The Killer's New Wife

The girl was going to be some serious, high-grade, supercharged capital-T Trouble.

She came out wearing her black jeans and one of my ex’s shirts. It was a button-down blouse, dark blue, slightly sheer. I could see the vague outline of her black bra over her full breasts. I didn’t bother to hide my gaze, and she didn’t try to pretend like she didn’t notice.

“Come on,” I said, and we headed downstairs. My car was parked halfway up the block, a small black BMW, almost as dinged and beat-up as Dean’s Jeep. Tara made a little face as she climbed into the passenger side.

“What’s with the beat-up cars?” she asked.

“Nice cars get attention,” I said, and pulled out into traffic.

She leaned back in the seat and stared out the window. I could guess what she was thinking—probably wondered if there was a way to escape. Maybe she could jump out at a light, if she were fast enough, and maybe she could get lost in the crowds in Center City. I doubted it though. I was good at following people, assuming I’d follow.

If she was thinking it, she didn’t try. I appreciated that. Sooner or later, she’d make an attempt, but it was nice that she was playing the game for now. I drove around City Hall and headed north toward Fairmount. I turned right and rolled toward the river.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” she asked as I pulled up outside of a nondescript tan building. The windows were covered over with paper, and there was a simple sign up above the red door: Larry’s Club.

“We’re here to see Larry,” I said, killing the engine.

“Who the hell is Larry?”

I got out and headed toward the door. She followed reluctantly, but kept her distance. I pushed the door open and stepped into a short, dark hall that opened up through some thick velvet curtains that smelled like smoke into a large open room with a stage at one end and a bar on the right. The silver pole glittered, even with the house lights up.

Larry sat at the bar, drinking coffee and counting out cash. He was always there, day and night. He loved his goddamn club, with its worn-out strippers and its drunk clientele. Someone got beat up and robbed in this place at least once per week, but Larry couldn’t give it up.

He was heavyset and older, well into his sixties. His was nearly bald on top but he still wore what was left of his hair long and pulled into a ponytail. His goatee was trimmed carefully, and his Hawaiian shirt looked like it had enough cloth for a sailboat. He looked over as I approached, and Tara lingered near the door, looking disgusted and uncomfortable.

“Ewan,” he said, and gave me an awkward laugh. He definitely wasn’t happy to see me. Not that I could blame him.

We both knew I wasn’t there to be friendly.

“Hello, Larry,” I said and approached across the sticky floor. In the far corner, a bald guy in his fifties sat on a stool. He wore sunglasses and was staring down at a phone cradled in both his hands. Ralph the bouncer was a fixture at Larry’s joint—but I didn’t need to worry about him.

“What can I do for you?” Larry asked, and glanced back toward where Ralph sat, nose still buried in the phone. Larry’s face was locked in a smile, and it turned into a grimace when he realized Ralph wasn’t paying much attention.

Tara lingered back near the door, and I could feel her watching me closely. If she wanted to run, now would be a good time.

“We need to talk,” I said, and stopped a few feet to the side of him. He swiveled and spread he hands out nervously.

“What about? You doing okay? I keep saying, you’ve got to come down to my club sometime and take advantage of—”

I moved faster than he could react. His long ponytail was the perfect target as my hand flashed out and grabbed it tight. I halfway expected it to come right off—whether Larry wore a wig or not was a matter of some debate between Dean and me—but when I yanked as hard as I could, the hair stayed put.

Dean owed me fifty bucks.

Larry toppled backwards off the stool. He crashed to the floor and dollar bills fluttered up into the air. I slammed him into the dirty linoleum floor and his head bounced off with a crack. He groaned and I held on to his ponytail, raising my head to stare at Ralph.

The old bouncer tilted his sunglasses down, frowned at me, then went back to typing on his phone.

“What the fuck?” Larry groaned. “Oh, fuck, I think you broke my goddamn fucking back, you piece of shit scumbag. Oh my god, oh, fuck.” He rolled side to side like a pig in mud. “Ralph! What are you doing, you dumb asshole! Waste this motherfucker!”