He took the drink and spun on his stool, careful to keep his shoes off the ground. He’d poured about nine whiskeys there, and the puddle was growing sizable. The drunk act probably didn’t matter, but life had a wicked arm for curves. A smart hitter respected the plate.
The VIP lounge sat off the main floor, guarded by a bouncer with a shaved head. Gauzy green curtains puffed and swelled with the motion of air, like the room was breathing. Beyond them a mob of moneyed twenty-somethings danced beneath a frenzy of lasers, visible only as writhing silhouettes. It reminded Marshall of something out of a Bosch painting, a vision of a sweating hell. It was early yet, not even midnight, and the lounge had only a handful of Very Important People: a group nursing the bottle of thirty-dollar vodka they’d dropped two hundred on; a sugar daddy playing garter games with his stripper girlfriend; two lipstick lesbians comped in to add a whiff of the forbidden; and, at the end of the bar, two black guys. His marks.
The boss was dark-skinned and stylish, with a precise mustache,a gold Rolex dangling from French cuffs, and a tailored Armani suit. The other, straining against a Sean John tracksuit, was clearly muscle. Armani drank seltzer. The other didn’t drink at all. Marshall smiled to himself, then spilled his whiskey and ordered another.
The bartendress had just finished pouring it when Boss Man’s cell phone beeped. Marshall cradled his chin in his hands and stared forward, pretending to be lost in a liquor dream. From the corner of his eye, he saw the guy open the phone and scan the screen. His fingers punched keys quickly, replying to the text message. Then he dropped a fifty on the bar and slid off the stool. His bodyguard fell in behind him.
Marshall counted to thirty, then collected his change, folded it, and tucked it in his pocket. Took his whiskey in one hand and staggered for the stairs. The bouncer yawned, looked away.
The dance floor vibrated, the bass line throbbing through his belly, a remix of Fergie singing about being so delicious, how she was so tasty tasty laced with lacy. Bodies mobbed the space, smelling of cologne and desire. He looked at the open staircase over the floor, thick-cut glass that glowed with the sheen of lasers. Boss Man and his bodyguard were halfway up. Perfect.
Shielding the drink with his body, Marshall cut to the back wall. It was painted black, and couples huddled there, the women flush with power, men leaning into them, trying to close the deal. He moved beside a door marked “Private” in white letters. Turned, did an easy scan. No one paid him any mind as he pushed through the door.
The hallway on the other side was drab and overlit. He walked past an open door where men spoke Spanish, turning his face away and walking with purpose. Not like a couple of illegals were going to challenge a man who walked like he belonged. There was a corner at the end of the hallway, and beside it the servers’ steps to the private rooms. He stopped long enough to throw the whiskey down, that sweet burn. He liked one before a job. Then he palmed the glass and turned the corner.
The bouncer sat on a stool, beefy arms crossed. He came off his perch when he spotted Marshall. “This ain’t the bathrooms, mate.”
Marshall took a step, then another, slower. He raised his left hand and put on a confused expression, looked over his shoulder like he was lost. As he spun back, he hurled the heavy rocks glass in an overhand fastball, leg winding up and then down, arm cracking like a whip, form perfect. Once upon a time, he’d been All State.
The glass didn’t so much strike the bouncer’s forehead as explode against it, spraying sparkling shards in all directions, the noise lost against the raging beats through the walls, the bouncer flinging his hands up to his eyes, fluids pouring between his fingers and a horrified moan jerked from his lips.
Marshall stepped forward, drove his fist into the man’s solar plexus to double him over, then hammered an elbow against the back of his neck to drop him. He straightened, shook out his hands, and pushed the release bar to open the back door.
Jack smiled as he stepped over the bouncer. He passed Marshall the.22, and the four of them started for the stairs.
THE BRUNETTE BLUSHED A LITTLE, her eyes throwing a challenge at the blonde, and then she leaned forward and touched her lips to the other woman’s. The boy kneeling on the cushions tipped up a bottle of champagne, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Use your tongues.”
Children. Undisciplined, foolish, and entitled all their lives. From the Star on down, they were all children, and they grated on Malachi. “My brother,” he said, smile wide and arms open, the Rolex sliding down inside the cuffs of his shirt. “How’s it hanging, dog?” Playing the role of the big bad black guy.
The Star flashed white teeth and stepped into the embrace. “Hey‚ G! Thanks for coming.” The room was decked out like a sultan’s palace, dangling fabrics and candles everywhere, cushions instead of chairs. “Drink?”
Malachi smiled, shook his head slightly. He unbuttoned his Armani jacket and tucked his hands in his pockets, exposing the shoulder holster. By the way the Star’s eyes fell on it, Malachi could tell he loved it, loved the image he had of himself, a tough guy hanging with gangsters. Movie people. Shit. “I’m straight,” he said.
“We got Ketel, some Cristal. Oh, I could send down for Hennessy…”
“We’re good.” Malachi smiled. “How’s the picture?”
The Star sighed and rubbed at his forehead. “It’s a nightmare. Director doesn’t have the first clue. I don’t know who the guy blew to earn his statue.” He shook his head, then said, “You sure I can’t get you a drink?”
“I’d as soon get down to business, you got no objection.”
The Star smiled. “My man.”
Malachi waited. A moment passed, and then the Star caught on, said, “Right, sorry.” He adopted the tone of a schoolboy answeringan instructor, hamming it up. “I’d like to buy some illegal drugs, please.”
Malachi nodded to his man, who set the briefcase on a low table then stepped back. “Here’s how we do. Blow, smack, Ecstasy, hydro, painkillers I have anytime. You want something special, I might need a couple hours’ warning. I’m available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, anywhere in the country. I don’t fly internationally, I don’t deal for less than twenty-five, and I don’t trade in rock.” He popped the latches on the case but didn’t open it, noting the anticipation in the kid’s eyes, playing out the moment. The brunette on the pillows squealed as one of the entourage poured champagne down the front of her dress. She laughed, then moaned when the blonde leaned in to lick it off her tan skin. The boys whooped in appreciation.
“Is it good stuff?” The kid trying to sound hard. “I don’t want to pay top dollar for some watered-down shit.”
Malachi shook his head. “Pure as a nun’s daydream. Guaranteed premium. My prices are high because of the service and quality I provide. Now,” he said, and flipped open the briefcase to reveal the rows of neat bundles and colored bottles, “the doctor is in.”
JACK LED THE WAY UP. Here, in the bowels of the club, the throbbing music seemed to come from everywhere at once: the walls, the railing, the floor, his heart. He’d been waiting for the rush, and finally it came, the tightness, that familiar hint of joy and panic that never went away. It had made itself at home in 1975, right after he’d shoved Aerosmith’s Toys in the Attic under his shirt and strutted out of Mel’s Records, the shrink-wrap cool against the skin of his teenage chest. He’d gone home and listened till he could sing every note, felt like “Sweet Emotion” was talking straight to him.
The staircase was thin and steep, a pipeline for servers to bring the occupants anything they wanted. There were VIP rooms and VIP rooms, and this was the latter, a private playground for the young, famous, and obscenely wealthy.