Richard Hawke - Speak of the Devil

He left the car and slid into the shadows. I removed my shoulder holster and gun and stashed them under the seat. I figured I might have to withstand a caress or two to help set the mood, and nothing tanks a mood like a snub-nose.38.

I got out of the car and found the place where the fence was unattached. I curled the fence back and slipped into the lot. I reached the van and jerked down on the rear door handle, pulling the door open.

The women were arrayed on bags of linen, like a trio of farmer’s daughters in a hayloft. They were still dressed, which I was glad to see, though there seemed to be a heated contest as to which could hike her skirt up the highest. By an amazing coincidence, all three had forgotten to put on their panties when they’d gotten dressed that morning. Brittany spoke first. “We got us a party. Girls, meet Fritz.”

One was wearing a platinum wig. The other reminded me of Mama Cass Elliott. I climbed into the van and pulled the door closed. Only the slightest light came through the front window. I sensed movement, and hands began poking and prodding me. “Whoa, whoa. Hold on.”

The hands withdrew. Brittany’s voice sounded. “There a problem?”

“I want the lights,” I said.

“Lights? Oh, right. The man wants an audience.”

I crawled over several soft bags and at least one bony thigh and stretched into the front seat, slapping around on the panel until I found the light knob. I twisted it and the overhead came on. I turned back around and leaned against a pile of the duffel bags. Six dull eyes settled on me.

“Whatever split you get from your middleman, you’ve already earned it,” I said to them. “I’m not really in a frisky mood tonight, girls, thank you all just the same.” My announcement received no reaction. The one calling herself Brittany rubbed her index finger listlessly along her front teeth as if brushing them. I went on, “I’ve got three hundred dollars in my pocket. I’d like some information. If any of you can help me out, it’s a hundred dollars. And you don’t have to share it with whatever-his-name-is.”

“Lenny,” Platinum Wig said.

Mama Cass snapped, “Shut up!”

“I’m trying to get ahold of either Donna Bia or Angel Ramos,” I said. “If neither of these names means anything to any of you, we’re through here.”

Platinum Wig spoke up. “What you want with them?”

“That’s between me and them, but I’ll tell you this: if I don’t find them first, the police will. And it would be better if I do.”

“You a cop? Shit. He’s a cop.”

“I’m not a cop. I just need to find Angel or Donna. Money in the bank, girls. Who’s going to help me?”

The three looked at me as if they had each been struck dumb. Then Mama Cass reached into a small purse and extracted a cell phone. It was already flipped open. She held it delicately between two fingers.

I asked, “What’s that?”

Brittany answered, “That’s Lenny.”

The rear doors of the van flew open. Indeed, it was Lenny. He was holding a cell phone in one hand and something I couldn’t make out in the other. He flipped the phone closed and tossed it into the van. With a similar move of the other hand, a switchblade knife appeared.

“Out.”

The three women scrambled out of the van and took off running, or in Mama Cass’s case, galloping. Lenny gestured with the knife. “You, too.”

“I’m pretty comfortable where I am,” I said.

“You’re pretty fucked is what you are. Get out.”

I came down slowly off the duffel bags. I slipped sideways, and when I did, my hand ran quickly into and back out of my pocket. Lenny missed the move. He gestured again with the knife. “You tried to fuck me over. You give me the rest of that money, or I’m going to fucking cut it out of you.” He backed away slightly to give me just enough room to get out of the van. As I did, he brought the knife up and shook it in my face. “Let’s have it.”

So I gave it to him. I would have preferred a downward swing; you get the full fulcrum effect that way. But I had to swing upward. I landed the blackjack just under the pimp’s wrist. The knife fell instantly. My arm continued its upward swing, to a point just past my head. Lenny started to make a noise, but the sound never made it past his lips. I brought my arm back down, snapping my wrist sharply. Betty bounced off the pimp’s skull with the telltale crack . He lost his legs and dropped… like a sack of linen.

Love that Betty.

I ALMOST RAN HER OVER. SHE STEPPED IN FRONT OF THE CAR AS I rounded the corner, and I hit the brakes. It was Brittany. She moved swiftly to the passenger door and hopped into the car. Her eyes were wide. “You kill him?”

“I didn’t kill him. I just put him to sleep.”

“He wakes up, he’s gonna kill you . You still got that money?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Gimme it.”

“Is this a stickup?”

“Drive. I show you where’s Donna Bia, you give me the money. That was the deal. You shoulda just asked me in the first place. You got a fucked-up way of doing things.”

“I thought I was improving my odds,” I said.

I followed her directions and in five minutes was driving past a wobbly-looking building with a small group of men milling about outside. A sign painted on the blackened window read: FLEA CLUB.

“That’s it. You find Donna in there.”

“In the Flea Club?”

“That’s right. Gimme the money.”

I pulled over in the next block. “If she’s not there, I’m out three hundred dollars,” I said.

“She’s there. Bitch practically lives in that place.”

“What about Angel Ramos?”

“I don’t know. But if you got Donna, you got Angel. And I’m telling you, you got Donna.”

I had an idea. I pulled out my phone and the piece of paper Donna Bia’s mother had given me. I punched in the number and handed over the phone. “If she answers, find out where she is.”

Brittany put the phone to her ear. A few seconds later, she gave me a wink. “Donna? This is Keesha. Where you, girl? You at the Flea?” She listened, nodding a few times. “Uh-huh. No. Nothing. Lenny was just asking, that’s all. Says someone was trying to get hold of you.” She listened again, nodded again, said, “Shiiiiiiit,” then hung up.

She handed me back the phone. “Pay up.”

I STUCK MY.38 INTO MY BELT AND UNTUCKED MY SHIRT, PULLED MY watch cap from my coat pocket and put it on. Not much in the disguise department, but it was all I had to work with. I was going to stand out in the Flea Club no matter what. As I approached the building I reached into my pocket and gave Betty a little squeeze. The thump-thump-thump of dance music oozed from the building.

I took several unfriendly glances as I entered the club and made my way to the small bar. There was a pool table in the rear. A cone-shaped lamp hung over the pool table; otherwise, the place was dark as a coal mine. The music was coming from overhead. I stood a moment to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, and when they did, they saw a half-dozen faces looking in my direction, none of them terribly impressed with what they were seeing. I asked for a beer. When it came, I imagined squeezing the bottle the way Popeye does with his spinach can, the beer leaping into the air and going in a neat hook-move right down my throat.

Some might say I was jumpy.

I affected a moody pose, drinking the beer slowly but steadily, staring at the bottle as if the two of us were discussing a breakup. I noticed people coming in and crossing to a ruby-colored curtain that hung over a doorway just behind the pool table. I deduced that the dance club was upstairs. I also deduced that Donna Bia must be up there, too. I quickly concluded that I should get myself upstairs. Brilliance like this should be packaged and sold at premium prices.