The Hard Way

by TJ Vargo

  She kept walking, feeling more relaxed with every step as patrons either smiled or ignored her, concentrating their attention on the girls dancing on stage. She was a stripper, and damn if it didn’t feel good. Angela just about having sex with her on stage freaked her out, but based on the money these men were throwing at them, Angela knew what she was doing. She’d have to keep an eye on Billy Kelley, but all in all, this job wasn’t bad. She walked toward the white curtain that ringed the private lap dance section of the club, gripping the thick rolls of cash.

  Slipping through the curtain into the private lap dance area, she scanned the room. It was the size of a two car garage. Four separate lap dance areas, each with a white leather couch and a mini bar, were set up in the corners of the room. A big common bar filled the middle of the back wall. It was so dimly lit in here that the guys needed eyes like hawks to know what they were looking at, which was perfect for some of the older strippers. Julia let her eyes adjust and saw Angela in a corner. Her back was turned and she was mixing a drink. And she was alone. Whoever she was supposed to give a lap dance to hadn’t arrived. Julia took a step toward Angela to give her the money and nearly fell as a large man shoved through the curtain from behind, knocking into her. He didn’t even look at her as he kept walking.

  Julia opened her mouth to give him hell and stopped. She’d only gotten a quick glance, but there was no doubt. It was James Stockton. The asshole who raped her and put the scar on her face. The man who tracked her down in Tombs and would’ve raped her again if she hadn’t punched him in the balls and choked him out.

  She backed out of the room, expecting him to turn and recognize her at any moment. A cold sweat broke over her as she slipped through the curtain and walked through the club, keeping her gaze fixed straight ahead until she was back in the dressing room, sitting in front of her mirror. She touched the scar on her cheek.

  “That was close,” she whispered.

  * * * *

  Angela handed James Stockton his dirty martini with a blue-cheese-stuffed olive. The sight of it made her gag. It looked like a dirty, oily puddle of water with flecks of swirling blue cheese.

  “Are you sure her boyfriend isn’t around?” James said, looking around the room.

  Angela held her arms out. “You see anybody else in here?” she said.

  “Don’t get smart,” said James. “I meant is he gonna come busting in here looking for her?”

  Angela shook her head. “No. She wants nothing to do with him and he doesn’t even know where she is.” She tilted her head. “You scared of him?”

  “Of course not,” said James. He leaned back on the couch, sipped his drink and smacked his lips. “I just don’t need to get in an altercation in a strip club. It wouldn’t look good.” He patted the couch. “Sit down.”

  Angela sat next to him. She forced herself to smile as he rubbed her thigh and loosened his tie. Angela unbuttoned the top button on his dress shirt. He licked his lips.

  “Is she here, out in the club?” he said.

  “She’s in the dressing room,” Angela said. “She’s got a couple more stage dances to do tonight.” She winced as James slapped her thigh.

  “I didn’t come out here for nothing,” he said. “Bring her to the private room and lock the door. I need to talk to her.”

  Angela pushed James’s hand off her thigh. She stood, shaking her head. “Unh uh,” she said. “Don’t work like that.” She swallowed hard and screwed up her courage. “Here’s the deal,” she said. “I want out of this titty bar and I want that executive secretary job in the board office you promised me. Give me that and I’ll put her in that back room naked with a bow tied around her. If you don’t think that’s fair, I tell her you’ve been sniffing around. You’ll never see her again.”

  “Hold on,” James said, reaching for her. “Sit down. Let’s talk about this.”

  She slapped his hand away. She could see the wheels turning in his head. Angela knew she needed to be careful. He’d spun out a rosy line of bullshit when Julia left, telling her how he was just looking for a good simple girl he could take care of and hire as his executive secretary. His bullshit pulled her right down on his cock. But—surprise, surprise— none of his promises came true. What did come true were cuts in the budget that eliminated her maintenance job, followed by James getting her a job here at Sweetie’s and coming in for a weekly pipe cleaning. So much for a girl being taken care of.

  She looked over her shoulder, in the direction of the dressing room where Julia was sitting right now, oblivious to the trouble coming her way. She liked Julia. She could see being friends with her forever, and maybe more. There was only one problem. Life wasn’t like the TV commercials with a smiling husband, a nice house and neighbors coming over to eat hamburgers off the grill while the kids played in the backyard and a dog bounded in the sun after a Frisbee. Life was big shots like James taking everything and then making you dance, show your ass and worse. As much as she liked Julia, it was every girl for herself.

  She stepped closer to James, ran her fingers through his short thinning hair and looked him in the eye.

  “Can you get me that job or not?” she asked. He nodded. Knowing what this meant for Julia made her feel a little sick, but she smiled.

  “It won’t be official until the board authorizes it,” said James. “But they’ll do it. If I tell them to dance, they dance."

  “I want a signed contract,” she said.

  James lifted the olive from his martini and ate it. She could see blue cheese between his teeth as he talked.

  “You bring me Julia tomorrow night, and I’ll give you the contract,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  She kissed him on one cheek, and then the other.

  * * * *

  “You want me to sleep in the other room?” said Julia, walking into Angela’s bedroom wearing nothing but white cotton underwear. She toweled her hair dry as Angela pulled on a black concert tee shirt with “Rage Against The Machine” screened in red over the white outline of a fist.

  Angela turned toward Julia. “You need a shirt?”

  “I have one,” said Julia, walking over to the bed. She grabbed a black tee-shirt off the unmade sheets. It was the shirt she wore to bed last night. The one she wore the day Curtis and her had gone fishing. She pulled it on, a memory of Curtis’s smell filling her. Clean and soapy mixed with a slight musk of sweat.

  Angela jumped on the bed and fluffed her pillow. “The other bed still ain’t made up,” she said. “Just get in here.”

  Julia slipped under the cool covers. Angela turned off the lamp on her nightstand, throwing the room into darkness. Julia could smell Angela’s cinnamon body wash.

  “You did good tonight,” Angela whispered.

  “Thanks,” Julia said. A long stretch of quiet filled the room, but Julia could tell Angela wasn’t sleeping. “Hey, Angela,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What was James doing in the club tonight?” She felt Angela stiffen.

  “The same thing every other guy was doing,” said Angela. “Why are you asking?”

  Julia put a hand on Angela’s hip. Angela had taken her in, gotten her a job and here she was making Angela feel like a tramp because she gave James Stockton a lap dance. She rubbed Angela’s hip. “Sorry I even said anything,” she said. “Just keep an eye on him. He’s not what you think.”

  Angela turned over, facing Julia, the whites of her eyes glowing in the dark. Julia could smell a hint of beer on Angela’s breath from the few drafts Billy poured them after Sweeties closed. Angela touched her scar.

  “James gave you this, didn’t he?”

  She pulled Angela’s hand off her face, then nodded.

  Angela kissed the scar. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” said Julia.

  “I hope you got something out of it.”

  Julia touched the scar. “Nothing but this,” she said. “He’s a piece of shit.” She took a deep brea
th and exhaled. “You know, I can’t work at the club if he’s around. I can’t even look at him.”

  Angela ran her hand through Julia’s hair, then held her face. “He only comes for me. You’ll never have to see him.”

  “You shouldn’t either,” said Julia.

  Angela rubbed Julia’s thigh. “Men are terrible,” she said, moving her hand to Julia’s lower back. Her hand lingered there, then she reached between Julia’s thighs and began to gently rub.

  “We could leave,” said Angela. “Just you and me. We could make each other happy.”

  Angela’s hand felt good. And what she said sounded familiar. About leaving together and making each other happy. An image of Curtis appeared in Julia’s mind. His long hair. His green eyes. His muscled arms and shoulders. His smile and the way he could be so gentle and so strong at the same time. If he hadn’t stolen from that church, they could be together now. She would’ve gone anywhere with him.

  Angela rubbed faster. Soft, insistent pressure, circling around and around, sliding and pressing against her. Julia pushed against Angela’s fingers, finding a rhythm. She moaned, a memory of Curtis’s lips on hers, his breath mixing with hers, his strong hands gripping her, holding her. Angela’s voice broke her concentration, breathless and husky.

  “That’s it, Julia. We can do it together.”

  “Stop,” said Julia.

  Angela kissed her neck, still talking.

  “We’ll leave tomorrow. Neither of us will have to see James again. We’ll just leave and do our act at another club. We can go any—”

  Julia grabbed Angela’s face. “Angela, stop,” she said.

  Angela stopped. She slowly pulled her hand from between Julia’s thighs.

  “I can’t be with you like this,” said Julia. “I’m your friend. That’s all I can be.”

  Angela rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling.

  “You still thinking about that guy?” she said.

  Julia sighed. “Yeah,” she said. She grabbed Angela’s hand. “His name’s Curtis. I can’t stop thinking about him,” she said, squeezing Angela’s hand.

  “Must be something special,” said Angela.

  “He was,” said Julia.

  “Was?” said Angela.

  “Maybe still is,” said Julia. “I don’t know.”

  Angela pulled her hand away and rolled to her side. Julia rubbed her back. “You’re not mad, are you?” Julia asked.

  “I’m just tired,” Angela said.

  Julia could barely hear her as she added, “You better get some rest. You have a big day tomorrow.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Cracker got in his truck. He could feel the girl up on the deck watching his every move while her growling dog stood at her knee. The black-haired hellion in a yellow bikini, Mona Bomba, had once been Curtis Monroe’s girlfriend, but she’d be no help in finding him.

  Cracker started his truck and backed down the drive.

  The way she talked, she’d just as soon cut Monroe’s throat as look at him. She’d spouted all kinds of venom about how Monroe was responsible for her brother Sonny being brain dead. She said she was all about revenge for Sonny, but Cracker could tell it was something else. He knew jilted when he saw it. The way he figured it, that Monroe boy got himself some new tail, and Mona was not gonna let that stand. Cracker scratched the back of his neck. Good for her. Mona was a firecracker.

  The brakes on his truck squeaked as he stopped in the street. He heard barking. Mona’s dog, a big old boxer, had gotten away from her and was barreling down the driveway. Cracker rolled down his window and whistled, holding his hand out toward the dog. Mona wasn’t far behind, yelling as she ran after her dog in her bare feet. Lord, she was put together. How Monroe gave her up for new tail was beyond Cracker, which proved his theory that yes indeed the new tail had some kind of magical hold on Monroe. And finding that out was a blessing. All yesterday afternoon Cracker had dug around, looking for someone who Monroe had a relationship with. Someone he could rough up to bring Monroe out of hiding. The end result was disappointment. Fact was, it looked like this Monroe boy had no pressure points.

  His running buddy, Fitz, had skipped town. His father was a homeless bum he hadn’t talked to in years. His mother left town about fifteen years ago. He had no siblings. The last person of note was his other running buddy, Sonny Bomba, and he was brain dead in the hospital. Monroe lived like a ghost in the wind. His apartment had been clean as a tomb. The whole idea of using someone to find him seemed like a complete bust, and Cracker had even entertained the thought of telling Duck that this Monroe boy was ungettable. But then, on a hunch, Cracker broke into the apartment next to Monroe’s. Neighbors were often friends, and sometimes more than that. Monroe’s neighbor, bless her, turned out to be of the more variety. The painting in her apartment showed someone that looked just like a photo of Monroe holding hands with a girl on a beach. And there was a name on the bottom of the painting. Julia Adriani. That made things pretty damn easy. All it took was Cracker going to the apartment manager’s office and saying he had a package for Julia Adriani. The landlord pointed him to the same apartment where the painting was located, but told him she hadn’t been there for a few days—that he’d best check with her employer, Sacred Heart Church. Which was where he was headed when Derek called and filled him in about this Mona girl, how she’d been Monroe’s squeeze not too long ago. So he drove here and checked Mona out, which brought him to his current situation of watching this boxer coming for him like he was wearing porkchops for underwear.

  Cracker snapped his fingers at the big boxer, who was a stride away now, running full bore. “That’s it boy,” he murmured, watching the dog bear his fangs and leap. Cracker moved in a blur, catching the dog by the throat in mid-air. He twisted his hand around its collar and lifted. The dog’s legs kicked and clawed the side of his truck. Its eyes bugged out, its tongue turning blue as it twirled in his grasp. It made a gagging sound. Then its eyes dulled. Cracker looked up. Mona was almost here, spitting and screaming. He didn’t have time for this nonsense. He dropped the dog. Its head hit the asphalt with a clunk. He put the truck in gear and drove away, glancing in his rear view.

  The dog struggled to its feet. Mona stood in the road, one hand on a hip, the other pointing at him as she yelled. Cracker turned his attention back to the road. Monroe had himself one tough girl in Mona. If Julia Adriani was just as tough, it was gonna be a hoot trying to hold her down long enough for Monroe to come in and fight. He held his hand out his open window, riding it up and down in the wind.

  It was bound to be fun finding Julia and messing with her. Nothing was any good unless it took effort.

  Walking in the afternoon heat was getting on Cracker’s nerves. He’d knocked on doors at two of the three Sacred Heart school buildings, but they were locked and nobody was home. He needed to find somebody who could tell him where Julia Adriani was working. He walked across an asphalt playground toward the church. Somebody had to be in the church. A priest walked around a corner, making his way toward the church entrance. Cracker ran toward him.

  “Hey,” he shouted. “Excuse me. You have a minute?”

  The priest put his hand on one of the big entrance doors, stopped and turned, waiting as Cracker ascended the stairs.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  “I hope so,” said Cracker, holding out his hand.

  The priest shook Cracker’s hand. “I’m Father Sal. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a Julia Adriani. Heard she worked here.”

  “And you are?”

  “A friend,” said Cracker. “Just need to talk to her.”

  The priest tried to pull his hand away. Cracker tightened his grip.

  “All I need is a couple minutes of her time,” he drawled. “If you could just point me in the right direction, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “I’m sorry, but she doesn’t work her anymore,” said the priest, looking down at his
hand.

  “Where is she?” said Cracker, squeezing the priest’s hand.

  The priest paled. Cracker could see a slight sheen of sweat on the man’s forehead.

  “Can you let go of my hand?” said the priest.

  Cracker bore down. The priest’s knees buckled and he let out a gasp.

  Opening the door on the church, Cracker hustled Father Sal inside, keeping a tight grip on his hand.

  “Looks like you need to sit down,” he said, dragging the priest inside.

  Cracker started up his truck. He let the air conditioning run while he looked over Julia’s employment application. The priest said he didn’t know where Julia had gone, and Cracker believed him. Hard not to believe a man who pissed himself. But he’d gone the extra mile to be helpful, giving Cracker a copy of Julia’s employment application. All kinds of good information was on this piece of paper. Places she’d worked and lived before coming to Tombs. And references. People you used as references were people you stayed in touch with. Like, for example, this here Angela Duncan girl, who Julia listed as a co-worker and personal friend.

  Cracker pulled out of the church parking lot and drove, punching in the phone number for Angela on his cell. The phone rang as he reached into a plastic grocery bag on his passenger seat and pulled out a protein bar. He ripped open the wrapper and took a bite as a woman answered.

  She sounded sleepy. Damn near one in the afternoon and the girl sounded like she just woke up. Cracker stopped chewing long enough to ask if he was talking to Angela Duncan. When she asked who was calling, he asked if she knew Julia Adriani. That got her talking, asking him where he’d gotten her number. How he knew her name. She didn’t sound sleepy no more—she sounded mad and a little flustered. But, he had to hand it to her, she never said a word about Julia.