He thought about Adam’s instant-messaging with CeeJay8115. He thought about Tia’s reaction and his own gut instinct. He was not a religious man and didn’t believe in psychic powers or anything like that, but he didn’t like to go against what he would describe as certain vibes in both his personal and professional life. There were times things simply felt wrong. It could be in a medical diagnosis or in what route to take on a long car trip. It was just something in the air, a crackle, a hush, but Mike had learned to ignore it at his own peril.
Right now every vibe was screaming that his son was in serious trouble.
So find him.
How?
He had no idea. He started back up the street. Several hookers propositioned him. Most seemed male. One guy in a business suit claimed to be “representing” a variety pack of “steaming hot” ladies and all Mike had to do was give him a laundry list of physical attributes and desires and said representative would procure him the proper mate or mates. Mike actually listened to the sales pitch before turning it down.
He kept his eyes moving. Some of the young girls frowned when they felt his gaze. Mike looked around and realized that he was probably the oldest person on this crowded street by something like twenty years. He noticed that every club made the clientele wait for at least a few minutes. One had a pitiful velvet rope, maybe a yard long, and the guy would make whoever wanted to come in stand behind it for maybe ten seconds before opening the door.
Mike was turning to the right when something caught his eye.
A varsity jacket.
He spun quickly and spotted the Huff kid walking the other way.
Or at least it looked like DJ Huff. That varsity jacket the kid always wore was on his back. So maybe that was him. Probably.
No, Mike thought, he was sure. It was DJ Huff.
He had disappeared down a side street. Mike quickly picked up his pace and followed him. When he lost sight of the kid, he started to jog.
“Whoa! Slow down, gramps!”
He had bumped into some kid with a shaved head and a chain hanging from his lower lip. His buddies laughed at the gramps line. Mike frowned and slid past him. The street was packed now, the crowd seeming to grow with each step. As he hit the next block, the black goths-oops, emos-seemed to thin out in favor of a more Latino crowd. Mike heard Spanish being spoken. The baby-powder white skin had been exchanged for shades of olive. The men wore dress shirts unbuttoned all the way so as to show the bright white, ribbed tee underneath. The women were salsa sexy and called the men “coños”and wore outfits that were so sheer they seemed more like sausage casing than clothing.
Up ahead Mike saw DJ Huff bear right down another street. It looked like he had a cell phone pressed against his ear. Mike hurried to catch up to him… but then what would he do? Again. Grab him and say, “Aha!” Maybe. Maybe he would just follow him, see where he was going. Mike didn’t know what was going on here, but he didn’t like it. Fear started nibbling at the base of his brain.
He veered right.
And the Huff boy was gone.
Mike pulled up. He tried to gauge the speed, how much time had elapsed. There was one club about a quarter of the way down the block. That was the only visible door. DJ Huff had to have gone in there. The line outside the place was long-the longest Mike had seen. Had to be a hundred kids. The crowd was a mix-the emos, Latinos, African Americans, even a few of what they used to call yuppies.
Wouldn’t Huff have had to wait on line?
Maybe not. There was a super-huge bodyguard behind a velvet rope. A stretch limousine pulled up. Two leggy girls stepped out. A man nearly a foot shorter than the leggy girls took his seemingly rightful place between them. The super-huge bouncer opened the velvet rope-this rope being about ten feet long-and let them right in.
Mike sprinted toward the entrance. The bouncer-a big black guy with arms the relative thickness of your average hundred-year-old redwood-gave Mike a bored look, as if Mike were an inanimate object. A chair maybe. A disposable razor.
“I need to get in,” Mike said.
“Name.”
“I’m not on any list.”
The bouncer just looked at him some more.
“I think my son might be inside. He’s underage.”
The bouncer said nothing.
“Look,” Mike said, “I don’t want any trouble-”
“Then get to the end of the line. Though I don’t think you’ll get in anyway.”
“This is something of an emergency. His friend just came in two seconds ago. His name is DJ Huff.”
The bouncer took a step closer. First his chest, big enough to use as a squash court, then the rest of him. “I’m going to have to ask you to move now.”
“My son is underage.”
“I heard you.”
“I need to get him out or it could mean big trouble.”
The bouncer ran his catcher-mitt hand across his cleanly shaven black dome. “Big trouble, you say?”
“Yes.”
“My, my, now I’m really worried.”
Mike reached into his wallet, peeled off a bill.
“Don’t bother,” the bouncer said. “You’re not getting in.”
“You don’t understand.”
The bouncer took another step. His chest was almost against Mike’s face now. Mike closed his eyes, but he didn’t step back. Hockey training-you don’t back down. He opened his eyes and stared at the big man.
“Back up,” Mike said.
“You’re going to be leaving us now.”
“I said, back up.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m here to find my son.”
“There is no one underage in here.”
“I want to go in.”
“Then get on the end of the line.”
Mike kept his eyes locked on the big man’s. Neither moved. They looked like prizefighters, albeit in different weight classes, being given instructions at center ring. Mike could feel a crackle in the air. He felt a tingle in his limbs. He knew how to fight. You don’t get that far in hockey without knowing how to use your fists. He wondered if this guy was for real or just show muscle.
“I’m going inside,” Mike said.
“You serious?”
“I have friends with the police department,” Mike said, a total bluff. “They’ll raid the place. If you have underage kids in here, you’ll go down.”
“My, my. I’m scared again.”
“Get out of my way.”
Mike stepped to the right. The big bodyguard followed him, blocking his path.
“You realize,” the big bouncer said, “that this is about to get physical.”
Mike knew the cardinal rule: Never, ever show fear. “Yup.”
“A tough guy, eh.”
“You ready to go?”
The bouncer smiled. He had terrific teeth, pearly white against his black skin. “No. Do you want to know why? Because even if you are tougher than I think, which I doubt, I got Reggie and Tyrone right there.” He pointed with this thumb to two other big guys dressed in black. “We aren’t here to prove our manhood by taking on some dumb ass, so we don’t need to fight fair. If you and I ‘go’ ”-he said it in a way that mocked Mike’s voice-“they’ll join in. Reggie has got a police Taser. You understand?”
The bouncer folded his arms across his chest, and that was when Mike spotted the tattoo.
It was a green letter D on his forearm.
“What’s your name?” Mike asked.
“What?”
“Your name,” Mike said to the bouncer. “What is it?”
“Anthony.”
“And your last name?”
“What’s it to you?”