A black Benz with smoked passenger windows pulls into the lot doing about thirty m.p.h. more than it should be. The car whacks its underside on the ramp, shunting the dumpster across the asphalt. I see Hairy Hands gripping the passenger dash.
The dumpster’s wheels snag on the kerb, sending Doorman and Deacon flying through the air like a couple of superheroes. I swear Deacon manages to throw me a recriminating look before she crashes through the windscreen of a parked Chevy. Doorman lands nice and neat in the rear of the pet van, sending out an oomph of yellow canaries.
I am stunned. So much for stressful but easy. Canaries? Come on. Are there cameras rolling somewhere?
My great plan is completely blown. The car was supposed to stop short of the ramp, because of the great big green dumpster blocking the entrance. Then Goran’s rescuers/abductors would be forced to either move the dumpster or carry their wounded cop to the club door. While they were thus engaged, Deacon would do her hellcat jack-in-the-box bit and I would come in from the flank.
Now, however, Deacon is folded into the front seat of a Chevy and there are four big men getting out of Hairy Hands’ car.
Think, soldier. Improvise.
The lot is in chaos now. Screeching birds everywhere, flapping and launching salvoes of shite. A couple of pet shop guys with nets, calling to the canaries, like birds speak English. Car alarms screeching. Big men shouting at each other.
And then here I am, standing like a stone pillar.
Move. Save Deacon at least.
I must admit, it does cross my mind to fade into the background and save myself much heartache and possibly ballache too, but the notion fades fast and I find myself drawing the Smith and Wesson and sizing up the competition.
Drop Hairy Hands first, I reckon. He was the one who rescued Goran and he gets to sit in front. Plus he has the most expensive sunglasses. Alpha male without a doubt.
I put a shot into Hairy Hands’ elbow. An accident. I was aiming for the shoulder, but this gun is new to me. The elbow is gonna take years to heal up. Maybe later I’ll light a candle for this guy. For now I have his two friends to worry about. In about a second Hairy Hands’ buddies are going to figure out that I am not the house doorman, maybe half a second if they’re not as stupid as they look.
I get a couple of steps down the ramp when I feel twin jabs in my neck. Either I’ve been bitten by the world’s smallest vampire, or those jabs were the darts from an electric stun gun.
High voltage, sings Ghost Zeb. Rock and roll.
Then fifty thousand volts shoot down my spine and send me jittering down that ramp like a monkey with rock and roll in his soul.
AC/DC, I think. ‘Highway to Hell’.
Too easy.
There’s bacon frying somewhere. I can hear it popping in the pan. It’s a cruel thing to fry bacon near a man and not let him taste it. I swear I can smell salsa too, or something tangy, and I am so goddamn hungry.
Garibaldi biscuits. The French soldiers at the off-base observation posts always had Garibaldi biscuits. They charged outrageous prices for them, but I generally paid. Those guys had the best field rations. Stew, lasagne, casserole, topped off with a cool Gitane. I can smell all of those dishes now, and I hang around on the fringe of alertness savouring the memories.
Eventually the dreams evaporate and I come back into consciousness on the tail end of the notion I went out on.
‘Vampire!’ I shout, straining to jump out of the chair I am taped to.
‘Kee-rist almighty,’ says a familiar annoying voice. ‘Vampire? That Taser must have scrambled your brain, fella.’
I’m awake now but I feel like a brittle husk, as if the stun gun hollowed me out. I cough and spit out what feels like a lump of coal. I’m surprised not to be breathing fire. Faber is bent over, hands on knees, two feet away.
‘Faber, you prick.’
‘You know me, cop? Do I know you?’
My eyes are heavy and full of sand, but I force myself to blink until my surroundings sharpen up.
I’m in a kitchen. High-class place, all stainless steel and marble worktops. There’s bacon in the pan. Thank God. That means I’m not having a stroke. My weapons are gone and in spite of the situation I muster a little self-congratulation for stashing my cash.
‘Faber. I am starving. Honestly, man, those stun guns take it out of a person. You think I could have a BLT? Even just a B?’
This freaks Faber out and he does a little dance, clicking and pointing, trying to remember where he’s seen me. I use the time to absorb as much of the room as I can.
Six people that I can see. Faber dancing his ginger jig, dressed in something else from his wardrobe of anachronisms. Looks like a beige mohair suit with honest-to-God flares and Captain Kirk boots. Who the hell is this guy’s stylist? Engelbert Humperdinck?
Three of his guys are ranged behind him, jackets off, sleeves rolled up ready to do business. One new one, must be the stun gun guy. Deacon out cold, taped to what I presume is a meat gurney like some lab experiment, and Goran shivering on the floor, a pool of her watery blood shining on the concrete.
‘Stop pointing at me, man. Or so help me. .’
Faber does a two-fingered point to show me who’s in charge. ‘The doorman. Daniel. In Slotz with that hostess.’
‘That’s right. Connie. You remember her?’
Something in my voice makes Faber take a few steps back. He puts one of his guys between him and me.
‘Yeah,’ he smirks. ‘I remember her. Someone punched her ticket, that’s what I hear. You ask me, she got what she deserved.’
I consider throwing a fit. Straining against my bonds and cursing Faber’s seed, breed and generation. But I was once a professional soldier and I know any display would only serve to amuse my captors. So I take a few deep breaths and apparently calm myself.
‘We all get what we deserve, Faber. In the end.’
Faber steps from behind his man’s bulk. ‘Really? You think so, doorman? I deserve my drugs, and because of you I can’t get them.’
Okay. We’re about to get to the nub of this whole affair. There are drugs involved. Goran was obviously involved with these drugs.
Thinking about Goran, I glance over at her. She has stopped shivering and is staring at a point in the air. I’m guessing she sees angels.
‘Your pet cop is in a little discomfort.’
Faber doesn’t even look. ‘Screw her,’ he says, waving dismissively. ‘She ain’t getting up.’
‘You’re a sweet guy, Faber. I bet your wife tells you that every night, after you fill her in on your day. Dead hostesses, bleeding cops and whatnot.’
Faber helps himself to some bacon, patting it down with a square of kitchen paper. ‘What happened, Dan? Did you maybe see a movie where the good guy is a smartass and gets to live?’ He rolls the bacon strip and chews it. ‘That’s not how it works outside your shithole club. Okay, you had the muscle in Slotz, but not here.’
I have to ask, so I say: ‘I gotta ask, Faber. What the hell are you doing in Slotz? This is a nice place you’ve got here. Smells good even in the kitchen. I haven’t seen a single roach, for Chrissakes.’
I’m playing for time a little with this kind of small talk, but I would genuinely like to know. Faber is prepared to give me a moment, so long as he gets to talk about himself.
‘That’s an interesting question, Daniel, and I get where you’re coming from. You look at me, wearing a suit that’s worth more than you make in a year. .’