31

“What’s this scary monster look like?” Flip could barely hear his own voice with the music so loud. All these people shouted at each other or leaned close to try to hear and be heard.

Across from him in the booth, Ronny didn’t touch the glass of club soda sweating onto the tabletop in front of him. After a second he leaned forward. “You’ll know him when he comes in. Big. Shaved head. My height. Got about thirty, forty pounds on me. Looks like a guy you’d see in a nuthouse. Got tattoos on his face, a tattoo around his right arm, up here.” He pointed to his bicep. “And some other tattoo on the left arm I never got a good look at.”

“All you got a good look at was his fist, huh?”

“I can’t wait to see how your mouth runs when he comes in.”

Flip sipped his coffee. It had cooled, but the taste wasn’t too rotten.

Nobody in the place looked anything like the guy Ronny described. They were all dressed for the party, dangling beer bottles or clutching glasses, circling one another like packs of hyenas around a kill. Flip tried to keep his eyes pinned to the front door, but they kept drifting to the clubbers, the way they faked interest in one another, their real motives so obvious.

The front doorway filled. A man’s frame blocked the blackness of the night. He stood hunched, the top of his head too high for the door, surveying the room. Moving in now, the tattoos on his face masked him. Flip couldn’t make out the words stenciled there, but the uneven bursts of olive around the brow and eyes told him the tats were homemade—prison-made.

Like something from an enlarged world, Tats moved through the crowd. He was too big to slide between the groups of littler people crowded around, but he didn’t seem to have any interest in moving between them anyway. He knocked three people aside before a guy spoke up. The big man wrapped his hand around the guy’s face and shoved him to the floor.

People started for the door.

Flip knotted his hands together under the table and popped his back. His hands felt shrunken. He said to Ronny, “On your toes, bouncer boy,” and slid out of the booth.

Without another glance at Tats, Flip headed for the back. Ronny called after him, but he didn’t answer.

The office door was locked again. He pounded on it.

“It’s me. Let me in.”

A couple of clicks echoed in the hallway, and the door opened. Garrett looked out over Flip’s shoulder. “What?”

Flip pushed past him. Mr. B leaned forward in his office chair. Flip had the four thousand in his hand. He slapped it onto the desk. “Deal’s off.” He turned to leave.

“Hey. Wait a minute. What do you mean, deal’s off?” Mr. B’s voice reached a pitch Flip hadn’t heard before.

Flip faced him. “Job’s too big. Eight’s not enough. There’s your four back.” He turned to Garrett. “You better get busy. He’s out there.”

Shouts came from the front. Glass shattered.

Garrett shifted his feet, looked to Mr. B.

“I’ll make it ten. Ten thousand.”

Flip grinned at him. “You’ll make it twenty, or he’s going to be standing where I am in about three minutes.”

Mr. B’s lips clenched. His eyes shifted to the doorway. “All right. All right. Twenty.”

A crash from outside. That would be Ronny getting taken out.

“I’ll take ten now,” Flip said. “You better hurry. About a hundred yuppies are calling 911.”

“He’s always gone before the cops get here.” Mr. B scrambled for the safe under his feet and came up with six to add to the four on the desk. “Hurry up.” Flip scooped up the cash and left the room.

The slam of the office door almost caught his heel. He heard it lock behind him as he made for the rear exit.

In the alley, he leaned against the wall. Tats would probably be on his way toward the back by now.

Ten thousand for watching a big guy shove into a bar. Not a bad night’s work.

Or, he could face him for another ten.

The alley ended at a side street. It would run back up to Venice Boulevard. That would be the smart thing. Just take the ten thousand and call it a night.

But Flip’s blood pumped hard. All the old feelings swept through him, feelings from other streets, from the yard at Lancaster. From the room behind a bar a long, long time ago. It charged him, fed him.

He shoved away from the wall. At the end of the alley he circled up to Venice. The guy who’d taken Ronny’s place at the front of the club was long gone. Nobody was around. Flip leaned inside.

Ten minutes ago the place had been packed. Now it was empty. Except for Ronny, sprawled unconscious across broken lumber that used to be a table. The music that had been so loud before was silenced. With the place deserted and the music gone, Flip had the sense he was walking into a bar in a ghost town.

In back, he heard a muffled crash. That would be the door to Mr. B’s office splintering apart.

He moved faster.

At the door past the restrooms, he listened. He opened it slowly and looked around the edge.

Garrett flew out and bounced off the hallway wall. He left a head-shaped dent in the plaster and slumped into a heap like laundry.

Flip moved in. He swirled his tongue around in his mouth. Dry.

Mr. B was trying to keep the desk between him and Tats. It wasn’t going to work. The big guy, his back to Flip, shoved the desk toward Mr. B.

The owner’s eyes shot around, caught Flip’s. “Do something!”

So much for surprise.

Tats looked over his shoulder. He was leaning over to grip the edges of the desk with both hands, his wide back strained at his black T-shirt. Another shove and he had Mr. B pinned to the wall.

Tats’s eyes held on Flip. “You going to try me?” The voice was absurdly high. It belonged to a dwarf.

Flip smiled. “How’d you get by inside with a voice like that? All those tats help, or are you just get used to getting turned out?”

The bald head tilted. Flip could now make out the face tattoo. The markings around his eyes looked like a child’s drawing of the sun. The words under the skin would put him in the segregation unit anyplace.

Mr. B struggled like a bug pinned to a kid’s piece of cardboard. He pushed against the desk, but Tats held it solid.

That high voice spoke again. Tats’s eyes were on Flip, but he was talking to Mr. B. “Why you bring me this lop?” He glanced to Mr. B, back to Flip. “Hang on, boy. I be with you in a second.”

Flip laughed at him. “I’m sorry, man. You sound like a little girl.”

“Keep it up, punk.”

Flip’s face leveled. He stepped in.

Tats turned his back to Mr. B and straightened up. He had a long neck. Flip liked the look of it.

Mr. B pushed the desk away. It hit the back of the big guy’s legs and for an instant threw him off balance.

Flip tensed his left fist. Tats grinned. Flip spun everything into a right aimed for the Adam’s apple.

He hit it flush.

Flip pulled back. He ducked to his right.

Tats tried to swallow. His eyes popped wide. He staggered. His neck muscles tightened.

Flip swung for the nose.

Tats slapped it away and came at Flip like a brick wall falling.

Close now, Flip could use the point of his elbow.

He went for the neck again.

Caught it.

Tats’s face contorted. The tattoo around his eyes scrunched.

But he kept coming, choking.

Flip twisted, trying to get out of the way. Tats was too wide. A hand caught Flip’s shoulder and held him. The big guy tumbled toward him. Flip pushed back, but he was under a tidal wave. He swung, no target, no aim—hit something.

The floor rose. It slammed into him.

Crushed, on his side, Flip squirmed. His right shoulder was in a vise. Tats was sputtering, choking on his own windpipe. Flip shoved against the floor.

The big guy lifted a hand. Flip couldn’t get space to wriggle free. He threw an elbow, caught the big guy’s cheek. That hand was coming.

Flip tried to duck.

The fist landed like a sledgehammer on Flip’s forehead. Stars exploded behind his eyes. He slipped his arms up, covered his head.

But the second punch didn’t come.

The noises from Tats’s throat sounded like a kid coughing far away. That little girl’s voice wasn’t forming any words.

Flip rolled out from under him and scrambled to his feet. He needed the wall. One hand pressed against it. The wall kept wanting to drift away. Pinpoints of light floated around the room. Flip passed a hand across his eyes to wipe away the wetness forming there.

Stretched out on the floor, Tats’s feet scraped like he wanted to climb sideways. He took up the whole floor.

Mr. B came around the desk. He stared at Flip, chest heaving. “You . . . you . . .” He stood out of the big guy’s reach, feet dancing, and looked down at him. The big guy wrestled with his own throat. “Did you kill him?”

Flip leaned against the wall. No amount of blinking would clear his vision. “Give me the other ten.”

Mr. B ignored him. He leaned over, still out of the big guy’s reach. “She wanted it!”

Tats couldn’t respond. His gagging made Flip think he wanted to, but no other noise would come.

“Give me my money.” His own voice was a floating croak. The throb in his forehead gained power with the settling of his adrenaline.

“She wanted it—you hear me? You hear me?”

The big guy slowed.

Flip came away from the wall.

Mr. B straightened. “You did good. Real good.”

Flip stood over him. “The money.”

“Sure. Sure. He’s dying.” Giddy laughter quaked his words. “This is the last thing he’s going to hear.” He bent over him again. “She wanted it!”

Flip balled his fist. “Who wanted it?”

Mr. B grinned. “Never mind. Help me move this desk.”

Flip watched him cross back to it, put two hands on one edge.

Tats struggled against the floor, but he was losing.

Mr. B said, “Help me with this.” He nodded to the desk. “Hey, you want your money or not?”

“You deserved it. What he was going to do. Didn’t you?”

Mr. B gave up waiting for Flip to help and bent to the desk, shoved it until the safe was exposed. “What’s ‘deserved’?”

“Who’s this she you keep yelling about?”

Mr. B worked at the combination on the floor safe. “Don’t worry about it.” Louder, he yelled, “Just his strung-out, dead, junkie daughter!”

Flip looked to the big guy in his death throes on the wooden floorboards. Nothing could be done. By the time an ambulance got here, he would be gone.

Those sirens he heard would be cops.

He moved closer to Mr. B.

The safe door flapped open. Mr. B reached inside. He kept his eyes on Flip. His hand came out. But it didn’t hold a pile of bills.

Flip dove at him.

A gunshot exploded. Wide. Flip went for the hand that held the gun. He twisted Mr. B’s arm like a dishtowel. Mr. B grunted. The gun clattered onto the hardwood.

An elbow to Mr. B’s face sent him to the floor. Flip picked up the gun. “Get in the corner.”

Mr. B’s eyes teared up. Blood spread over his mouth out of both crushed nostrils.

Flip pointed the gun at him. “Now.”

Mr. B crawled to the corner on his knees and one hand, the other held to his nose as if he could straighten it out. Flip knelt at the safe, kept the pistol pointed at Mr. B. Inside he found papers but not cash. He took the papers out and set them on the floor.

Mr. B sat in the corner, cursing him.

“Where’s the rest of my money?”

Mr. B’s answer didn’t have anything to do with money.

Flip rose and went to the corner. He shoved the muzzle into Mr. B’s temple. “They’re going to find your brains all over that wall.”

“Wait. Wait.” Both hands came up, smeared with the blood from his nose. “It’s there. You have to slide the shelf over. It’s there.”

Flip returned to the safe and found the lip of a shelf on one side of the compartment and drew it in. It was there all right. And a lot more. He wadded all of it into his pockets and stood. The pockets were large, but they barely held the bundles of cash.

The papers looked interesting. He folded them in half and tried to stuff them in his back pocket. He’d forgotten his cap was back there. Putting it on made his swollen forehead smart even more. He jammed the papers in his pocket and went to the door.

The voices of cops echoed in the empty bar.

Behind him, Mr. B said, “You better watch your back. I’ll be looking for you.”

Flip pointed the pistol at him. Mr. B ducked. Flip didn’t fire.

He took one last look at Tats. Stretched out wall-to-wall, he wasn’t struggling anymore. It was too late to make it right. Killing Mr. B wouldn’t help.

Flip ducked out. He made it through the exit door and into the alley without seeing anyone.