She smiled at him and leaned toward the door. Her breasts fell against the constraints of her blouse, and it was only then he realized she wasn’t even wearing a bra. “Be careful,” she said.
He stood up. “Go,” he responded. He felt control of the situation slipping away from him. The loose cannon had broken from her moorings and was rolling unchecked, a lit fuse ready to ignite her fantasies.
He waved her away and stepped into Diamond Cutters.
Chapter Twenty-One
SOUTH METRO ATLANTA
FRIDAY, AUGUST 23
Inside Diamond Cutters, a dusky world of throbbing music and shimmering mirrors threaded with a vague essence of hopelessness greeted Richard. The bleak atmosphere suggested that here anything and everything was for sale. He checked to make sure the back pocket of his pants, the one containing his wallet, was securely buttoned, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness.
“Hi,” a voice said.
It came from a woman at his side. He hadn’t seen her approach. Her eyes, dilated—whether from the interior darkness or something else, he couldn’t judge—flickered in a sort of Brownian motion as her gaze darted around the room. Her pale, freckled face, heavily made up, was framed in a tangle of hair the color of a bad sunburn. A green evening dress encased a body just beginning to surrender to the challenges of being thirty-something. The low-cut top of the gown exposed a cleavage that was on par with the Columbia River Gorge where it parted the Cascade Mountains.
“I’m Wendy. If you’d like to sit awhile, I’ve got some time.” An expensive cologne couldn’t mask a breath embalmed in a chain-smoker’s fetor.
“Wendy, I’m sorry. I’m meeting someone. Perhaps another time.”
She forced her face into a pout. “I might be busy next time.”
“I’ll take a number.”
“I can’t give that out,” she answered, missing Richard’s little joke.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “we probably could have had a scintillating conversation.”
She frowned at him, puzzled.
“We could’ve had fun,” he explained, not wanting to dig the needle any deeper. “You seem like a nice lady, Wendy. I’ll look for you next time. Is that the only bar in here?” He nodded to his left, toward a long mahogany-railed structure, backed by a mirror, that ran the full length of the club.
“That’s the only one,” Wendy said.
At the rear of the establishment, several dozen TVs, the set-pieces of a sports viewing section, festooned three walls. To Richard’s right, a vast lounge area revealed a clutter of tables and secluded booths, empty at this hour. Soft, indirect lighting, a low ceiling and walls draped in dark fabric fell short in their attempt to portray something classy.
Separating the lounge and bar was an elevated runway with several vertical poles and overhead speakers the size of commercial air conditioning units that shook the nearly-deserted club with Richter-scale enthusiasm.
“Thanks,” Richard said. “Next time.” He nodded to her and walked to the bar. He climbed into a high, wooden chair, making certain there was no one seated near him on either side.
The bartender, a wiry little man with thin, brown hair and Ben Franklin spectacles approached Richard, leaned across the bar and cocked his head so he could hear.
“Irish coffee. No whipped cream,” Richard said. He knew he didn’t have to say easy on the whiskey. That would be automatic.
“You got it, buddy. Give me a minute or two to make sure the coffee’s fresh.”
Richard turned to survey the club. A leggy, raven-haired girl wearing nothing more than a Revlon smile and red high heels came onto the runway and began a suggestively choreographed dance with one of the poles. She twisted into contortions that firemen never dreamed of, that in fact probably would have turned their faces scarlet. She shimmied the lower part of her body in mock ecstasy against the pole while at the same time leaning her head and shoulders back, allowing an overhead spotlight to illuminate breasts the size of—and probably the same consistency as—south Georgia watermelons.
Richard found the performance strangely repulsive and turned his attention to the few patrons in the club, all of whom sat along the perimeter of the runway. One man apparently had found the show less than stimulating. Cheek resting on the narrow flat railing edging the runway, his snores provided an almost inaudible counterpoint to the thudding beat of the music.
Another visitor appeared more interested in the sports section of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution than the girl feigning an orgasm with a brass pole. Not everyone seemed put off by the show, however. Across from the snorer, a young man, probably barely old enough to be in the place, nursed a beer and watched in rapt attention as the girl begin to focus what little interest she could muster on him. The kid fidgeted self-consciously; Richard guessed a certain part of his anatomy had begun to outgrow its allotted space.
Next to the youth, two men seemed to be discussing some sort of business deal. At least one of them was, the older of the two. The other, a moon-faced kid in an ill-fitting business suit, seemed to be having a difficult time attempting to follow what the older guy was saying while at same time making certain he didn’t miss a single bump or grind of Miss Melons. Periodically he’d nod his head, but it appeared to be more in time with the music than in response to what he was being told.
Richard figured that was the point of this distracting venue: The kid would agree to whatever his opposite was proposing or selling, and only in the light of day, and absence of liquor and sexual suggestion, would he realize he’d signed off on a pig in a poke.
Richard scanned the establishment carefully. Nothing seemed threatening or out of place, though he doubted he would have known if something were. He had no frame of reference.
“Eight bucks, buddy.” The bartender slid a steaming mug of coffee toward Richard.
“Must be a lot of Tullamore Dew in there.”
“I don’t price ’em, I just pour ’em, partner.”
Richard laid a ten on the bar. In the mirror he watched the dancer wrap herself around the pole, a Boa Constrictor squeezing its prey. The man reading the newspaper peeked over the top of it in the direction of the bar. He made brief eye contact with Richard, then lifted the paper and went back to reading. The booming music suddenly ceased, and the girl fell away from the pole, laying out on her back, arching her body and fixing a vacant gaze on the kid with the beer. The kid stood, tugging at the crotch of his jeans, leaned across the runway and placed a bill between her monolithic breasts. Richard wondered if she’d been raised near Stone Mountain.
A flash of sunlight filled the club’s entrance. Richard turned his head. A figure silhouetted against the exterior brilliance paused for a moment, then walked toward the lounge. But even before the new arrival was clearly visible, Richard recognized the broad-brimmed straw hat. “Ah, shit,” he said. He turned away, grabbed his coffee and took a long swig.
“Everything okay, buddy?” the bartender asked.
“Why can’t women ever do what they’re told?”
The bartender shrugged. “Do I look like Dr. Phil?”
Richard watched Marty in the CinemaScope mirror behind the bar. Wendy was watching her, too, ready to pounce like a lioness defending her territory. Marty seated herself at a table on the far side of the runway. She removed a compact from her purse and powdered her face, then took a hard look in the direction of the bar. The bartender put two and two together. “You know that lady? Not many just stroll in here by themselves at 10 o’clock in the morning.”
Richard wondered if she’d just blown the deal, scared off whomever he was supposed to meet. “Casually,” he said.
“Trouble?”
“No. No trouble.” I can only hope. He took another draft from his coffee mug.
The snoring man jerked awake, appare
ntly startled by the abrupt silence in the club. He looked around and spotted Marty. He took a comb from his shirt pocket and ran it through his hair. He tucked the comb away, produced a small container of breath freshener and sprayed a shot into his mouth.
The man with the newspaper looked at Marty, too, then Richard. He seemed to be trying to make a connection, but couldn’t quite fit the pieces together. He tossed the paper onto the runway and stood up. Short and dark with a thin thread of a mustache and thick, wavy hair, he remained in place for a moment, surveying the club. Then he moved toward Richard. Richard tracked him in the mirror, but the man walked past, toward the restrooms in back.
The music started up again, and another young woman wearing nothing more than what she was born with plus platform shoes strutted onto the runway. She actually was more realistically proportioned than her predecessor, somewhat more restrained in her movements, her sexuality more implicit than explicit. Still, Richard saw Marty’s eyes widen as the dancer embraced the pole, sliding her pelvis up and down the brass shaft.
Another flash of light near the door drew Richard’s attention. As the transient illumination faded he made out the form of the pimp he’d seen outside earlier, the guy in the duster and porkpie hat. A strange outfit for mid-summer. Dressing for effect, Richard decided.
The guy still had his sunglasses on. He remained near the door momentarily, then moved off toward the rear of the club, heading for the sports viewing area. He stayed on the far side of the runway, passing close to where Marty sat. As he continued walking, Marty’s gaze followed him. She looked toward the bar briefly, then back at the pimp. It was almost as if she recognized him, but wasn’t sure. Somebody from her congregation? Not likely. But who? A tiny warning light glowed amber somewhere near the base of Richard’s brain. Coming from the other direction, Mr. Sleepyhead made his way toward Marty. Richard’s intuition told him it was time to bail out, that there were suddenly way too many players, and no way of identifying who was in the game and who wasn’t.
He stood to go, but felt a restraining hand on his shoulder.
“Do you have the money, Mr. Wainwright?” asked the same voice he’d heard on the phone the previous evening. The voice’s owner, the newspaper reader, seated himself next to Richard.
“You are Ebraheem Khassem, I assume?” Richard held his gaze on the man’s eyes.
“Yes.” The man leaned in close, placing his mouth next to Richard’s ear and whispered, “I worked with Alnour Barashi. You know him as Dr. Alano Gonzales.”
“I know him as Barashi, too.” Richard patted his damaged shoulder.
“Of course. Last night. Then you understand the danger. Let us make this quick then.” Khassem kept his mouth near Richard’s ear, his words competing with the pulsing throb of the music. His breath suggested he’d had a cheese omelet for breakfast.
Richard glanced in the mirror, saw Mr. Sleepyhead standing at Marty’s table, bending over, making his pitch, and getting a good view down the front of her blouse. She seemed taken aback by something he said, and in shock covered her mouth with her hand, then said something back. He laughed and she did, too. She smiled sweetly at him, tugged him by his collar down to her face and spoke into his ear. He jerked backward, sputtering and cursing. The only words that reached Richard’s ears were “dyke pervert.” The man stumbled back to his seat by the runway. Richard returned his attention to Khassem.
“Yes,” Richard agreed, “we can make it quick.” The sooner he and Marty were out of this modern-day den of iniquity, the better.
“You have the check and the cash?” Khassem asked.
Richard made certain no one was watching, then withdrew twenty one-hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. Covering the currency with his hand, he slid the money along the bar to Khassem.
The informant snatched the bills, placed them surreptitiously in his lap and riffled through them. Satisfied the amount was correct, he nodded and stuffed the money into his pants pocket. “The check,” he demanded.
Richard opened his wallet again. From it he plucked the Wells Fargo check and laid it on the bar. He allowed Khassem to view it, then just as the Arab reached for it, picked it up and replaced it in his wallet. “As soon as the deal’s completed,” Richard chided.
The bartender approached, probably hoping for another eight-dollar coffee order. From the back of the club, the pimp strode in their direction. “Tell me what Barashi’s planning,” Richard said, his gaze following the pimp. Why such a determined gait?
“This will help,” Khassem said. He extended a small piece of paper toward Richard.
Richard took the scrap and glanced at it. A hand-written list of some sort. He jammed it into his pocket. He was more interested in the approaching figure. Something was wrong. The pimp and his ankle-length duster. The hat. Shades. Way out of place. A disguise. Hands not visible. Something beneath his coat. Fully exposed, Richard tensed. The pimp, just a half-dozen paces away, kept his head down.
Khassem leaned toward Richard, focusing on him, nothing else. “He’s going after the tent—” He stopped, seeing something in Richard’s eyes.
Four strides. The pimp lifted his head. Even behind the sunglasses the face was unmistakable.
“Barashi!” Richard yelled, his warning challenging the thudding music.
Khassem turned.
Two strides.
Richard stood. Something hit the floor, bounced, stopped. Barashi broke into a sprint. Without calculating or counting, Richard knew he had five seconds. “Over the bar!” he screamed at Khassem.
Four seconds. Khassem froze. Richard threw himself across the top of the bar.
Three seconds. Richard plunged onto a hard, corrugated rubber mat behind the bar, dragging the befuddled bartender down with him. Someone cursed loudly.
Two seconds. Richard scrambled along the mat, trying to distance himself from the grenade on the other side.
One second. He curled into a ball.
Thunder and lightning erupted simultaneously. A shock wave of compressed air and heat swept over Richard, the dense mahogany of the bar deflecting much of the blast upward. Liquor bottles disintegrated like punctured balloons, showering him in a squall of booze and multi-colored glass shards. The panoramic mirror fractured into crystalline lacework, then spilled from its frame in a slow-motion waterfall. The bitter after-taste of chemical ignition hung in the air, mixing with a roiling cloud of gray-black smoke that filled the club with an acrid haze.
Part of the ceiling fell away, and tiny rivers of flame darted from the gaping hole. An alarm clattered, although Richard had trouble differentiating it from the residual ringing in his ears. Someone screamed. Someone else shouted. Overhead, the automatic sprinklers opened up, and cascades of water showered down.
Richard struggled to his knees and peeked over the shattered escarpment of the bar. Khassem’s body, its trunk at least, lodged in the broken superstructure of the counter. A bloodied arm and leg lay on the smoldering floor nearby. A rolling moan from behind Richard drew his attention. The barkeep, bleeding profusely from a head wound, crawled on his hands and knees through the coarse carpet of broken glass lining the floor.
“Stop crawling,” Richard commanded. “Sit up. Press this against your scalp.” He tossed the bartender a towel he found next to a stainless steel sink that hung limply from broken supports.
The bartender stared at him, through him. “What happened?” he said.
“Hand grenade. Put the towel on your head, it’ll stop the bleeding. Cops will be here in a minute.” Richard stood. The sprinklers soaked him, but at least had cleared the smoke. He wiped the water from his eyes and searched for Marty. He couldn’t spot her. She’d been beyond the radius of the damage, so shouldn’t be injured. Frightened and stunned, maybe, but... Where the hell is she?
He clambered over the bar and staggered toward where she�
�d been seated. Water continued flooding into his eyes and, half-blinded, he stumbled through the smoldering debris. He fell over the legs of an inverted chair. He tried to stand, but the room spun in centrifugal anarchy, and he went down.
A hand under his armpit lifted him up. “Come on, buddy, let’s get out of here.” It was the young kid who’d been nursing a beer near the runway.
“Wait,” Richard said. He scanned the area where Marty had been seated. Deliberately. Slowly. Carefully. She wasn’t there.
“Come on, mister, this place is on fire,” the kid said, his voice threaded in urgency. He steered Richard outside, and they staggered into piercing sunlight. Richard squeezed his eyes shut against the brightness, then slowly opened one, searching for the white pickup. Nowhere to be seen. Across the street, several people who’d been in the club, both patrons and entertainers, stood together, gesturing wildly to each other. No Marty.
“You okay?” the kid asked.
“Yeah,” Richard said, “things have stopped spinning and ringing.” He drew a deep breath. “Thanks for yanking me out of there.” Sirens wailed in the distance. He knew he couldn’t afford to wait around. The last thing he needed was for the police to identify and arrest him. The first order of business was to find Marty. The second, to stop Barashi. And undoubtedly the two were linked. “You got a car?” he asked the kid.
“Around the corner.” The kid looked at him uncertainly. “You should stay here. Get some medical attention.”
“I’m fine. Just got the wind knocked out of me.” Probably a slight concussion, too. He remembered a down-at-the-heels motel he’d seen in the distance as he and Marty reconnoitered the area earlier. “My motel is about five blocks from here. I’d really appreciate it if you could drop me there.”
The kid hesitated.
Richard fished a $50 bill out of his wallet. “For your trouble,” he said, handing it to the young man.
“This way,” the kid said.
Thick, black smoke shot from the roof of Diamond Cutters. Apparently the sprinklers had been less than totally effective. A police car and fire truck rolled up as Richard and the young man departed.
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