Here is a preview from Bad Guy Lawyer, a crime thriller by Chuck Marten.
CHAPTER 1—September 28, 1987
“Hi, I’m Brandi. You wanna dance?”
That’s what she said. What she meant was, Do you want a dance? As opposed to, Do you want to dance? This was not the kind of place where men and women danced together.
The only thing Guy McCann wanted was to sit alone at the bar and enjoy his Macallan eighteen-year, neat. But it was early on a Monday night and the working girls outnumbered the patrons. Guy felt like a piece of carrion being circled by a flock of body-lotion-and-glitter-covered vultures.
He tried to be polite. “No thanks,” he said, offering up a half smile. “Maybe later.”
“But I’m leaving soon.” Her tone was that of a three-year-old asking to stay up another five minutes. “I might not be here later.”
“Sorry,” Guy said. “I’ve got my drink.”
“Bring your drink.” She offered up a coquettish smile.
“No, really. I’m okay.”
“I can make you better.” As she confidently delivered this guarantee, Brandi squeezed her upper arms together in a well-practiced maneuver that not-so-subtly lifted her cleavage closer to Guy’s line of sight.
He paused. “That’s very clever, but I’m not here for that.” He glanced down at the silicone-filled orbs occupying her tube top. “Or those.” Her smile disappeared. “I’m just here to meet a friend. Until he shows up, I just want to drink my drink and not take up any more of your time, so…” The way he trailed off implied she should do likewise.
“Oh, I see,” she said. “My mistake. I didn’t realize you were a tourist.”
His ears perked up. “I’m sorry?” he asked. “A what?”
“A tourist. Now that you’ve seen what boobies look like, I guess you can skip on back to the Blue Oyster Bar and tell your buddies all about it.”
“Wait? What?” Then he got it. “Oh, I get it. Because I don’t want a dance from you, I must be…” He put down his drink. “Okay, how much is it a dance?” Guy asked. “Five, right? Five bucks a song?”
He pulled out his wallet and produced a portrait of Abraham Lincoln, flattening it out on the bar in front of him.
“Here you go.” Guy gestured to the legal tender on the counter. “It’s for you. But I don’t want you to dance. I just want you to sit here, at the bar, next to me, for a whole song. And during that song, I want you to keep completely silent. I don’t want you to say a word. Just…sit there.”
She looked at the sixteenth president of the United States. “Just to sit here?”
“In silence.”
She shrugged. “Okay.”
“Great,” Guy said. “Then it’s settled. I remind you that if you utter a single syllable, you will be in breach of contract, forfeiting any claim to our agreed-upon payment.”
She eyed him queerly as she sank into the barstool next to him.
“I, however, have made no such agreement to remain silent. So I will exercise my option to speak freely.”
Guy paused to take a sip from his drink. The DJ’s amplified voice echoed harshly throughout the mostly empty clubroom as he announced that Shanna was arriving on the main stage. The music blasting from the house speakers segued from Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” to Vanity’s “Nasty Girl.”
“Okay,” Guy began, “I don’t know what you see when you look in the mirror. But trust me, there is nothing here,” he motioned to her face and torso in that order, “that is so compelling as to render it impossible for a heterosexual male of sound mind and body to decline the opportunity to pay you five dollars to dry hump him in front of the dozen or so drunken yokels that constitute the Monday night crowd in this dump. In fact, that you are stuck working the Monday night shift, in and of itself, should tell you something of your overall desirability, or lack thereof, to the opposite sex.”
Her face hardened and she opened her mouth to retort. Guy cut her off by holding up his index finger
and glancing at the cash on the bar. She regained her composure, sat back into her barstool, and slowly crossed her right leg over her left.
“You should really consider the possibility that if I would rather sit by myself and drink my scotch than have you rub your surgically augmented tits in my face, it’s an indictment of you, not of me,” Guy continued. “Although to be fair, this scotch is pretty damn good.”
He paused to take another sip and placed the glass back on the bar.
“Do you actually know why it is men come here?” Guy cocked his head to the side. “No? Then I’ll spell it out for you. It’s to escape reality. To experience a fantasy. And you know what my fantasy is? It’s a woman who’s smart enough to realize that if I’m not interested in what I can see from across the room, then her slithering over here and shoving it in my face isn’t going to help.”
She was clenching her jaw so tightly her facial muscles were twitching.
“It used to be that a guy could come to a place like this and be left alone. You know, to enjoy the scenery without suffering that tired Betty-Boop-on-Spanish-Fly routine of yours. But you girls have gotten so goddamn pushy that it feels more like I’m in a used car lot than a goddamn titty bar. I just wanted to have a drink. That’s why I’m sitting here. At the bar. If I wanted a dance, I’d be sitting over there. With the guys getting dances.”
She wasn’t even looking at him anymore. She just stared stiffly at the five-dollar bill on the bar. Her right leg was bouncing so forcefully that the surface of his scotch was resonating in concentric circles.
“So, in summary, once this song ends, please leave me and my scotch alone. Be certain, the only thing I want from your body is to see it from behind, getting smaller and smaller, as you walk farther and farther away from me.”
And with that, the DJ asked everyone to give it up for Shanna. The six or seven regulars managed to muster up a forced applause as “Nasty Girl” transitioned into Madonna’s “Lucky Star.”
The song over, Brandi immediately grabbed the five. “You’re an asshole,” she growled, choking the bill with her fist as she disappeared back into the dark, smoke-filled abyss.
“Duly noted,” Guy mumbled. He swiveled back to the bar, only to find that he had already finished his drink. Talking too much always seemed to go hand in hand with drinking too much. And vice versa.
He gestured for the bartender’s attention, but before he could order another scotch, a large, broad-shouldered oaf sporting a Freddie Mercury mustache and a well-worn Stetson appeared and placed a hand on Guy’s shoulder.
“Sorry, I’m late,” Shady Mike said. Then to the bartender, “No, he’s done. I’ll take care of the tab.”
Before Guy could protest, Shady Mike was pulling him to his feet. “He’s in the back.”
Guy wrestled himself free of Shady Mike’s grip and craned his neck up at his tardy companion. Shady Mike had the build of a first-string offensive guard and the acumen of a third-string elephant shit shoveler, and for both reasons Guy tended to forgive his congenital lack of delicacy.
“He kept me waiting long enough.” Guy straightened the front of his collared shirt and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Well, what do you want me to say? This isn’t a German train station he’s running here. Come on.”
“Leave it open,” Guy ordered the bartender. He turned and followed his companion away from the bar. Shady Mike led him toward the back of the club, past the men’s room, down a dark hallway.
“Now remember,” Shady Mike said. “You help Rico out, he’s gonna help you. So try to show him some respect.”
“Show respect to Rico the Pimp? You mean, like, curtsy when I enter?”
Shady Mike shook his head. “I mean, like, stop referring to him as Rico the Pimp.”
“You know, titles are bestowed as a sign of honor.”
“Maybe just try to talk as little as possible.”
Guy shut his mouth and the two continued in silence. Lacking conversation to distract him, Guy realized how tense he was. He took a deep breath and tried to loosen his shoulders.
“Why do we always have to meet in places like this, anyway?”
Shady Mike raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be such a tourist.”
“I didn’t even know that was an expression…” Guy was cut off by their arrival at a doorway guarded by a large, sullen bouncer. The bouncer glared down at Guy, who turned to Shady Mike, who rolled his eyes.
“Give me a break, Stewie,” he said. “I was just here five minutes ago.”
The bouncer opened the door and Guy followed Shady Mike into the small office, where the proprietor of the establishment was sitting behind a heavily dented steel typewriting desk. His beefy frame spilled out of a faded wife beater, and he studied Guy with an eerie curiosity, like he was deciding whether to eat him.
“You the abogado?” he asked.
“Tal vez,” Guy replied. “You Rico the Pimp?”
Shady Mike winced.
Rico grinned at Guy. “Let’s not stand on ceremony. Just Rico is fine.” He motioned for Guy to take the chair sitting across from him. “I heard you know a couple things about getting guys out of a jam.”
Guy started to feel comfortable. Not exactly in his element, but close to it. “Why don’t you tell me what the problem is?” he asked as he sat down.
Rico picked up a lit cigar that had been resting in an ashtray on the desk, took a long drag, and exhaled. The cigar gave off a bouquet that brought to Guy’s mind stale corn chips wrapped in old gym socks. Guy was used to the aroma of hand-wrapped Cubans, but Rico apparently preferred the gas station variety.
“Things are so much easier in Tijuana,” Rico said. “Back home, if some idiota sticks his nose in your business, you just let him know you mean business. Problem solved.” He took another puff of the blunt. “I do well for myself, everyone knows I’m not someone to be messed with. But Tiyei is small time. Pretty soon, I get too big. So I come out to Las Vegas. The big time. Supposed to be no rules out here. But there’s a lot of fucking rules. I spend half what I made back home just in license fees. And then, after I follow all their bullshit, two nights ago they come in and try to shut me down. What is that shit? What the fuck is moral turpitude, anyway?”
“Oh,” Guy said. “That. That is hard to explain.”
“I don’t need you to explain it,” Rico said. “I just need you to tell me what to do.”
“That depends. If they slapped you with a cease and desist, then you need to file an appeal. I mean right away. First thing tomorrow morning. In fact, you shouldn’t even have this place open right now. The cops come back tonight, you go to jail. But if you file an appeal, you can keep this place open until the hearing. You’ll probably lose, but it’ll buy you the time you need.”
“Time I need to do what?”
“Find a new base of operations. If you lose the appeal, they close this place for good. So you need a new location, new name, and…” Guy paused for a second. “A new owner.”
“¿Qué?” It came out as a growl as Rico bit down his mustard-colored incisors on the head of his el ropo.
“Hear me out,” Guy said. “The liquor and gaming board is never going to give a cabaret license to someone already accused of running a prostitution ring. Metro has a sheet on you now. You need to find a front man, a figurehead who’s clean enough to get a license, who will act as the owner on paper. But since I’m guessing that you’re not done living up to su reputación just yet, make sure it’s someone expendable, someone whose mouth you can scare shut. So when the next club gets busted, he’s the one who ends up doing eighteen months in NSP. When that happens, you just do the same thing all over again. Pack it up, move down the road. New owner, new license, no problem. Lather, rinse, repeat.”
“What about my customers? If I move down the road, how do I make sure the johns follow?”
“Brand recognition,” Guy said. “When the whales fly in with all that out-of-town cash, they don’t want to waste it getting their dicks teased. They need someone to tell them where to find the sure thing. You invest a little in keeping the casino concierges and cab drivers on your side, and it won’t matter where your club is or what it’s called. They’ll make sure the customers find it.”
Rico nodded approvingly. “Now that kind of medicine I don’t mind swallowing. You’re a good guy to know. ¿De dondé eres?”
“Nowhere.”
“Nowhere?”
“You know.” Guy shrugged. “Around.”
“Well, stick around,” Rico said. “And why don’t you give me your number so if I need your services again, I can contact you directly. You know, without having to go through Shithead here.”
“Jesus,” Shady Mike mumbled under his breath.
“No, that’s okay.” Guy nervously ran his hand across the back of his neck. “Just call Mike. He’ll get me the message.”
“No, I’d rather deal with you direct. Come on, just give me your phone number so I can put it in the,” he gestured to the Rolodex on his desk, “¿cómo se dice?”
“Trust me,” Guy said. “It’s better to go through Mike. I don’t even own a telephone.”
“Suit yourself,” Rico said. “But consider yourself on retainer. As far as payment goes, I took care of things with Big Sal, so you don’t need to worry about that anymore.”
“Thanks.” Guy’s eyes wandered to the floor. “Also, I started a tab at the bar out there.”
Rico laughed. “Yeah, I’ll take care of that too. ¿Algo más?”
Guy shook his head. “Nope, that’ll do it.”
He stood up and turned to exit, but the sullen bouncer from the hall stepped into the room, blocking his path.
“Um, excuse me.” Guy looked up at him, confused. “Did you also need some legal advice?”
Instead of answering Guy, the bouncer turned to Rico. “This twerp was harassing Brandi.”
“Who’s Brandi?”
On cue, the stripper from the bar appeared from behind the bouncer. Her mood had not improved.
“Oh,” Guy said. “Hello again.” He tried to sound gentlemanly.
Brandi ignored the greeting and called out to her boss. “This little faggot was keeping me from dancing with other customers. He owes me like fifty bucks for the time he wasted, and you oughtta throw him out of here for the shit he was saying to me.”
“Not exactly how I recall the events in question,” Guy said.
“Shut up, faggot!” Brandi spat at him.
The bouncer took a step closer to Guy.
“Hey!” Rico stood up for the first time since Guy had arrived. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“But Brandi said—”
“¿Sabes lo que dije?” The room shook as Rico bellowed the words. Everyone froze until Rico lowered his voice and calmly added: “I said he’s a friend of mine.”
The bouncer backed off, allowing enough room between him and the door for Guy to exit. Brandi just stood silently in disgust.
As Guy walked past, the bouncer leaned in toward him and growled under his breath. “You think you’re some kind of tough guy?”
Guy shook his head calmly. “No, I’m not a tough guy. I’m the smart guy.”
“Smart enough to run up five G’s with Big Sal?”
“Smart enough to know when to keep my mouth shut.” Guy turned back to Rico.
Rico shot the bouncer a look that left him thinking better of it. The bouncer’s gaze fell to the floor and Guy took his cue to exit.
When they got to the parking lot, Shady Mike took a deep breath. “That mouth of yours is gonna get you killed one of these days.”
“This mouth of mine is the only asset I have these days,” Guy replied.
As Guy neared his faded Datsun 300ZX, Shady Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of notebook paper that had been hastily torn from its spiral binder.
“I forgot to tell you earlier,” he started. “You got a call from some broad. Sounded pretty hysterical. Could barely understand her, she was so shaken up. Something about her sister missing. Said you’d know what she meant.” He handed the paper to Guy. “It’s a 213 number. That’s LA, right?”
Guy stared at the piece of paper.
“Is that where you’re from?”
Guy lifted his eyes from the paper.
Shady Mike corrected himself. “Sorry. That’s right. You’re from nowhere. My mistake.”
Guy crumpled the piece of paper into his pocket and fumbled for his car keys. “Do me a favor. Don’t mention that phone call to anyone. Forget that area code too.”
Guy opened the driver’s side door to the Datsun and got behind the wheel. He put the key in the ignition, but before starting the engine, he rolled down his window and leaned out to Shady Mike.
“Make sure things get settled with Big Sal. I’m going to be out of touch for a couple days.”
“Why?” Shady Mike’s mouth hung open in a stunned expression. “Where are you going?”
Grateful for Shady Mike’s steadfast obtuseness, Guy turned the ignition and put the transmission in drive.
“Nowhere,” was his reply.
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