Flustered, Ralph jumped back, then caught himself. “Oh, Mr. Gage. How are you this evening?” He straightened his tie and smoothed his hand through his over gelled hair.
Harden draped a friendly arm around Ralph’s shoulders. Ralph’s entire body went stiff, but he didn’t put up a fight when Harden led him back into the kitchen to his tiny office. Footsteps echoed behind them. Harden didn’t need to peek over his shoulder to know Bruno had his back because Bruno always had his back.
All three of them couldn’t fit into the office. It didn’t matter. The kitchen staff gave them a wide berth, not that they needed to. No blood would be spilled, for now.
“Jentry Playne. She’s working tonight, isn’t she?”
Ralph’s eyes nearly fell out of his head and sweat popped up on his forehead. Seemed like Harden was wrong. He retrieved his switchblade from his pocket and shoved Ralph across his desk, surprised the cheap plywood didn’t buckle under the man’s weight. “Where. The. Fuck. Is she? Lie and you lose an eye.” Tell the truth and I don’t like it, you lose more than an eye.
“I fired her.” The breathy words smelled like garlic when breathed into Harden’s face.
“Don’t scream.” The knife pierced the skin right below Ralph’s eye. A whimper eked out. Harden let it slide because the man didn’t scream. He should’ve specified more accurately. “Why did you fire her?”
“She didn’t show up for work yesterday. I had to set an example.” He blubbered, spittle flying from his mouth.
The words poured out of him so fast Harden had to decipher them on the back end. Then he was pissed, at himself. He told her he would take care of it and he didn’t. There were more important things on his agenda than calling her job and telling her boss she wouldn’t be into work when he was her fucking boss! Except, he’d hired this pissant to deal with the servers, kitchen, and bar staff.
Fuck!
He eased off the pissant and allowed him to gain his footing and grab a Kleenex to press to the wound. It wasn’t deep, barely a nick.
“You fired her, and she left. That’s it?”
“Y-yes, sir.” Ralph eyed him wearily.
“All she had to do was tell you she was with me,” he mumbled, annoyed at the stupidity of the situation.
Ralph’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. But the man had nothing in his mouth other than spit. Harden returned his full attention to Ralph. “Did she tell you she was with me and you still fired her?” He measured each word carefully, hiding his fury because he already knew the answer.
Sweat poured off Ralph and he visibly trembled. He opened his mouth to answer, but only shallow pants escaped. No words.
“Answer Mr. Gage,” Bruno said. His wide body blocked the staff from seeing inside the room.
“Yes, sir. She—Ms. Playne—said she was with you, but I didn’t believe her.”
“Why?” Harden demanded.
Ralph shrugged and looked at his shoes. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I just didn’t.”
Harden placed the tip of his blade under Ralph’s chin. The man had been with him for two years. He kept his mouth shut and minded his damn business. The only thing that saved his throat from ventilation was the busy kitchen staff outside of the office door.
Harden leaned in and whispered in Ralph’s ear. “Pray I find her tonight and that she is fine. Pray not one hair on her head is hurt. Pray she’s not spiteful and doesn’t want you flayed. Only then will you survive ’til morning.”
Chapter Eight
Five steps forward. Ten steps backward. From positive one, to negative nine. The sum of her life left her with a negative balance. That’s what she thought as she eyed Split-Tail, the local neighborhood strip joint. A high-class establishment it was not. Not the location in Hunts Point all the way in the Bronx, nor the half lot the building sat on the corner of the block.
Jesus. Stifling her depression under a numbing blanket of duty and responsibility, Jentry shifted the duffle bag higher on her shoulder and crossed the street against the flow of traffic. Horns blared. Jaywalking in NYC should be an Olympic sport. The parking lot was packed, as always. Morning, noon, and night. Split-Tail was a twenty-four-hour joint. It wasn’t even closed for Christmas.
There were a group of motorcycles in the parking lot and more than a few high-end cars, and she wasn’t talking BMW or Mercedes. She spotted a Jag, a Porsche, and even a Maclaren. Had the Yankees decided to take a tour of the neighborhood outside of the stadium and dropped in for some entertainment?
Highly doubting that were the case, she pushed open the door and slipped inside. The sound hit her first. Tyler had spent good money on the sound system and sound proofing so the neighborhood wouldn’t file noise complaints. The heat hit her second. Too many bodies jammed together. The place wasn’t huge. The fire ordinance capped the body count at five hundred for admittance in the establishment. From the doorway she could tell they were close, if not already, over that number.
“I thought you quit.”
She plastered on a grin and looked at Oscar guarding the entryway. “Nah, I just needed some time off.” Truth was, she hadn’t quit. She told Tyler she needed a sabbatical and would let him know when to put her back on the schedule. All the girls did it. They’d find a new job, or a new sugar daddy and go play house for a few months until the sugar turned sour or the job demanded too much, like waking up early and arriving on time.
“Where’s Tyler?”
Oscar shrugged. “Try his office.”
She nodded and headed that way. Dixie waited to take the stage. A black girl from Texas. Her thing was country music, and she loved Lil Nas X and Billy Ray Cyrus’s “Old Town Road.” That tune came on and she took the stage in her string bikini and chaps to shouts and catcalls. Jentry paused to watch Dixie’s fluid moves, then headed for the rear. Yeah, no baseball players she could readily spot, though it wasn’t as if they’d wear their uniform for this kind of extracurricular activity.
Time to kiss ass, she turned away from the crowd and strode to the back hallway. The office, dressing room, and access to the stage lay that way. It didn’t take long to run into a familiar face exiting Tyler’s office. Sara, his girlfriend, though they were more off than on. A former dancer, she managed the girls, a.k.a. snitched whenever it worked to her advantage.
“Back already, huh. The real world chewed you up real fast and spit you back out, huh.” Sara folded her arms and leaned against the wall, glaring at Jentry.
Jentry shrugged because there was no use denying it. Whatever she said would be thrown right back at her. So let Sara believe what she wanted.
“Can I talk to Tyler?”
“Sure. He’s in there.” Sara tipped her head at the closed door. “Go on in.” Instead of going about her business, Sara opened the door without knocking and entered. “Guess who’s back?” She stepped aside.
Jentry entered, as humble as pie, and took in the man seated on his gold leaf throne behind the matching desk. Tyler, the self-named Pussy King, was present and had to be knocking on sixty’s door, hard. But he wore it well. A health nut, he took care of his body and dyed his graying hair jet back. Too bad he didn’t dye his chest hair, of which he had an abundance creeping out of the vee of his sweater.
“Hey, Tyler.” He went on a first name basis. It made him feel younger. “I need my job back.” No use beating around the bush. There wasn’t another reason for her to be here. This wasn’t the type of job one stopped by to shoot the shit and reminisce about the good times.
He looked her up and down, inspecting her. Nothing had changed. She hadn’t grown a third eye or lost a limb, and she hadn’t gained a hundred pounds. She was still the same girl that quit, certain she was never going to darken the club again. She was done with this life. Yet here she was, choking bitterly on a slice of rancid humble pie.
“All you girls are the same. You come here when you’re down and out. Make some money, then think you’re too good for the place that kept you off the street
and put food in your belly. You all leave here on your high horse until you topple off and come crawling back begging for another chance. And what do I do? Huh? What do I do with you girls that use my kindness against me?”
He didn’t want an answer. The monologue was an ode to what a magnanimous human being he was. Jentry kept her mouth shut and her head bowed.
He sighed as if the speech was just too much for him. “We have a good crowd out there tonight. High rollers. Important people who are here playing nice with each other. Good liquor and good pussy will keep them that way. You go on stage, shake your ass, do your thing. Afterward, work the room, lap dances, champagne room, whatever they want. And mind your damn business. You hear nothing. You see nothing. Make your money and keep your mouth shut. Understand me?”
Jentry didn’t have a problem with that until someone got overly handsy. Meaning no fingers in dark crevices. No hair pulling. And she got on her knees for no one. Ever.
“Absolutely.” She nodded once.
“And I don’t want any baby daddy drama! Any of that shit, and you’re out of here. Understand?”
If Carl were out of prison, Jentry would be worried, but he wasn’t free. And that was the only reason she was still in New York.
“Absolutely.”
Tyler nodded once. “Alright then. It’s gonna be a long and prosperous night. You go on after Hennessy.”
Jentry murmured a thank you and glanced at the rotation chart on his wall. Hennessy was ninth on the list. Dixie was still on stage and she was second. It would be at least two hours before Jentry’s turn, depending on how well the dancer performed. With the amount of money flowing out there, all would extend their sets. All Jentry could do was hope the customers had money left when she finally took the stage.
With a sigh, she exited the room, crossed the hallway, and entered the packed dressing room. Some of the girls she knew: Hennessy, Cristal, Lotus, though they didn’t speak to her. A friendly nod, a slight wave, that was it. The rest didn’t look her way. Good.
Alright. No problem. She pulled her flesh-colored G-string and the matching triangle bikini top from her bag. The bolero she’d matched with the G-string and bikini wasn’t there. Damn it.
She squeezed into a cranny behind the door because there was nowhere else, and God forbid someone made room for her. She didn’t need much room to strip out of her clothes, fold them neatly and shove them to the bottom of her duffle bag, along with all her hopes and dreams, because it was time to put Jentry Playne away. She freed the long wig from the bag and shook the tresses out—and let Lush take her place.
∞∞∞
Harden stood in the middle of Jentry’s apartment, his eye darting from one side of the studio apartment to the other, as if any second she would magically appear simply because he demanded she do so. Four hours she’d been missing. Four whole fucking hours. He’d called her, repeatedly, but either her phone was dead, or it was off. Both were irresponsible given he could’ve been calling her about the child. Granted, she hadn’t been missing for four days and hadn’t called to check in on her kid, it just felt like it had been four days. At least to him. He didn’t ask Bruno’s opinion.
Harden searched the apartment again for anything out of place. But how could he tell when he’d been here one time. To him, everything looked out of place.
Four hours and counting. He’d killed and buried people in less time. His anger burned hotly beneath his skin, causing his hands to curl into tight fists desperate to strike something. He had to find her. Had to. Not because he made a promise to Julius to protect her.
But because he needed to find her for his own selfish well-being. He needed to see her, touch her, know she was alive, fine, healthy, and whole, then he’d strangle her for making him feel so incompetent and vulnerable.
He kicked the folding tray table into the nearest wall, sending mail and papers flying into the air. Closing his eyes as the papers and envelopes fluttered around him, he breathed deeply, trying to calm down. It didn’t work. He’d already crossed the threshold into rage. Impotent rage. If she weren’t alive, a lot of people were going to die.
Bruno talking to someone registered through Harden’s rage. They weren’t alone anymore. Backup had arrived. What would Harden do without his wingman, underboss, friend?
Head bowed, Harden focused on the first time he saw her stocking the bar. He had no idea who she was, but he wanted to know. More than that, he wanted to own, covet. All that he knew from that first glance. That was enough for him to shove the notion to the back of his mind and lock it away. Why? Because before he even knew her name, he knew she would be a liability. A weakness some enterprising young fool would attempt to exploit. She would be hurt because she was important to him. Not some toy to use when he remembered he hadn’t been laid in a while. But important in a fundamental way. All that had registered in that first glance.
He had to find her, and she had to be alright. Allie needed her mother.
Who the hell was he kidding? He needed her, more and more each day.
Harden opened his eyes. An eviction notice draped across his shoes. He snatched it off and read each word of the official document as the situation became clearer.
Single mother, just lost her job, about to be evicted. Ninety percent of him rejected everything he just listed, because she wasn’t a single mother. She had him. She hadn’t just lost her job because she had him. She wasn’t about to be evicted because she had him. I gave her a job, a roof over her head, an apartment, and a fucking nanny. Jentry had hired the woman but Harden paid ninety percent of the nanny’s salary. Not that Jentry was aware. How else could she afford a full-time caregiver for the child?
Wait… Is that why she didn’t come to him, because of pride? The apartment, the job, the nanny. Was it as simple as she didn’t want to owe him?
Can’t blame her for that. Harden snorted. He wasn’t the type anyone wanted to owe anything to because he collected.
Stupid fucking woman. Her life is in danger over pocket change.
He fisted the eviction notice then pocketed it. “You’re out of a job and broke with a kid to support and about to be evicted. What’s your next move?” he said to Bruno without looking over his shoulder at him.
“You need fast money. Pawn some shit.”
“Does it look like she has anything worthwhile to pawn?” Harden asked dryly, turning to face his friend. Ever stoic, Bruno stood in the doorway with three of their men behind him, waiting. “She needs money, fast.”
“People who need money fast do stupid things,” Bruno murmured.
“Women who need money do stupid things.” Desperate things. Harden took out his phone and called Ralph. “Jentry’s employment records, you have them?” he snapped in lieu of hello.
“Yes, Mr. Gage. One moment while I get them off the computer.”
Harden listened to Ralph huff and puff as he hustled back to his office. Then he had to listen to the rapid tap of his fat fingers on the keyboard of his desktop computer.
“Ah. Yes. I have her record here, sir. What do you need?”
“Employment history. The names and addresses of her last few jobs.” Maybe she went back to one of them hoping they’d rehire her.
“There’s only one place she worked before. Split-Tail on Oak Point Avenue in Hunts Point.”
Funny how plans go awry. He wanted nothing more than to go to Catalyst, eat some good food, watch Jentry work behind the bar for a bit, and handle some business for a few hours. Later, he’d drive her home and talk to her, get to know her better. Platonic shit. Keep her and the child safe. That’s all he had planned for the night.
Harden ended the call and slowly returned the phone to his pocket. He checked the weapon on his hip and the extra clips in the lining of his coat. Silently, Bruno did the same, as did the rest of the men. Harden left the apartment, jogged down the stairs and exited the building. Double-parked and idling, his Range Rover and another car waited for their return, the door held open by
a lackey. Harden folded himself into the back seat. It took a second for Bruno to join him in the warm interior.
“Where to?” Bruno demanded. The driver and him waited for his answer.
“Split-Tail on Oak Point Avenue.” The car didn’t move. “You got a problem driving?” he snapped at the driver.
“No, sir.” The engine purred when the transmission shifted to drive. Not that Bruno noticed with his attention firmly locked on Harden as if he had a bull’s-eye on his neck.
“You do know that’s not friendly territory,” Bruno groused.
Harden grunted.
Bruno sat back, not pleased, and took out his phone and started texting. “We need more men.”
“We’re not declaring war. We’re retrieving one wayward lamb. No blood shed tonight.”
It was Bruno’s turn to grunt. “We’ll see.”
Harden stifled an annoyed sigh. “…We will indeed.”
Chapter Nine
They were spotted as soon as they pulled onto Oak Point Avenue. Runners and lookouts on the corners. They couldn’t know who he was, but the car spoke for Harden. Range Rover, and not the base model, tricked out. Men in suits inside. Two cars, identical in every detail.
The parking lot was full. So they had to park in the overflow in the rear. One man stayed with Harden’s car, behind the wheel, engine on. Harden walked across the graveled lot to the paved parking lot, weaving slowly through the cars. Some souped-up, tricked out muscle cars made to stroke a man’s ego as he tooled down the street. Others, just expensive. A Porsche, a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, sweet rides, completely out of place in the South Bronx. So out of place as to draw the unwanted attention of the police or worse, the feds. Stupid and reckless.
Not too out of place were the rows of motorcycles lining up against the north fence. MC clubs and strip joints went together like chips and dip. It was a symbiotic relationship, one he wouldn’t have questioned if the sight didn’t violently clash with the luxury cars parked right next to the bikes.
Plain Jane and Mr. Wrong (Plain Jane Series Book 4) Page 6