The Filthy Few: A Steve Nastos Mystery (21 page)

“Jen,” he said. When their eyes met he mouthed,
Christian
.

Her mouth slackened. It took a moment for her to understand.

“What? Are you serious?”

“Tonight. Then I'm out of here. I'm done with this.”

Her delicate hand rose to cover her little mouth. “My god, Vince, good for you, good for you.” The implication was obvious. You don't kill your boss's son and stick around to see what he thinks about it. “I'll disable the video for the night, I can cover you there. I hate that smug little bastard. You know how many times he smacked my ass and I just had to take it because of who his daddy was?”

“Yeah? Well, tonight I'm giving him a double tap into his head.” He hesitated then told her the rest. “There are a few more guys coming. It's all part of the exit strategy. It's going to get busy down there but I can look after everything. Blood in, blood out, ya know?”

“Yeah, right.” She finished her beer, grabbed his empty and stood. “Let me know which girls you like, I'll send them over.”

“No, thanks.”

As she turned to leave he grabbed her arm and asked, “Why do you always ask which girl I like?”

“No reason.” He saw an expression on her face that looked like sadness. “And Vince? The other guys coming? Don't let me see their faces. You know, of the other men. They are always too young for what is about to happen to them.” She left. If any club member survived the week, they might come to the Boom Boom Room to ask her if she knew anything and that could be dangerous for her. Vince hoped that Red was a man of his word.

The
DJ
's voice bellowed through the
PA
system to introduce another girl to the stage but she didn't appear until the first song was half over. Instead the roving product, in its various forms, worked the room. No guys cared about the first song in the Boom Boom Room. Here it was about the second and third songs, where the girls start ripping off their clothes. The dancer was curvaceous, black hair, a black bikini that didn't last long. Vince felt his cell vibrate and took it out. Red had sent a text with an address but Vince replied that he had a location already. He considered that he needed a small confined place, where access could be controlled and he had a well-protected side room. It would be the concrete maze downstairs.

He sent a text back with the bar's address then sent the same address to Morrison, the cop. He checked the time. Midnight. Closing time was two hours away. It would give him time to catch a flight out west or even a direct to Australia, where his wife would be waiting. Morrison replied that he understood the directions and would be there.

Christian staggered out of the
VIP
room, a girl on either side. He dropped down to his chair and hooted. “Now
that's
how you get a night started.”

“Glad you had a good time.” Vince stood up. “You catch your breath. I'll get us some drinks.”

Christian smiled. “Finally going to let your hair down?”

“We're celebrating, Christian. Tonight you're earning your patch. I just sent the cops a message and they are coming over. It's going down at closing time.”

Christian pumped a fist. “Make mine a double.”

“You got it, a double tap for Christian.”

28

Nastos and Carscadden parked on the main road, and with Morrison and Radix following walked across the street to the strip bar. The parking lot of the Boom Boom Room was packed with everything from twenty-year-old pickup trucks to the newest Audi R8s, which ran about a hundred fifty thousand. The entire block was a continuous red brick wall housing various businesses: a used book store, a diner, a coffee shop and more. The strip bar comprised a large part of the block and it was anchored at the street corner. A black exterior façade with brass light stands and a black valance with white silhouettes of women wearing heels and various eroticized costumes like nurses and cops decorated the exterior.

There was no obvious security camera on the outside, which struck Nastos as peculiar considering the things that happened here. He speculated that the only sound reason for that kind of omission would be that the staff were embroiled in crime and weren't the type to incriminate themselves on video for the various beatings and self-directed drug and weapon robberies that they deemed street justice.

Down the side street, near the employees' back door, there was a strong waft of burnt marijuana and the sound of girls cursing and complaining about customers. At the far end of the lot there was a row of deluxe cars, a Lamborghini, an Alfa Romeo. Nastos watched as a girl staggered to her feet from the passenger seat of the Alfa Romeo, giggling and wiping her mouth. She was drunk, wearing thigh-high leather boots and little else.

The main entrance was the only well-lit area with four security people searching patrons on their way in. Nastos felt the Glock weighing heavily in his pocket. There was no way he was going to be able to get it inside.

They were still well back from the door when Morrison held up a hand. “Wait up.”

Nastos turned to see Morrison checking a text message on his phone. “It says we go in the back way.”

Radix added, “You guys better hand over your guns until we get inside.”

Nastos appraised Radix.
Are they playing us?
There was much about Radix that Nastos hadn't warmed up to. He struck Nastos as a selfish man and in that regard could not be trusted to do anything other than what was best for him. It was ridiculous to put your life in the hands of someone you can't trust. Morrison was different. He was scared and easier to read. They withdrew to a position between cars in the lot, then Nastos and Carscadden handed their guns and magazines over to Morrison. Radix and Morrison stuffed their pockets full, their coats sagging desperately under the weight, more from the actual bullets than the mostly plastic weapons. A blind, elderly woman who had never seen a gun in her life would know there was something painfully suspicious about Radix and Morrison, the way they had to walk with the awkward weight stashed in their coats.

They waited near the back door, away from the pot smokers. Nastos pulled out his BlackBerry when he felt it vibrate. He had received a message from Viktor.
I'm still held up. Don't worry, I'll be there soon.

Nastos sighed. Viktor was their only chance. He sent another quick message to Jacques.
The Boom Boom Room. We need you, bring back up.
He considered calling something in, a shooting, a rape, anything to call cops fast, but if they arrived too fast it would only make things worse if these guys were able to get away. They stood there until a man came out. He was lean with greying hair, in his fifties, wearing a suit. Nastos recognized him as the biker from the hotel room, the one with the fighting skills. The younger one with the spiky blond hair came through the doorway and leaned against the wall, watching.

Nastos walked over first, then Carscadden. Morrison and Radix were last. Nastos was searched first, then Carscadden. As the older man patted him down, Carscadden thought he'd rather be frisked by him, menacing as he was, than be touched by the young one, who stunk of alcohol and stale sex. The older one took their cellphones and wallets, slipping them into his jacket pockets.

With a nod from the younger man, he then lined Morrison and Radix against the wall. “Now your turn.”

Shock appeared in Morrison's face. Radix was angrier, knowing that they were about to be betrayed and more than likely murdered too. The biker took all of the guns from Radix and Morrison, having to tuck them down the back of his pants and pass two to the blond man, who had to do the same.

Radix said, “We done now?” He moved to lead the way into the bar but the young thug shoved his way past, deliberately pushing Nastos and Carscadden into the wall.

“Sorry, ladies, coming through.” Christian forced his way in front of Radix and led them into the darkness.

When Nastos walked onto the floor he was bombarded by the loud music. The crowd of middle-class men wearing jeans, suits, and club clothes stood fixated as an acoustic version of Lenny Kravitz's “Fly Away” played while a naked black girl undulated on the dance floor as if in a trance. Girls were everywhere, their feminine forms lithely flowing between the metal tables, feigning seductive interest in the gruff and expressionless men who were only interested in the best girl for the best price. The floors were sticky with the feel and smell of stale beer. This was the last place he would ever want to be killed. He had wondered what kind of future Josie could have with one parent. Now he had to wonder what future awaited her should he not survive this. With no offence to Hopkins and Viktor, most of the girls he had dealt with in the Sexual Assault Unit were abandoned early in life. Many grew to work in the sex trades, and disassociated how they made their money from the abuse they had suffered early in their lives.

Nastos realized that he must have slowed or stopped because he felt another shove from behind and saw that the biker, bathed in red light, had his game face on. Nastos got moving, following the others into a hallway behind the bar, then down a staircase. At first Nastos thought it was lit better than the bar then considered that it might actually be dimmer but the lighting was clear rather than red. Two-hundred-year-old red brick and a wrought-iron hand rail cranked left and left again at ninety-degree angles, down and down again, further away from the sole overhead light. When it was too dark to safely proceed, Nastos abruptly stopped, having slammed into Morrison who was directly in front of him.

He felt an aggressive shove-back from the cocky kid at the front of the line. “Fucking assholes.”

There was a metal sound then the scrape of tired, rusted hinges being pried apart. Met with resistance, the younger man became aggressive at the insolent hinges that dared reject his right to enter when he pleased. When the door opened there was a smell of stale air, damp concrete and bleach. It was a catacomb, a dark main walkway with side corridors, black rooms of unknown dimension with Roman arches and dust everywhere. The masonry work had been haphazard, mortar spilling over the bricks, walls out of true, sagging in the middle.

The only thing Nastos felt was in his favour was that it was unlikely the bikers knew their way around here any better than he did. Because if they did, he wouldn't stand a chance. He longed to get his gun back and end this, to get home to Josie and never sign up for anything like this ever again.

There was an open area at the bottom of the stairs. This was where they found themselves standing, waiting to see how things were going to play out. Glancing back, Nastos saw that the older Devil Dog had backed right off and was leveling a gun at him. This man was too smart to allow Nastos within reach. Although physically superior, the entire point of a gun is that the bullets cover the distance for you. Allowing the adversary within reach extinguished this advantage needlessly. Nastos considered that the other way to counter this was to get around a corner and slip out of view. It didn't appear that either of these guys had flashlights, so once around a corner he'd be safe from bullets.

The younger biker stopped and turned, waiting for instructions. The older man leaned into a side room and quickly pulled a string and turned on a bare light bulb. The room it illuminated was twelve by twenty feet and would have been unremarkable if not for the single floor drain in the far corner that was stained red and the surrounding walls that were littered with bullet holes. “In here, gentlemen.”

Morrison and Radix walked into the room first. It was rectangular north to south with the most damaged wall to the south. Straight across from this archway was another that was as black as a void. With Morrison and Radix in the room there was no room for Carscadden and Nastos unless they crammed together. Nastos and Carscadden stayed in place and no one directed them further.

The older man began, “My name is Vincent Druer and this is my associate, Christian Moretti. We're the ones who have been rocking your little worlds for the last little while and I want to thank you,” he turned to Radix, “especially you two goofs for providing us such entertainment in the last few weeks.”

Nastos noted how surprised it made Christian when Vince gave up their names. Judging by his uneasy glances, it clearly wasn't part of the agreed script.

“Let me see here,” Vince recounted. “You robbed a few street-level dealers, killed a guy in Witness Protection, knocked over a Hells Angels tattoo parlour . . .”

Vince paused and checked over his shoulder. Not at his partner, but past him. Soon shapes emerged from the darkness, two large men wearing leather jackets with faded denim vests overtop. Nastos squinted in the low light. Something was wrong and Christian noticed it first. The men were two full-patch Hells Angels. The rival gang.
Are they working together?

Christian wheeled around. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Vince smiled. “Easy, killer. I invited them.”

Christian seemed completely disarmed. He took a step backward, his mouth hanging slack. While Radix and Morrison were transfixed by the exchange between the bikers, Nastos attracted Carscadden's attention and watched the staircase for any sign of Viktor. He saw none. Maybe the staircase was too long, or maybe he wasn't able to get down and they had no one to rely on except themselves.

Vince explained, “This is the way it's going down, Christian. The cops are going to shoot these other assholes to earn their freedom.”

Christian shouted, “Yeah, and then what?” His neck veins bulged. “Is this about me? Is this about my dad handing it over to me?”

Vince leveled his gun at Christian's chest. “Don't do anything stupid, Christian. Calm down.”

One of the bikers, a tall bald man with a big red beard, jabbed a thumb at Christian. “So this is Moretti's boy, eh?” He sounded as much disgusted as disappointed.

“Yeah, Red. Don't worry, he's cool.” He turned to Christian. “But just to be sure, why don't you grab his gun from his right pocket and hold on to it for a while.”

Nastos' eyes were beginning to adjust to the light. He glanced around and noted that at the back of the open area where he stood the brickwork near the top of the back wall was incomplete. It had probably been shot so many times that it was crumbling backward. If they were able to get everyone else out of the room he thought he might be able to get enough of the wall down to squeeze through to whatever was on the other side. He turned his head slowly, focusing on his peripheral vision. He was aware that eyes adjust to light conditions independently and he wanted to have some kind of night vision in case it became necessary.

Red examined the weapons he took from Christian then stuck them in his pockets. When Vince turned back to Radix and Morrison, the red-bearded biker aimed his gun at Vince. He said, “New plan, Vince, old boy.”

Christian spat out, “See! You fucking moron.”

Nastos did a quick count. Christian still had one gun on him that the biker had missed, the one in his belt. Vince still had two.

When Vince heard the gunfire discharging behind him, knowing that it wasn't coming from the bikers provided little comfort. It meant that he didn't have everyone accounted for, that there was someone else in the basement. Before running for cover he pointed and fired two rounds at Christian, who managed to return fire. Christian dropped forward and slapped his left hand up to his right shoulder. Vince felt a scorching pain in his right thigh and instantly felt the trickle of hot blood dribbling down his leg.