Killer Genius 2: Attack of the Gym Rats

In any jungle, predators that can adapt to changes in their hunting grounds are the ones that survive. It’s true for a pride of lions that might be forced to go from hunting antelope to much stronger water buffalo because a certain marsh dries out. It would be the same for a pair of serial killers who had been forced from their usual routine of trolling large dance clubs and posh nightspots to a sleazy hotel lobby because the police are looking for them.

“These people!” Clarissa hissed as they looked across the bar.

“I know,” Jon nodded. “Death would be a favor to most of them.”

The sheer number of people of color within the establishment was, at first, disappointing for both of them. Of course, the Ratkeviches would not have considered that racist, any more than they wouldn’t have considered their disdain for the people’s taste in clothing and choice of music as elitist. In their minds, their current situation was simply not what they were accustomed to. Adjustments to their strategy would have to be made.

Based on what Yuri had said, the siblings had entered the bar expecting to see prostitutes and johns. And while there were a few women dressed accordingly, it was apparent that this bar was more of a low-level pick up spot for the younger patrons dancing and mingling in the center of the space. It was also a place to drink heavily for the middle-aged brown folks positioned either at the L-shaped bar or coupled up at cocktail tables on the other side of the dance space.

Clarissa and Jon had arrived just in time for the two seats at the bottom of the ‘L’ to free up. The friendly bartender served them two neat vodkas when asked. The only other Caucasian in the room, the bartender appeared to want to make small talk, but had way too many other customers to do so.

“Y’all look lost!” an amber complexioned man in his mid-fifties shouted at them from six seats away. He wore an ill-fitting red suit and a yellow scarf that nearly matched the hue of his smoker’s teeth.

Jon scowled as to openly warn the man against saying anything else, while Clarissa smiled. “We are from out of town! Never been here before!” she shouted over the music.

“We should leave,” he hissed in her ear.

He had a point. There was nothing appealing about the place. The carpeting that was probably green in the 1990s had a worn trail of black running down the middle, probably from years of people dancing and trapesing across the center. The lighting was dim, an odd mix of halogen bulbs and leftover Christmas lights. The music, at least for the half-hour that they’d sat at the bar, had been nothing but a marathon of old-school dancehall reggae.

“Where are you two from?” the bartender asked after he’d heard the conversation being yelled across the bar and finally fixed enough drinks to be able to circle back for that small talk.

“Russia,” Clarissa answered.

“Don’t tell these people anything,” Jon hissed in her ear. “We are probably on the news, remember?”

“Do any of these people look like they’ve watched the news?” she asked as she looked around again, taking notice of the couples seated at the eight short, cocktail tables lined up against the far wall. One couple was especially interesting:

The lady was a caramel beauty with soulful, almond eyes and full, curvy lips painted the most compelling shade of burgundy. Her well-done make-up gave the impression that she was some sort of performer, maybe a singer for a lounge band. It was hard to estimate her age, but if Clarissa were to judge by the lady’s clothes and demeanor, she was at least in her low thirties.

In contrast, her escort was significantly older, dressed in casual business attire and no younger than sixty. From the empty champagne bottles on their table it could be deduced that he had been spending money all night, with the carefree demeanor of someone living off a decent pension and no wife at home to hold him accountable for his bad decisions. There was no doubt in Jon’s mind that a search of the man’s pockets would produce Viagra and condoms.

“My wife is Russian. Defected twenty years ago. Married me and started a cold war in my bedroom,” the bartender joked.

“Frank, don’t start your bullshit!” The loud man in the red suit yelled. “Give me my drink, then you can annoy the new white people.”

From the look on his face, it was apparent that Frank the bartender was now the one who was annoyed. “I’ll be right back,” he said to Jon and Clarissa as he removed a highball glass from the rack above his head and made the Red Suited man a Long Island Iced Tea.

Red Suit suddenly addressed the entire bar. “Y’all ever notice how when white people come in here, Frank gets all beside himself?” He was talking to the people at the bar, but he was loud enough for everyone to hear, even with the music. “It sure gets harder for the regulars to order drinks when new people come in here.”

Seated at the bar next to Red Suit were three older black women. The portly one of the three wore white and gold. She gave the air of being a ring leader. The other two, dressed in blue and red respectively. They didn’t seem overly concerned that many of the people dancing between the bar and the cocktail tables were young enough to be their children or that half of the younger ladies were practically naked. Their priorities were alcohol consumption and gossip, in that order.

“You better shut up before he cuts you off, Percy!” the big woman chastised Red Suit.

“He does have a point, though,” the woman in blue said, while scratching her head so hard that her wig slid back and forth.

“Y’all should leave Frank alone!” the older woman in red chided them all. “It’s not his fault the hotel won’t hire two bartenders per shift, or that he’s got us and all these young horny goats to deal with. Yes, sometimes you might have to wait a minute, but it’s a heavy pour and it’s not that expensive, so what are ya’ll complaining about?”

“That’s right, Yolanda!” the older man with the caramel beauty called out from his table behind her. “You tell ‘em!”

Red Suit aka Percy didn’t appreciate having his point shot down. “You keep quiet over there, Nathan! You don’t want me to expose you to your new friend over there.”

“Expose me? Motherfucker, ain’t nobody scared of anything your candy-striper-on-crack looking ass has to say,” Nathan declared.

“You sure you got the money for that champagne you’ve been ordering?” Percy taunted. “I mean, didn’t you skip out on your tab last week? Had poor Frank having to chase your ass across the street.”

With the exceptions of Frank, Jon and Clarissa, anyone who had been listening to the exchange, whether at the bar, the tables or dancing in between, suddenly went bug-eyed with surprise. A few of the older ladies gasped and guffawed. The mood had shifted from party mode to an episode of Jerry Springer. Naturally, the crowd had commentary:

“Oh, no he didn’t!”

“Spilling all the damn tea!”

“See, right there… somebody’d be getting their ass kicked if that was me.”

Nathan started making his way to Percy, who stared back at him defiantly. Frank the bartender was already stepping out from behind the bar to break up the impending brawl, but it was Clarissa who wiggled past the dancing couples and intercepted the embarrassed man.

She put a hand on Nathan’s arm, slightly startling him. “The man in the red suit is a buffoon,” she whispered in his ear. “He is only jealous because you are going to be making love to that beautiful girl later. Don’t worry about him. My brother has something that makes Viagra look silly by comparison. You will have the girl begging for more. We can talk about the price later. We are staying here in the hotel.”

While Nathan was the only one who could hear Clarissa’s words, the fact that she had left her seat and went to him in the first place caught everyone who had been watching off guard. Of course, none of the patrons were more surprised by this turn of events than Jon and the young woman Nathan had been drinking with.

Nathan looked at Clarissa, noted her beauty and the apparent value of her words, turned back to the caramel treasure and took his seat. “Go fuck yourself, Percy!” he shouted over his shoulder.

While not the greatest comeback by any means, the retort was good enough for a nervous laughter to fill the bar and dance space. Percy continued to glare at Nathan, but with no fistfight to keep their attention, the younger people went back to seducing each other and the older ones went back to their conversations.

“By the way, Percy,” Frank called out as he went back behind the bar. “That thing with Nathan’s tab was taken care of, so I don’t need you causing trouble on my behalf.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Percy dismissed as he watched Clarissa go back to her seat at the bar next to the perplexed Jon, who watched Percy watching his sister until she sat down.

“Might take an hour or so, but we’ll have them,” she said.

“The two at the table?” Jon’s gaze left Percy and fell back to Nathan and the young lady. “I see.”