Authors: Janey Mack
Choked Up (9 page)
Oookay.
“Lookâ”
“Lookâ”
“I'll pick you up tomorrow night.” He hung up.
Early Friday evening, I swung by Leticia's office, dropped off more of Edward's cash cards, grabbed my route and ticket gun, and hustled to my cart. Hank may be on the hunt for Mant, but I wasn't taking any chances. My gear was coming with me.
I started up my cart and reviewed my route. The near North Side nightlife district aka the Viagra Triangle. Rich old men, Botoxed cougars, and beautiful young ones looking for a free rideâno matter how temporary.
I punched the air with my fists. “I could kiss you, Letitia!”
I went straight to Gibson's Bar and Steakhouse. The unofficial headquarters of the V.T.
And there like a rat in a humane trap, was a double-parked Aegean blue metallic Bentley W-12 Mulliner. I typed the ticket into my gun, grinning. This was the stuff that legends were made of at the Traffic Enforcement Bureau.
My ticket gun blinked.
Holy mother of God. A boot.
In thirty-two seconds, I booted my first Flying Spur. A $200K four-door sedan that pretty much resembled an über-posh Buick. I took a couple of photos for the girls in the break room and got the hell out of there.
Green Day started playing “Basket Case” on my phone. “Hey, Cash,” I answered.
“Whatcha doing?”
“I just dropped a boot on a Flying Spur.”
“Christ, you need a hobby.” He laughed. “Heard you're working graveyard. Tonight's my last night on Vice.”
“Look out, SWAT.”
“My CO's finally letting us bust this douchebag drug club, Swag. It's gonna be off the feckin' hook! Wanna swing by, watch me bust some heads?”
“Yeah, sounds fun,” I said and meant it.
“Go time's ten after one. We're celebrating afterward at Hud's and I'm buying.”
I felt like celebrating myself. Walt Sawyer approved of my initiative. As soon as I got my three days off, I'd stake out Stannis, and Walt Sawyer would come to believe I was the sun and the stars. “I'll be there.” I hung up.
I drove the block and a half over to Swag, scanning for offenders but not really caring. I'd laid a prize boot and was looking forward to playing hooky. I parked across from the gentlemen's club and got out.
My devoted shadow, Ragnar, idled in front of a hydrant. I jogged over to the pickup.
He had the window down before I got there. “What's up?”
“I'm gonna stay here for the next hour or so. My brother's meeting me.”
“There?” He pointed at Swag.
“Yeah,” I said, razzing him. “You know what hounds cops are. But when my brother's buying, I gotta drink.”
“You?” His face twisted in disbelief. “Drinking on the job?”
“Rags, as a meter maid, I'm legally allowed to drive on the sidewalk.” I dug my nails into my palms to keep a straight face. “Besides. The cart can't go over twenty-eight miles per hour.”
He tucked his chin in disapproval and rolled up the window.
I turned and walked down the block, shoulders shaking with laughter.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall for it.
The bigger they are, the harder they fall for it.
I glanced at my watch. Plenty of time before the show. I walked down the block, ran a ticket on an Audi and another on a Nissan. As I slid the offender's orange envelope beneath the wiper, I froze at the sight of the car behind it.
A navy Range Rover, Autobiography Black, complete with cowardly newspaper-reading driver behind the wheel.
Holy cat.
Stannislav Renko. I'd bet my shirt on it.
Chapter 11
“No flags in the system.” Walt Sawyer's words echoed in my head. A Vice bust would light up Stannis brighter than an emergency flare.
I looked at my watch. Forty minutes until the bust.
This wasn't opportunity knocking, these were the thundering hooves of a gift horse. And I was going to ride this bow-wearing Secretariat until its legs fell off.
I dumped my gun under the seat, grabbed my backpack, got out of the cart, and signaled to Ragnar I was going inside. He shook his head in disgust. I trotted up to the black- and gold-striped awning, trying to piece together a generic yet believable meter-maidesque reason as to why the two bouncers should let me in.
The wide black guy stopped me with a fleshy palm to the chest. “Gentlemen's club. No dykes.”
“I'm . . . er . . . trying out,” I said.
“Shit, kid.” The white bouncer with a Jack Daniels nose shook his head. “Lemme save you the trouble. Firstly, ain't no one gonna think a meter maid is hot. Secondly, especially not one with no tits and less ass.”
“Yeah?” I patted the ticket gun on my hip. “You oughta see what I can do with this.”
The black guy laughed and opened the door for me. “Good luck.”
Swag was an uncomfortable mutation of a seventies disco movie and a bad Nike commercial. The strobe-lit music made it even worse, but the slavering patronsâa sea of shiny suit coats and satin sweat suitsâseemed to like it just fine.
A sweeping staircase led to a series of curtained private rooms. Stannis's gorillas all present and accounted for. The biggest stood in front of the first black-curtained room. One waited midway on the stairs while the last stood guard on the bottom step.
No possible way I was going to get past the velvet ropes and his men without looking like I belonged here.
A girl in cowboy boots, denim thong, and Confederate flag push-up bra brushed by me. A sliver of light glowed from the darkened door she'd just exited.
The bathroom.
I went inside and looked at my watch. Thirty-one minutes before Vice hit.
You can do this.
I took off my cargo pants and my shirt. Thanks to Jeff the sociopath, I was wearing a Simone Perele lace bra and matching hi-rise bikinis in boring white.
Oh well. Can't be helped.
I pulled my hair into two high pigtails, tightened my bra to the last closure, shortened the straps, and stuffed a bunch of Kleenex in each cup.
Voilà . Boobage overflow.
Voilà . Boobage overflow.
I put on the neon PEA vest, holster, and ticket gun. Pretty tame, but the clock was ticking. I smeared on a thick coat of lip gloss, grabbed a couple prepaid Visas, and finished my costume with mirrored sunglasses. I lifted the half-empty plastic liner out of the garbage can, stashed my bag at the bottom of the can, and repositioned the garbage bag over the top.
Here goes nothing.
I sauntered over to the bar and stopped at the waitress station. On the way, a clammy hand grabbed my ass.
Nice.
I passed muster with the low-level drunks, at least.
Nice.
I passed muster with the low-level drunks, at least.
A bartender in a skimpy bikini and stiletto heels that had her balancing in pointe position motioned for me to order.
“A bottle of rakija and two glasses, please.” I tossed $200 on the counter.
She tiptoed over, mincing through the treacherous honeycomb of rubber floor mat. “You new?”
“Yeah.”
“Dick and balls management never tells me when we hire someone.” She rolled her eyes, then bent beneath the bar, still talking. “Serbs. You ever had this shit?”
“No.”
She slammed a bottle of Žuta Osa and a couple of lowball glasses on a tray. “It means Yellow Wasp.” She rang it up at the register and gave me back $30. “Worst headache you'll ever have.”
I left her $10. “Thanks.”
“Keep it. You tip out at the end of the night.”
I shoved the ten and twenty down my bra and picked up the tray.
A waitress in a black corset, thigh-high black boots, kitty-cat ears, and a feather boa tail strutted to the staircase with a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. I fell in step behind her, as one of Stannis's bodyguards, ever the gentleman, unhooked the velvet rope for us to go up.
The bodyguard on the stairs didn't notice me. Cat-girl was working it enough for both of us. That left the last and biggest ape in front of the cordoned room. When we got to the top step, I reached over and gave Cat-girl's tail a sharp yank. She spun, wielding the bottle at the gorilla's head. He raised his hands as she swore at him.
I stepped behind him and passed between the curtains.
Renko was straddling some flavor of the month. His hands gripped the back of the couch.
Of all the times to interrupt.
Of all the times to interrupt.
Great. He's getting a hummer.
“Um . . . Stannis?” I took off my sunglasses.
No response. The music blasted from the dance floor below.
“Excuse me,” I said louder. “Stannis?”
He waved his hand without looking back. “Get out.”
“Not without you,” I said.
With one hand still on the back of the couch, he swung his head toward me. The irritation in his face changed to confusion as he recognized and then tried to place me. “You?”
“I owe you a favor.”
A funny, sad sort of smile spread across his face. “No, no.” He pushed himself upright from the couch and turned and came toward me. His open shirt and pants exposed a harsh, sinewy torso and obvious arousal.
My jaw sagged open as I saw who was on the couch beneath him.
Whoa!
“You!” Mayor Talbott Cottle Coles reared up from the couch.
“No.” Stannis raised a palm to him. “Is okey. Sheâ”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Coles glared at me in pure hate.
“Interrupting boys' night, apparently,” I said.
Coles launched himself at me. His fist cracked across my chin like a two-by-four. I wobbled and dropped like a sack full of kittens onto my bare knees.
Sucker-punching sonuvabitch.
Stannis grabbed Coles around the waist and shoved him backward. “Stop!” He pointed at me. “You. What you want?”
“Vithe,” I slurred, blood flooding my teeth and tongue.
Goddamn, that hurt.
I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. I stood up, spat out a red mouthful, and cocked a brow at Coles. “Vice is busting the joint in”âI glanced at my watchâ“sixteen minutes.”
Coles tucked in his shirt and jabbed a finger at me. “This better not be a fucking setup!”
I shrugged at Stannis. “It's not.”
“You! You better keep your cunt mouth shut. And you”âhe pointed at Stannisâ“you make sure she does.” Coles stormed past us and through the curtains.
You're welcome, sir. Say hi to the wife and the kids for me, you two-timing closeted sack of shit.
Stannis walked to the table, opened the bottle of rakija, and poured some in a glass. He handed it to me. “Is good.”
I took a swig. It tasted like Manischewitz and Everclear, and man, did it burn the inside of my shredded mouth. I finished it.
He fastened his pants, not bothering to button his shirt. “You work here?” He took a drink straight from the bottle.
“No.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “How do you come to be here?”
“It's a long story.” I tapped the face of my watch. “And you don't have time to hear it.”
Stannis stood there staring at me for a full minute. “Okey.” He put an arm around my waist. “Now we go. Together.”
We slipped out the curtains and down the stairs.
“My gearâ” I jerked away from him and took a step toward the bathroom. One of his men blocked my way.
“You come talk to me outside,” Stannis's blue eyes burned into mine. “
Maisie
.”
Maisie
.”
Great. He remembers my name.
“Uh, yeah. You bet.” At his nod, the man stepped aside and I sprinted to the bathroom.
“Uh, yeah. You bet.” At his nod, the man stepped aside and I sprinted to the bathroom.
I grabbed the liner out of the garbage can, kicked off my work boots, and pulled on my cargo pants. No time for the shirt, but I still had the vest on. I managed to yank the pigtails out and stow the glasses and ticket gun in my bag before I shot out the front door.
A gorilla waited next to the bouncers. “Come now,” he said.
Shit. Ragnar.
“You really don't want me to do that,” I said, scanning the block. “Uh . . . Tell Stannis I'll be one block north, at T.G.I. Friday's. In the bar.”
“No,” said Stannis's head gorilla.
“Hey, guys?” I raised my palms in appeal to the bouncers. “A lil' help here?”
One of the bouncers laid a hand on the gorilla and things went south as I sprinted to my cart and got in. Vice started rolling in just as I finished buttoning up my shirt. I started the Interceptor and took off for Friday's, equal parts relieved and dismayed as Ragnar followed.
I chose a booth in the darkened bar. The generically pleasant T.G.I. Friday's was as safe a place as any to meet one of the top dogs of the Srpska Mafija.
My lip was swelling. Even with the metallic tang of blood in my mouth, I could still taste Yellow Wasp.
Goddamn Coles. A bit of a shocker, actually, to discover he bats both ways.
Clever cover, having a gay affair in a straight strip club.
I dropped my head back onto the padded seat of the high red leather booth, and closed my eyes. The first misgivings of the spontaneous rescue churned in my stomach. Walt Sawyer didn't want Renko in the system, but he hadn't authorized contact, either.
And I was up to my neck in contact.
“Can I help you?” asked a waitress.
“Stoli. Double. On the rocks,” I said without opening my eyes.
“Can I see some ID, honey?”
“Sure.” Without moving, I dug my wallet out of my purse, and flipped it open on the table.
“Could you look my way, please?”
I turned my head.
She pursed her lips in a silent whistle. “Need anything else?”
“Ice and a napkin?”
“I'll do you one better.” She returned with the vodka and one of those instaâice packs that you crack against a counter to start working. She wrapped it in a clean bar towel and handed it to me.
“Thanks.”
“No one has the right to hit you.”
The mayor of Chicago sure thinks he does.
I nodded. She left.
I nodded. She left.
I held the ice pack to my mouth, ramping up my inner Tony Robbins.
Sawyer hired me to be an undercover, right? He'd applauded my initiative with the photos. High fliers belong in the field, right?
Sawyer hired me to be an undercover, right? He'd applauded my initiative with the photos. High fliers belong in the field, right?
I sipped the Stoli. Slowly.
Halfway through, I started to worry I'd overplayed Renko.
He slid into the booth. A sleek navy suit jacket now covered his pale blue Kitsuné shirt, open at the throat. “I don't like to chase.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
His eyes went shark-flat.
I swallowed convulsively. “That wasn't a good place to talk.”
The waitress returned, ready to give my assumed abuser the what for. But she got a look at a real live killer and deflated. “Can I get you something, sir?”
Stannis's eyes never left mine.
I pointed at my glass and she scurried away.
He didn't speak, just stared unnervingly at me until he'd been served. “Explain tonight.”
Hank's Law Number Twenty-Three: The strongest lies are built on truth.
“I was almost off shift. My brother, a Vice cop, asked me to go out for drinks after they busted Swag.” I raised a shoulder. “I went there to meet him and saw your car.”
“Ah. Fast to think.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “Too fast, maybe?” A shadow of doubt crossed his face. “You betray your brother for a stranger?”
“A friend, I thought.” I switched the ice pack to my other hand. “You saved me from . . .” For a split second, I felt Mant's hands on me and twitched.
Hello, PTSD.
I picked up my drink. My hand shook hard enough to set the ice rattling. Blood rushed to my cheeks and I downed the rest of it in one go. I set the glass down with a sharp
click
and cleared my throat. “Anyway, nobody likes to get arrested.”
click
and cleared my throat. “Anyway, nobody likes to get arrested.”
Stannis tipped his head to one side and nodded. “This is so.”
I sat back, waiting. But apparently the ball was still in my court. “Why'd you help me?”
“I see you fighting. Good, but not pro. I see in your face you know this.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “Still you try. You show no fear.” He gave a wistful smile. “I know someone else like this, one time ago.”
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