Bullets Are My Business (9781101616413) (16 page)

After Seven
P.M.

Sitting in the booth at the back of the diner is uncomfortable. The smell of the deep fried, greasy food makes my stomach turn. I look at my watch. Hopefully, dinner with Megan won't last terribly long. The problem is, in order for this meal to move along at a decent pace, Megan has to be here. As of yet, she hasn't shown up. She gets five more minutes, then I blow this joint. I've got five days left. I can't afford to waste it on her. Especially since I don't even know who she really is.

I light up a cigarette, pulling dirty looks from the obvious out-of-towners. I'm counting down the seconds to my departure. I have shit to do. Megan walks through the door when I have ten seconds left on the countdown. She slides into the booth across from me. Dammit. I wish she hadn't shown.

“Sorry I'm late,” she apologizes. My inborn paranoia kicks into overdrive. Was she with Bruiser? I push the thought aside. If I want to get the dirt on this broad, I have to be open minded. Otherwise I'm just going to be answering any questions I have with falsified information I make up to justify myself. I have to make sure that this is legit. The waitress comes to the table.

“Could we have just a few more minutes?” Megan asks. The waitress is irritated by her request and she doesn't even try to hide it. In a diner like this one, she doesn't have to. All she wants to do is to take our order and get us the hell out of here so she can get the next set of bodies in the door. She just wants to collect her tips and go home. I can't blame her. This must be a pretty miserable job. She sighs, nods her head, and walks back to the kitchen.

Megan is calm and quiet as she looks over the menu. For some reason, this really pisses me off. I want to stand up and shake her until she lets slip why she's using a fake name. I want to slap her around, make her tell me who she really is, what her agenda is. I don't. I can't. For all I know, Chenille has gotten me on edge about nothing whatsoever.

“Where were you?”

“I got held up at work,” she responds, without even looking up from the menu. I don't even know what she does for a living. It hasn't come up. I'm about to ask, but before I can, she sets her menu down. “I'm going to get the skillet. What about you?”

I shake my head. “I'm not all that hungry. I'll stick with the crackers.”

“I was thinking today,” she says, scanning the restaurant for the waitress.

“Yeah?” I bite my tongue so as not to tell her that I was thinking too. All I've been doing is thinking. Far too goddamned much.

“About us.” When you start a sentence like that, it can only go one of two ways. She's perked my interest. Which way is this one gonna go? She sips her water. “Where do you see this going?”

“I don't know. Why don't you tell me?” I lean forward, honestly interested in what she has to say, waiting for her to let slip. I rest my forearms on the table.

“I'm not really sure what we have going here.” She searches for the correct words to help her along. I can see which direction this is heading and I try to steer her in the direction I want it to go.

“I think that we need to know each other a little better before we can figure that out,” I tell her. “I barely know anything about you. Aside from the fact that you and my sister went to high school together, you're a total stranger to me.” She opens her mouth to respond and my phone rings. Perfect timing. I hold up a finger.

“I have to take this.” I open the phone and place it to my ear, ignoring the icy stare that Megan shoots at me. “Yeah?”

“I got a lead on Maise.” It's Chenille. She doesn't waste any time.

“Good to hear from you. No . . . I was just having dinner . . . with a friend.” I hope that Chenille can pick up on the overtones.

She's just as good as I suspected. “Do you want me to call you back?”

“No, that's fine . . . what's going on?”

“I'll lay it out quick and easy for you,” Chenille says. “Maise was seen a couple of nights ago just north of here. A place called Forest Heights. Do you know the area?”

“Yep.” Of course I know Forest Heights. I know it all too well.

“She's still hooking.” I could've guessed that one.

“Do we know who?” This conversation has to end. I have a truckload of questions I want to ask, but any questions I have after this point are going to have to get more in-depth. That's something I can't deal with in the present company. Thankfully, Chenille and I have had several of these conversations over the years, so she speaks my language.

“I couldn't get the name of who she's working for. I can delve in a bit deeper, but it's going to take a bit of time.”

“No, I'll take care of it. You gotta get back to working on that other thing.” I hang up the phone and stand up from the booth. “I gotta take care of an emergency at work.” Thankfully, Megan knows as much about me as I do about her.

Megan shakes her head. “You're leaving?”

I nod and slap a fifty on the table. “That should take care of the meal.” Megan stares at me as I walk past her and out the front door of the restaurant without another word. I can feel her glare tear through me as I exit. I no longer care. I don't have any more time that I can waste. I need to get some answers.

After a Short Walk

Cobb's is packed.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't set foot in a bar like this. I just don't fit in. There are only three types of people that come into Cobb's. The first is upper-class college frat boys who have trust funds that are spilling over. The second, wealthy middle-aged men who are suffering from severe midlife crises leading them to believe that they are once more upper-class college frat boys who have trust funds that are spilling over. This leads us directly to the third type: the working girls. A working girl can hit a club like this a few times a week, and generally, they don't have to roll over on their backs very often. They can charge a lot and they usually get a big tip for their efforts, provided that they have the look and the pickings are ripe. Tonight, the pickings are definitely ripe.

I ignore the upturned noses upon my entrance. My blue jeans don't fit in with the khakis. I have to remind myself that I didn't come here to pick a fight, I came here to get answers. After a glance around the room, I find my magic eight-ball. She's sitting at a booth in the dimly lit corner of the bar.

Natalie always had the look.

I can see her face as she's buttering up some hopeful client. She sees me coming as I approach. She doesn't seem thrilled to see me. She starts to gather her belongings to leave as I slide in next to her. The frat boy across from me casts a disgusted look in my direction. I ignore that too.

“Hi, Natalie.”

“Piss off, Levi. I'm in the middle of something.” She looks across the table at her frat boy. Her greeting is just as warm as I figured it would be.

“Listen, guy, this is a private party,” Frat Boy chimes in.

I don't pay him any mind. “This'll only take a minute.”

Frat Boy leans in. He puts a hand on my arm. “Take a hike, buddy.”

I clench my jaw. “You've got about three seconds to take your mitt off my arm.”

Natalie can see that this is going to escalate quickly. She looks nervously around the room. I can't be good for business. Seeing no help and no way out, her eyes settle back on the frat boy. “Joel . . .”

“A guy like this can't just walk in here and do what he pleases,” Joel says to her, pretending that I'm not even present for the conversation. “He can't just bother girls like you.” I have to hand it to him. He is chivalrous.

He turns his attention back to me. “Now, you better walk away before something bad happens.” He tightens his grip on my arm. If I tighten my jaw any further, it's going to snap in two. I turn my face toward his.

“I'm being very patient with you, Joel,” I whisper. “Patience is not a virtue that I was blessed with, so, if you don't want anything bad to happen, you had better let go of my arm.”

Joel scoffs. He's the type of college kid who took karate when he was younger and now he thinks he's the second coming of Bruce Lee. “What's gonna happen if I don't, pal?”

In a single fluid movement, I grab hold of his hand and twist it around as I stand slowly from the table and take the empty seat in the booth beside him. His face contorts and his eyes well up with tears.

“I don't want to make you cry in front of our lady friend here,” I breathe. “So, if you'll promise to behave, I won't break your arm. Do you understand?” He nods vigorously. “I need to talk to her for a few minutes. Why don't you make like a good boy and grab us some drinks?” I stand from the booth, bringing him along with me. I release his arm and push him toward the bar. He moves in that direction, cradling his hand, but then he makes a sudden beeline for the door. Looks like that means there are no drinks coming. I look back at Natalie. Her eyes are already burning into me.

“Goddammit, Levi,” she growls, “that was easy money you just blew for me.”

I shrug in response. “I tried to play nice.”

“Yeah? I saw that.”

I don't particularly feel like getting into an argument with her, so I cut to the chase. “I need to know who turns the tricks in Forest Heights.”

Natalie drops her jaw. “Is that all I am to you, you prick? A random fuck and some answers?”

“Lower your voice.”

“No,” she yells. “Fuck you, Levi. You take your key back and then you expect me to be cooperative? Are you gonna threaten to break my arm too?”

“If it comes to that,” I tell her, leaning down on the table and looking her dead in the eyes. “But I don't want it to come to that.”

She takes a pen and a business card from her purse with an exasperated sigh. At first, I think that the pimps in Forest Heights have more money than I thought. If they can afford business cards, they must be paying someone off pretty handsomely for immunity. Then Natalie flips the card over and starts scribbling on the back. I realize that it's just a random card. She finishes writing the information and slides the card across the table before throwing her pen back in her purse.

Han Denderson.

With an address beneath it. Natalie crosses her arms over her chest.

“Thanks,” I say, placing the card in my shirt pocket.

“Is that all you need?”

“That'll just about do it.” I turn from the table and start walking toward the exit.

“Oh, and Levi?” Natalie calls. I turn around to look at her. She looks like she's about ready to combust. “You were the worst lay I've ever had. Drunk, sober, paying, or otherwise.” She raises her eyebrows smugly.

I grin, turning to the bartender and saying loudly enough so that the entire bar can hear me, “It's okay. She's really a guy. She has a dick.” Natalie lets out a screech as I continue to the door.

There goes a perfectly good friendship.

An Hour Later

I pull the Lincoln to the curb when I find the address Natalie gave me. It's an apartment complex. I'm disappointed. Too many people around. It's quite the contrast to Draven's place. From the look of things, though, I can tell that Denderson's doing pretty well for himself. From the outside, these apartments are far more luxurious than I expected them to be.

Before I exit the car, I call Jacks. Still no answer. I leave him a message to call me ASAP, though I didn't need to leave a message. I know that Jacks will call me as soon as he has something to go on. I check my piece and walk to the door. I ring the buzzer.

I'm answered by static, followed by the click of the door opening. I pull the handle and step inside, where I'm immediately met by a well-dressed black man. We size each other up until he breaks the silence.

“What's your business here?”

I motion up the stairs. “I've gotta speak to Han.”

The black guy raises an eyebrow. “You a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop?” The black guy doesn't answer. I shake my head. “No, I'm not a cop. I work for a living.”

“If you're a cop, you have to tell me,” the black guy informs me. “Disclosure.”

“I'm not a fucking cop.”

“You packing?” It would be pointless to lie so I nod. I take my .45 from my shoulder holster and show it to him.

“Why you packing?”

I'm not sure how this is going to end. This guy is asking me questions like there's no tomorrow. I opt to take the high ground.

“I didn't come here to start any shit with anyone. I just came here to talk.”

“You don't really need something like that to have a conversation,” the black guy tells me.

I shrug. “Like I said, I work for a living.”

He stares at me for a moment before starting up the stairs. “Follow me.”

I put my piece back in its holster and start up the stairway. The smell of cigarette smoke and stale booze hits me as we come to the landing on the third floor. It smells like home, only worse. The black guy opens the hall door for me.

“The door at the end of the hallway is Han's. Just walk in,” he tells me, pointing down the hall. I start to walk past him when he grabs my elbow. I turn to him. His eyes are narrowed. “If you know what's best for you, you won't be a cowboy. If you are, you'll be dead inside of a week.” I stare back at him. If only he knew how true that was. He releases my arm. I continue down the hallway and open the door.

“What the fuck do you want, mutha fucka?” It takes my eyes a second to adjust to the dimly lit room. I'm disgusted. It looks like someone threw up a circa 1970s orgy. Trash, mostly consisting of empty liquor bottles and fast food wrappers, lines the floors and covers the tables. Half or fully naked women lounge around on the battered mismatched furniture. I scan the room. My eyes land on the only male. He's a gangly white guy with both of his hands raised at his sides.

“I said, what the fuck do you want?” The guy is wearing star-shaped sunglasses. He's shirtless, clad only in tight black jeans and a silk robe that leaves his pale, hairless chest exposed. A shock of red hair falls from beneath a beat-up top hat and hangs below his shoulders. If I didn't know any better, I would've assumed that I had just walked into Bootsy Collins's wet dream.

“I can assume you're Han?”

“That's right, bitch,” Han says, standing from his place on the velour couch. Just when I think he's standing up straight, he keeps going. Jesus. He's got to be at least seven feet tall. “Now, what the fuck do you want?”

“I came looking for a girl.”

Han looks me over from head to toe. “What kind of bitch do you want? We gots all different kinds in this establishment.” He extends his gargantuan arms and turns a full circle in the center of the room. He's a real showman. If he wasn't so white, he would've been perfect in Funkadelic. “You see anyone here that tickles your fancy, you let me know and you can tickle her fancy . . . for a fee.”

I cast my eyes around the room again. It's easier to see now that they've adjusted to the dim lighting. None of these girls are Maise. None of them look at all familiar. I turn back to Han. “No. I don't.”

“Well, then, what are you looking for?” Han asks, placing his hands on his hips.

“I'm looking for a girl named Maise,” I tell him flatly. If I have to take any more of his circus performance, I may vomit. Han puts a hand under his chin and strokes the thin goatee that's attempting to reside there, like he's mulling it over. He snaps his fingers.

“That bitch is out this evening, sweetheart,” he booms. “She's on a house call, if you will.”

“I won't.” I cross my arms over my chest. “When's she gonna be back?”

“She won't be back until tomorrow,” Han says. “Unless she finds Mr. Right in the meantime.” He tosses his head back and lets out an overly dramatic laugh. The females lounging around him laugh right along with him. It's like having a built-in studio audience. I don't find him amusing.

“Maybe that's me.”

Han stops laughing abruptly and sizes me up. “You look like Mr. Wrong to me.” Another chorus of laughter from the gallery. I wait for it to fade out.

“Tomorrow night, Maise is mine,” I state firmly so there can be no confusion. Han raises his eyebrows so far that I can see them poke out from above his glasses.

“Women and men ain't equal,” Han says.

I raise an eyebrow in return. “Come again?”

“That's what she said. I have a theory that a man is far superior to a woman,” Han explains. “What that means is that a man is equal to, say, one point five persons. A woman, on the other hand, let's say, for example, these bitches in here”—he motions around the room—“being that they are inferior, well, they equal half a person.” Han takes two giant steps and sidles up to me. My head comes up to his nipples, so he crouches down and drapes an arm around my shoulder. “But Maise, on the other hand, she's something of an exception to the rule. She's equal to, at least, one person . . . though I'd probably put her at a solid point nine-nine. You know what I mean?”

“I don't have any sort of idea what any of this means, but I get the feeling that you're going to tell me.”

Han gently slaps my chest and smiles like a deranged clown. “That means that our Miss Maise don't come cheap,” Han informs me. His grin is quickly replaced by a look of genuine seriousness as he rubs his fingers and thumb together. “Do you think you have enough tea for the tillerman?”

He might very well be the most irritating person I've ever met. I wish I didn't need him around for the following evening. However, because I do need him around, I subdue the rising urge to shoot him in the eye. Instead, I grit my teeth.

“Money is no object,” I reply. “Have Maise here tomorrow at the same time. I'll be here.”

Han extends a hand and the grin reappears. “You've got yourself a deal.” I give his hand a squeeze and then I head for the door.

“Tomorrow,” I remind him over my shoulder. He doesn't say anything in response. I walk back down the stairway, nodding at the black guy as I walk out the front door. I walk to my car, shaking my head.

I've met some interesting individuals over the past couple weeks.