Out There Bad mm-2 Read online

  Out There Bad

  ( Moses McGuire - 2 )

  Josh Stallings

  Josh Stallings

  Out There Bad

  CHAPTER 1

  MEXICO CITY — AUGUST 14TH 6:26 PM

  Central slave market. Hunting. No leads to Russian girls yet. Yesterday a young man told me he could take me to a stable of Russian whores. He lied. He tried to rob me. I slit his throat. Left a tarot card on his chest. Left his body in the gutter. One more piece of trash to be picked up.

  I travel light, everything I need fits in my coat. Russian military issue. The soldier who owned it won’t need it to keep warm anymore.

  Down a fresh alley. Deeper into the labyrinth. Broken hollow-faced girls stare out of the shadows. Olive skin, brown eyes. Broken. I must keep on point. Solve what I came to solve. Fight for all and you will win none. Simple math. Men laugh. Men drink. Men step out of the way when they see me coming. They can smell death.

  “Tell me where the Russian girls are?”

  “Fuck if I know, maybe here, maybe there. How much money you got?” He is a middleman. He thinks he is in control because we are in his office. Outside a closed door are three armed men. He feels safe.

  The razor is so fast his little finger is off before he can scream. My hand clamps down on his mouth. The blade rests against his throat. Blood is leaking from the stub on his hand. His eyes are huge. “Where are the Russian girls?”

  He hesitates. A second finger is gone. He screams into my gloved hand.

  “Where?” He nods. His eyes plead. I slowly pull my hand from his mouth. The blade rests on his throat.

  “Norte, Baja maybe. Rumors. Don’t kill me.”

  “No Russian girls here?”

  “No, I swear, I only tell the truth. Please.”

  I step behind him. I arc down. His throat gushes. His only sound is a gurgling moan. I hold his mouth closed. Then he is dead. I drop a tarot card on his body. His three men will die. They will have cards on their bodies.

  LOS ANGELES — AUGUST 14TH 8:32 PM

  “Moses, let me give you a lap dance, baby.” Caramel was a big-boned, light-skinned black girl, with mountains of frizzy sun-bleached hair. She wore thigh high Vampira boots and a black leather thong with a matching leather bra so small it barely covered her nipples. If I was any other man, I’d have had to wipe buckets of drool off my chin as she crawled on my lap. But I was me, the bouncer, doing time in titty daycare.

  “Little boy, you know you want some of this candy, you know you got a sweet-tooth for Caramel.”

  “I don’t do that anymore, baby girl,” I said.

  “Ha!”

  “Really.”

  “Why not?” She reached over to stroke my lap. I didn’t pull away, no need insulting her… besides, I’m not a saint and her touch felt good. It was a slow night, two Mexican boys sat at the bar trying to get up the courage to move down to the stage. With no one at the stage to tip, the girls weren’t dancing. Instead, they sat on the leopard-print sofas, gossiping and getting drunk. Slow nights can be a lot more dangerous than busy ones. Bored, drunk strippers rip it up when the mood hits them wrong.

  “That skinny bitch done broke your heart and turned you into a monk?” Caramel purred into my ear. “You used to be all into this fine ass.” I was starting to swell under her attention. “Come on, let me give you a down low nasty call-the-Vice-Squad dance.”

  “Can’t. Want to, can’t.”

  “I think the girls are right. You pitching for the other team?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, come on, Moses, you ain’t gay. Your point man is standing up ready for combat.”

  “What’s the pot up to?”

  “What are you talking about, baby?”

  “You’re not tossing me a freebee ‘cause I’m cute. Sure isn’t my massive wealth. How much is the bet up to?” She looked at me, fighting to find a quick lie, but it wouldn’t come fast enough. “Fifty? A hundred?”

  “Moses, it wasn’t like-”

  “Bullshit. Nothing happens in here I don’t know about. Sadie or China is holding a bag full of your hard-earned cash. First girl to get me in the back room wins the pot. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Will you believe me?” She looked down at the table.

  “No. You girls think I’m here to amuse you? Let’s see who can get Moses all hot and bothered, then laugh about it in the dressing room… Fuck it.” I stood up and walked away before she could tell me how damn sorry she was.

  I banged out the back door and onto the landing of the steep steel stairs that led down thirty feet to the parking lot below. I leaned on the safety-rail, sucking in what stood for fresh air in August, in the city of broken angels. City of wild, damaged dreams and beautiful graffiti-splashed cement rivers. LA, where nothing is what it seems on the surface and everybody lies about what’s underneath. Guys here drive $174,000 German sports cars, then argue over a twenty dollar cover charge and tip a naked girl a buck to put her tits in his face. This city is morally mortgaged to the hilt and drowning in the vig. Three decades after the riots of ‘92 and they had learned nothing, nothing at all. Separation between rich and poor, wider than ever, a true feudal system where lowly serfs like me get by on what they toss down, or what we can scam off them through their need for vice.

  “Hey, Cowboy.” Piper walked out onto the balcony. At near thirty, she was considered the old lady of Club Xtasy, but could out dance and out sell any of the eighteen year old shakers in the club. Flame red hair cascaded down, framing her face in its fire. She had a tall tight body topped off with a rack that would make a schoolboy give up his paper route money for one brief touch.

  “You thinking of jumping?” She looked over the edge of the stairs, tilting her head in a brief nod.

  “Over some stripper bullshit? I don’t think so.”

  “It was just a joke, Mo. They’re bored.”

  “Fuck them. Next time some freak has his hand up their ass, maybe I’ll look the other way. How’s that for a funny fucking joke.”

  “You won’t.”

  “Why the hell not, huh? One reason.”

  “Didn’t say you shouldn’t. Said you won’t. You’re not wired that way. Which is one of the coolest things about you, big man. That and your fine ass.” She reached out, dancing her finger across the back of my jeans.

  I jerked away. “What, you need the cash that bad? Here.” Pulling a hundred out of my pocket, I tossed it at her.

  “Fuck you, Moses.” She let the bill fall. “Have a drink, get laid, whatever it takes. The way you are now, it’s getting really hard to care about you.” Her eyes were wet, but she’d never cry, she was a pro. She spun and clicked her way back into the club.

  It had been fourteen months since the last time I had played Russian roulette, six months since my last dose of speed, three weeks since my last drink and ten minutes since my last deadly thought. Why? I hadn’t quit drinking and drugging and letting girls friction-fuck me out of some moral stance. I quit it because none of it was working anymore. All it did was make me feel sad and empty. Before Cass left me she taught me what it felt like to be touched by a woman who really wanted me, just for being me. I had known what it felt like to be loved, or the best approximation of love two children of the battle zone could muster. Maybe she came to me because I was a big man and could protect her, maybe it was gratitude for saving her life and taking out the punk who killed her sister, or maybe it was simply that her scars fit with mine. I didn’t care why, she was mine and I was hers. It didn’t last, it couldn’t, but for a time it had felt real and when she left me, I knew I was through settling for fake passion.

  Before Cass, I could pretend that these strippers I kept safe might actually have wanted a s
liced up, tattered old warhorse like me. The trouble is, once you know you’re telling yourself a lie, it stops working. My odometer was going to click over to forty-four in October, I guess it was time I started telling the truth, if only to myself.

  I was heading back in when I noticed a red Porsche down in the lot. Big buck rides almost never park in the back. We don’t valet, we don’t patrol, like the sign says, PARK AT YOUR OWN RISK. The street in front of the club is better lit and there’s enough traffic to keep it reasonably safe. Staring hard through the sunroof I could make out the driver. His hands were laced into a woman’s platinum blond hair. He roughly forced her head down onto his lap.

  I moved down the stairs with as much stealth as my building rage would allow. Crossing the parking lot I could see in the Porsche’s rear window. Driver’s face was caught in the mirror, contorting with a mixture of anger and pleasure. He had a two hundred dollar haircut, the kind meant to look like he just crawled out of bed, and one of those stupid soul patches growing under his lower lip. Getting within a few feet, I could hear his choked muttering: “…right bitch, suck hard bitch…”

  When I ripped the door open the driver’s face snapped around. But instead of fear, he looked indignant. “Dude — what the fuck?” He released his grip on the platinum hair and the bobbing head shot up off his lap.

  “Moses?”

  “Marina.” She was a new Russian dancer. I motioned with my head for her to get out.

  “What the fuck, dude, she’s busy, take a number.”

  Grabbing a fistful of his suede sports coat I dragged the driver out. His legs got tangled under the dash. I yanked hard. The leather tore. He flopped onto the pavement fighting to get his legs working. Whatever he was screaming I couldn’t hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.

  My fist caught him under the chin, lifting him up and bouncing him off the hood of his Porsche. I was about to smash him again -

  “Moses! No, stop!” Marina was behind me, screaming. I let go. He was a kid, maybe twenty. Blood smeared his gums and teeth.

  “You bwoke my fucking tooth.” The swelling gave him a lisp. “My dad ith tho going to thue your ath.”

  Marina pushed past me. “Baby, you are ok, yes? So brave.” She was cooing in the little fucker’s face.

  “You know him?” I asked. Stupid question, sure, but I was trying to play catch up while my pulse rocked adrenaline into my tiny brain.

  “Fuck yeth, she knowth me. I just paid her fifty to polith my knob.” Standing up, he zipped his pants closed.

  “You paid her for sex?”

  “Yeth, you fucking deaf? — one of you owth me fifty buckth or a blow job. Not to mention a god damn tooth.”

  “Sex for hire is illegal, pal, I don’t think you want to push it,” I said over my shoulder as I walked away. I knew if I looked at him I might explode. It had been years since I had been in the joint and I didn’t plan on returning, not over a creep like this.

  “Tell that to your hot little thlut there, thee’th the one who offered it. I jutht went along for the ride.”

  “You really need to stop talking,” I said soft. Still turned with my back to him, I stopped walking. I felt my muscles tensing, they knew a dogfight was coming, even if my brain was in denial.

  “Look ath wipe, your bitch took my-” I felt his hand grabbing my upper arm. His touch unleashed me, like a snapping high-tension spring I spun around. If he had more to say, I’ll never know; my fist shoved his words back down his throat. The blow rocked his jaw two inches out of alignment and sent a fine spray of pink mist gracing the night air.

  He was fit and gym tough, I’ll give him that. He took it and threw one of his own. I ducked to the left and took his fist on the side of my head. I could hear bones in his hand snapping against my skull. Grabbing him by the ears I slammed my thick brow down. His nose went with a thick wet crunch. Blood streamed down his face. I gave him two quick shots to the gut, he doubled over gasping for air and spewing bile and blood. I was in full tilt berserker mode. No mercy asked, none given.

  I swung my arm back, preparing to ruin his pretty boy face. A powerful hand grabbed my arm and held me back.

  “It’s done, Moses.” Uncle Manny held my arm, staring me down. He was a good foot and a half shorter than me and fifty pounds lighter, but I’d never think of taking him on. I relaxed my muscles and formed a smile. As soon as Manny released his grip, I spun and laid my boot to the punk’s chest. I heard the crack of ribs and the squeal of deep hurt.

  “Moses!”

  “Fine, fuck him.”

  The punk in the suit was curled up on the ground like a puking fetus. Uncle Manny turned to his nephew. “Turaj! Clean this up.”

  “But Uncle, Moses did-”

  “Get him in his car and off my lot.”

  Turaj gave me what he hoped was a withering glance and moved over to follow his uncle’s orders.

  Marina stood watching us, her eyes wide with fear. She was a frozen rabbit I was the headlights on the highway. I tried to say something to her but only a low rasp came out.

  Uncle Manny walked me up the stairs. He was the club’s owner and one of the few older men in the world who actually trusted and respected me. He was a tough man who escaped Iran in the middle of the revolution. He watched his brother die in a firefight at the border, but against all odds, he made it to America and raised his children soft and comfortable. Insuring they would never understand him. Not the way I would.

  “Sit the fuck down, you piece of shit.” Through the walls of his office the dance music thumped.

  “Manny, I can-”

  “You can shut the fuck up. That boy sues me? I lose my club? Who pays for my kids’ college? You?”

  “Fuck this, Manny.”

  “Sit down.” I did.

  “I was doing my job.”

  “I pay you to hurt my patrons?”

  “Marina was giving him a blow job.”

  “These things happen. Moses, think… we sell the pretense of sex, sometimes it crosses the line. Do we like that? No, but it is the cost of doing business.”

  We always had a zero tolerance rule about freelancing. Get caught with that crap not only will Vice take your license, they’d put someone in the can.

  “We can’t let that shit pass.”

  “Calm down. You look ready to explode. You are a hand grenade and the pin is lost.”

  “I’m cool.”

  “You don’t look cool. When was the last time you got laid?”

  “What?”

  “When, was the last time, you got laid?”

  “That’s none of your business, Manny.”

  “Bullshit answer. Weeks? No? Months?”

  “It has been a while, ok?”

  “That’s no good. Keep that up and you will kill one of my customers.”

  “He came at me, I was defending…” Even I didn’t believe it.

  “You, me, we can stop these boys with one word, a hard look. It’s bad business, what you did.”

  “I’m sorry, Manny… He just, I don’t know…”

  “No, you don’t know. I’d rather have blow jobs than killing in my parking lot.” From out of his safe he took a small wad of bills and passed them across the table.

  “What’s this?”

  “Two weeks’ pay.”

  “Firing me?”

  “For now.”

  “Later?”

  “We’ll see. Kid presses it, I need to show I took action. Now go, I have a club to run.”

  I was at the door when he spoke, I kept my back to him.

  “You want some advice from an old man, that you didn’t ask for?”

  “Not really.”

  “Find a good woman, one not in this life, and settle down. Someone to come home to at night. Someone to grow old with. Now get out of here.”

  Marina stood in front of the club as I rolled up out of the parking lot. She looked small, her shoulders rounded in, draped in a too-large trench coat. Her eyes darted around
. Something had her spooked.

  “You ok, baby girl?” I said as I walked up to her. She shrank back into the shadows of the building. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

  “No?” she said softly.

  “No. I’d die before I’d smack one of you girls.” She relaxed slightly; uncrossing her arms she let them drop to her side. “Uncle Manny fire you over that crap in the car?”

  “Just for this night, yes, but tomorrow, no.”

  “He’s a fair man. Listen, the BJ, is that a regular thing?”

  “No. First time. I swear.”

  “Alright. You say it was a one shot deal, then it was a one shot deal. Why’d you do it? You know the rules, right?”

  “Yes. It was slow this night. I have rent to pay.” Before she could say more, a black Mercedes slid up and double parked in front of us. An S500, a couple years old, but still its driver had to be packing some major ching. Marina was already moving towards the car when she spoke. “I have to go.” She climbed quickly into the back seat.

  “Marina?” I stepped into the street. “If you get jammed up for cash again, come to me before you do something stupid.”

  “Thank-” Whatever else she had to say was lost in the noise of the Mercedes whipping away.

  Everything about the black sedan rang wrong. It wasn’t the car a broke girl got picked up in, and if it was a “date” she would have gotten in the front. Fucking Russians, soon as I thought I had their scams figured out, they invented new ones. They were mean, evil bastards who would slit your throat soon as look at you, but they weren’t subtle.

  “Do you know how to tell when a whore is lying?” an old man asked me when I was in lockdown. “Their lips are moving.” He burst into a fit of laughter that almost cost him a lung.

  CHAPTER 2

  YAROSLAVL, RUSSIA — TWO WEEKS EARLIER 5:43 AM

  The red dress was the only legacy Nika’s sister had left her. It was just before dawn when she pulled it over her head. The silky fabric clung tightly across her breasts. It looked good, right. These tits that appeared as an unwanted gift on her twelfth birthday had caused only trouble, they made sports awkward and brought teasing from her classmates. For the last year she had hidden her chest in baggy shirts, but seeing how she filled out her sister’s dress, she was glad to have developed early. Her hips on the other hand were still like a boy’s. The fabric fell from her waistline, hung loosely, losing all form. Pulling up the hem, she wrapped a winter scarf from butt to pelvis, encasing herself in the thick wool. Dropping the skirt down she checked again, smiled; she was becoming a woman. Her one pair of dress shoes were scuffed and half a size too small. The first thing she was going to buy when she got to America was a new pair of heels. Spiked, like the girls wore on MTV.