-shirts.

  “What?” he said as he tossed the stuff into the back and got in. Yelena and Juno were both grinning.

  “Nothing,” Juno said as they pulled away. “You do travel light, though, bro.”

  “I didn’t realize we were going on a honeymoon.”

  “Still. No toothbrush?”

  “Or shampoo or razor?” Yelena asked from the back.

  “I figure the hotel will h
ave all that.”

  “I think maybe your mom buys you these underwear packs, no?” she asked with a smile in the rearview. Juno laughed.

  Joe laughed, too. “Close,” he said. “My grandma.”

  When they got to the city, Juno directed Joe to a high-end electronics store downtown near Wall Street. He hopped out with a pocketful of cash from Clarence.

  “Give me about an hour,” he said. “Got to geek out with the nerds a bit.”

  “Right,” Joe said, “pick you back up here,” then drove a few more blocks to the shop Yelena needed. It was lowerend but just as specialized, catering to performers, with a wide array of wigs, theatrical makeup, and lingerie, the more spangled and sequined the better. “I’ll find parking and meet you inside,” he told her.

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “I don’t need help from a man who buys his underwear in a bag. Just meet me back where you get Juno.” She opened the door. “And don’t worry. I promise you will be pleased with what I choose.”

  She shut the door, and Joe watched her enter the store while he waited for the light to change, then he crawled a couple of blocks more and parked illegally. As long as it was not a tow-away zone, he didn’t care about tickets. In a couple of days this car would be ditched, and the names on the paperwork were all fake anyway. He bought a pack of gum at a deli to get some change and then wandered a few blocks till he found a rare working pay phone, asking the operator for the FBI’s New York headquarters. When the switchboard answered he asked for Agent Donna Zamora. They put him through and it went to voice mail. He hung up and checked his watch: 1:30. She could be on her lunch break or in a meeting. Or she could be in a hospital, with internal injuries from a beanbag load fired too close. Realizing he was just a few blocks from the federal building, and that he had time to kill, he started walking, not entirely sure why he was doing this or what he had in mind to do when he got there.

  Along the way, he bought a Yankees cap and put on the sunglasses he’d taken from the Jeep, and when he arrived out front at Foley Square, he bought a hot dog and a water from a cart, then found a bench under a tree with a view of the employee entrance. He sat and ate, watching people come and go: finance guys in white shirts, bright ties, and suspenders, and women in sharp, severe suits. Tourists looking for Ground Zero. Government workers in more sedate suits. Harried-looking civilians with papers under their arms, looking to get something stamped, or filed, or fixed. Forty minutes passed and he was thinking he’d need to give up soon. Then he saw her. Agent Zamora came around the corner in a different suit, this time navy, and a pale gray blouse, walking and talking with a young black guy in a well-cut navy suit of his own, white shirt, red tie, tightly buzzed hair. Another agent, no doubt. They hugged—nothing romantic in it, Joe noted, and spotted a wedding ring on the guy’s finger as well. Then the agent headed inside while she got in line at the coffee cart. Joe got up and stood behind her.

  He was perfectly within his rights to do so. He was not under suspicion for anything, yet, and no one was looking for him, so far. He was unarmed. He could have walked right into the building and asked to use the men’s room if he wanted. But he also realized that this was unnecessary, a needless complication, and just the sort of irrelevant trouble a professional would avoid. Only necessary trouble was worth the time and risk. Then again, life itself was a necessary trouble, sex a complication. And there was no love without risk. Some games have no pros.

  Agent Zamora was next in line now, and with a few people waiting behind him, Joe was right up close to her, close enough to smell her glimmering hair if he wanted to, or kiss her neck, or whisper in her ear. It was strange to think that their only contact, the only touch between them, had been her nails on the bracelets as she cuffed him behind his back, or the bruise his shot must have left, like a purple-and-black flower on her skin.

  Agent Zamora stepped up to the window of the cart, where a young Yemeni man was making coffees.

  “Hey, secret agent!” he said. “How’s it going? Ready for a latte?”

  “Hi, Sameer,” she said with a smile. “I am so ready.”

  The young man got to work, expertly pulling an espresso and steaming milk. “Catch a bad guy today?” he asked her. “Cinnamon?”

  “I’m trying,” she said. “Yes, please.”

  “Keep trying,” he said, handing her the coffee. “I know you’re going to get him.”

  “Thanks,” she said, “I will,” and turned to go.

  Sameer yelled, “Next,” at Joe, but Joe was already gone, walking quickly the other way, into the crowd, unwrapping a piece of gum. He didn’t look back, but if he had, he would have seen Agent Zamora peering curiously after him, before turning to go inside. Back at the car, he found a ticket on the windshield and tossed it, along with his Yankees cap, into the trash.

  Donna, meanwhile, was getting back to her office a bit late from lunch. Still thinking about Joe and if that had really been him, she was already feeling a little out of balance. And the first message she checked knocked her completely off center, so that she sat her butt right down in her chair.

  Norris the creep. Her shitkicker informer had been found dead, in his own gun workshop. And it looked as though he’d been severely, and sadistically, tortured.

  22

  Uncle Chen was being reasonable, patient, even generous. After all, he was known as a reasonable, patient, generous man, or at least one whom everyone was too scared to disagree with. In this case he waited a full twenty-four hours before he moved on Gio. Really, this was indulgent, since the trip to Flushing from Gio’s club or whatever hole in Jackson Heights this Joe character slept in would be, like, thirty minutes, forty-five with traffic. He liked Gio; he’d known him his whole life, and his father before him.

  But when a day passed after his nephew’s death, and Gio still told him that he could not reach his man and had no idea where he was, but that he was certain he had no involvement in Derek’s killing, Uncle Chen began to lose patience. And he sent Gio a little message, a reminder that even his patience had a limit.

  Gio, meanwhile, was waiting for his daughter to get her shit together so he could drive her to soccer practice, calculating how late they were and trying not to lose his own patience, when his wife pulled him into the kitchen and started whispering.

  “Nora wants to talk to you about something.”

  “Okay.” He checked his watch. They had fifteen minutes. “It better be something short, because we’re late.”

  “She got her first period this week.”

  “Jesus,” he blurted loudly. “Is she all right?”

  “Shhh … of course she is. And keep your voice down.”

  “Sorry,” he whispered. “You just caught me off guard. Give me some fucking warning next time.”

  “What do you mean? What next time? Having a daughter is the warning. It’s not like we didn’t know this was coming. It’s a good thing. She’s growing into a young woman as her body blossoms.”

  “I know, I know. I’m just, you know, wrapping my head around it.”

  “Well, wrap it up quick.” She crossed her arms, gave him her therapist look. “Because you cannot shame her or make her feel bad about her body’s natural processes. You’ll give her a complex. The father’s support is key.”

  “Yes. I realize that. Thank you. But.” He put his hand on her shoulder and lowered his voice again. “Why talk to me? Isn’t this the mom’s department?”

  “We did, and when we got on the topic of sex—”

  “Sex? Jesus, Carol, you trying to tell me—”

  “Not like having sex specifically. Calm down. That’s not even in the picture. Here. You’re sweating.” She handed him a napkin. “I was just, you know, opening up a dialogue about how her life was going to start changing now.” She frowned. “Anyway, she asked if I was going to tell you and I said yes, of course, and then she said she had some things she wanted to discuss … privately with you.”

  “Oh, I see …” He could tell t
hat this bugged the shit out of Carol, which made him feel a little better, while also making him very uneasy about what the hell it could be. “Well, you know how moody teens are.”

  “Dad!” Nora’s voice came booming as she galloped down the stairs. Gio jumped like he’d just been caught at something. “Dad, let’s go. We’ll be late!”

  “Okay, honey, coming!” he yelled.

  “Anyway,” Carol whispered at him. “She wants you, so get your shit together, Gio, and you know, man up.”

  “So,” Gio said to his daughter, who was strapped into the seat beside him staring down into her phone. He searched his mind for a conversation opener. “How’s things?”

  She looked up at him. “Did Mom tell you about my period yet?”

  He flinched a little but played it off pretty well, he thought, by looking at the road and signaling, then glancing left over his shoulder and changing lanes. “Yes, she did, honey. That’s great. I mean … natural.” He glanced at her, saw her big brown eyes on him, then stared straight ahead and cleared his throat. “Look, to be honest, I kind of always assumed you’d want to talk to your mom about these things. I mean, she’s a woman and a shrink, therapist, whatever. I’m just”—he waved his hand—“you know.”

  “I know, Dad. But that’s kind of why. I mean, I told Mom first because I needed her to get me tampons and stuff and I knew you couldn’t deal with that.”

  He shrugged. Fair enough.

  “And also because, oh my God, I know it would, like, kill her if I didn’t.”

  He chuckled.

  “But it’s like she’s almost too into it, you know? Like I totally understand why they say shrinks’ kids are the most fucked up.”

  “What? Who says that? You think you’re fucked—I mean messed up?”

  “No, God, calm down. Watch where you’re going. You’re going to hit that car. I mean that’s my point. Mom and I are super close and everything, but I feel like I need healthy boundaries with her. I don’t know, in some ways I feel you and me are more alike.”