Most were early-offs from work, but I recognized three of the ones at the bar as three who had been playing pool in Siberia when I had my little run-in with Frank Meadows and Carl Rakes. They wore jackets, and it wasn’t cold in here or outside. I figured that since I was wearing a jacket and had a gun, then everybody in this place who had on a jacket was probably heeled, too. I checked out the other patrons and there were only four jackets in the entire place, and I was one of them.
I didn’t know if they had recognized me or not, but I was careful not to make any moves and attract attention. I sat there for a half hour and saw several patrons leave and a few others come in. The three men at the bar didn’t move. I ordered two more beers and downed them at ten dollars a pop. Right when I was rising to leave, another dancer came out. Enrique Iglesias sang through the speakers about wanting to be my hero as a strawberry blond Mexican woman danced toward the pole. She looked like one of the women we’d seen in the canyon. She was naked, not wearing a stitch and her tiny body was tight and taut. I watched her routine and when the song was almost over, I walked to the steps leading off the stage. When she came down, I could see I’d been wrong, that she wasn’t one of the women at the canyon but an older version of them, someone in their thirties.
As she smiled at me and stepped down to pass I said, “You’re from Durango, right?”
Her smiled faltered a moment then caught again and she said in perfect English, “No, I’m from here. But I’ll give you this, that’s the oddest come-on line I’ve ever heard.”
“I apologize. You looked like someone I know from there.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Maybe I can cheer you up with my next dance.”
A drunk staggered to us and spilled part of his full beer on my pants as he looked with adoration at the woman. He wore a pale blue uniform shirt with Calvin embroidered over the pocket. He held a five-dollar bill toward the woman and tried to push me out of the way, “Thass my woman, buddy, thass the woman I love.”
I went with his push and he fell like he’d leaned against a door and missed. The glass tinked and clunked on the floor and sprayed beer across the feet of two men coming out of an office door.
One of them was a tall, very lean man with a slim, silver-headed cane. He wore a black Armani suit that matched the wet-looking, combed-back black hair. The hair fit his skull like a helmet.
The other man was Carl Rakes.
The small woman stepped back as Carl jerked Calvin off the floor with one hand and slammed him against the wall. Calvin’s feet fluttered six inches off the floor as if he was walking on air.
Carl said, “You hairshid piece of horseneck face!”
I snorted and Carl pointed to me with his free hand, “And you, I nod forget you, Baca.”
I spoke to the other man, “You want to rein in your puppy? This poor guy was drunk, that’s all.”
He stepped to within three feet of me and held the slender cane across his thighs in a relaxed pose. The right hand stayed on the silver handle. He wasn’t just lean; he was thin to emaciation, with a gaunt face, hollow cheeks and eyes as black as a vampire’s. His deep voice had an east European accent as he said, “I do not tell Carl what to do. He vill do as he pleases.”
“Bella Lugosi,” I said.
He frowned, “What?”
“You know, Dracula, from the old black and white movie they show on late night TV. You’re trying to sound like Lugosi. Try this,” I did my best Dracula imitation, “Listen to them, the Children of the Night, Blahh.”
He took it in for a moment, then the smallest smile appeared. It looked like a death rictus. “Carl, let the customer go.” Carl started to say something but the dark haired man spoke in a foreign language and Carl dropped Calvin like a piece of dirty laundry. Calvin scuttled off on his hands and knees like a crab and disappeared into the darkness between the tables. The man said to me, “It will be best if you go, too. Carl doesn’t always do as I request.”
I stuck out my hand and said, “I hate to leave without introductions. My name’s Ronny Baca and you are...?”
He didn’t take my hand, but said, “Simon Mortay. Leave.”
I took his advice, but as I left, I saw Carl grab the strawberry-haired woman by the arm and jerk her into the office. Simon Mortay, Old Mister Creepy watched me until I went out the door.
There was a place in the back edge of the parking lot where I could see both doors, so I pulled the Corvette into place and settled into the seat.
Four hours later when the sun was setting, I decided I had to leave and find a place to pee. Those three beers I’d had were knocking on my bladder door and demanding to be let out. As I started the car and pulled away, the club’s back door opened and the strawberry-haired woman walked across the lot.
So much for relief. I turned the wheel and followed her to a green Lexus. She recognized me as I got out, “Mister, you crazy? They got video on this lot, and if Carl or Mr. Mortay see you...They don’t play by the rules, you understand?”
“Okay, get in and come with me, we’ll go someplace safer.”
“Don’t you get it? I don’t want them to see me with you.”
“Did they hurt you after I left? I saw Carl grab you, take you into the office.”
“Look, I don’t like to see people hurt. You gotta go.”
“One last question.” And it really was the last question unless I didn’t mind wetting myself in public.