Bait: A Novel (8 page)

YESTERDAY.

T
here was unfinished business, Nash was sure of it. Not all of his fuckups had been forgiven. Not all of his debts had been paid. Someone had snitched for one reason or another and now the cops were on to him. No doubt they were serious about it too. If they were coming down to his level like this, then they had hopes of making a trophy out of his head. For the moment Nash was still a step ahead, though it was clear the narcs knew he was in the nightclub. They scanned the crowd thoroughly, trying to acquire their target, noses in the air like wolves with a scent.

There were two of them this time. Same blond guy from the supermarket a couple days earlier, and someone new who was undoubtedly backup. They looked eerily similar. Same build, height, and demeanor—a pair of stone-cold soldiers on a mission. They didn’t blend into the crowd. Stoic faces and rigid postures made them easy marks. Nash had no problem keeping tabs on them.

He kept watch from behind a pillar on the club’s second-floor overlook. It was a good spot, easy to duck out of sight should they raise their eyes. Strobe lights, smoke machines, and shadowed recesses provided more cover if Nash needed it, though he wondered how much longer he could evade them. At any moment they would stop looking and start searching. Nash was sure he’d get caught up in their sweep of the place.

He checked his pockets again, making sure he was clean. Every pill and packet had been flushed after he caught his first glimpse of the blond guy. Ecstasy, ketamine, Percs, and poppers all down the toilet. But looking at the two operatives now, seeing their focus and intent, Nash didn’t think ridding himself of the contraband was going to get him off the hook. They weren’t here for his drugs. They were here for him. Probably had a warrant they’d been looking to execute for a while. He had to make himself scarce.

Back exit again?
he thought.
Double my luck?

No. They’d be wise to it after the supermarket escape. Walking right out the front door, however, might be the last thing they’d expect. Nash scrutinized the dance floor below, looking for a third operative, a possible sleeper in the crowd. Through the multicolored flashes and thin haze, none of the sweating bodies clad in casual night attire struck him as suspicious. If there was a sleeper, he was well disguised. The two on the ground floor began to move out. Nash weighed his options.

Whatever you do, don’t get your ass backed into a corner.

These guys were the better-trained pigs, possibly even a task force. It was only a matter of time before they found him. Nash decided to try to flee the building while he still had the jump on them. Getting past unnoticed would be a challenge.

I need to change things up.

Nash looked over his shoulder at the second-floor bar. Standing at the far end was a lone dude in his midtwenties wearing a fedora and a checkered shirt over a wife-beater, bopping his head to the dance beat with too much enthusiasm. The same guy had bought two tabs of E and a popper off Nash an hour earlier. Nash sized him up, figured they were about the same height and weight. He made his way over, pulling out his wallet and counting out some of his ill-gotten gains. The dude saw him coming and grinned, teeth clenched.

“Hey, man,” Nash said. “That stuff treating you well?”

Dude nodded vigorously. “Hell yeah, bro, feeling great. Thanks for the hookup. You’re the man.”

Nash smiled. “Glad you like it. Listen, I got a little proposition for you.”

The dude’s eyes became confused, then wary. The grin remained even though he folded his arms and took a step backward.

“Sorry, bud, I don’t swing that way.”

Nash laughed. “No, no, dude. It’s nothing like that. Look, I dig your style. You got a sharp eye for fashion. What would you say if I gave you fifty bucks to trade my shirt for yours plus the hat?”

“Fifty bucks?”

The dude looked at him cockeyed. Nash shrugged and showed him the two twenties and ten folded in his fingers. Dude’s grin widened. He took off the hat and placed it on Nash’s head.

“I’d say you got yourself a deal, man.”

Nash tucked the cash in the breast pocket of his shirt and traded it. The checkered short-sleeve was a snug fit over his white tee, but the hat was made to measure. He pulled the brim down low and shook the dude’s hand.

“Thanks, you’ve made my day.”

“Bro, you’ve made
my
day.”

Dude chuckled and unexpectedly gave him a hug, Ecstasy affectionate. Nash headed back to his spot behind the pillar and looked out over the dance floor again. One of the narcs was mounting the stairs to the second floor. The other was pacing along the main bar, searching the crowd of dancers. Nash waited, hiding in plain sight, watching from the corner of his eye as the first narc reached the second floor and scanned the customers. Nash made sure he kept out of his line of sight.

“Take the bait,” Nash muttered.

Between the moving bodies, something of interest caught the narc’s eye. The dude at the bar was ordering another drink with his back turned. The narc advanced slowly on the decoy. Nash swept around and got behind unnoticed, then slipped down the stairs behind a trio of men that he did his best to blend in with.

Once on the ground floor, Nash dissolved into the dance floor. He pushed his way through the packed crowd until he reached the front doors, expecting a strong hand to land on his shoulder at any moment and shove him to the ground. At the club’s entrance he turned and took one last look inside. The first narc was at the pillar where Nash had been, signaling to his counterpart below that their target had not been found. Nash backed up, eyes fixed on his enemies, the small of his back depressing the door’s lock bar with a clunk.

Outside, the cool night sucked at the stale air bottled within the nightclub, pulling Nash onto the sidewalk faster than he was expecting to go. He stumbled off the curb and almost fell into traffic. A cab laid on its horn, berating him for being a drunken idiot. Nash waved a middle finger in the air.

“Squat and spin on it, dickhead!” he yelled.

“Chill out, man,” someone behind him said.

Nash shut his mouth. It was foolish, drawing attention like that. People nearby were regarding him distastefully over his outburst. He shrugged and gave an innocent grin. All eyes quickly tired of him and fell away. Nash adjusted his hat and began walking. The clicking sound of high heels on pavement came to his ears, but he kept his head down and shoulders hunched, trying to quicken his step without making it obvious. His mind protested.

Quit dragging your heels and hightail it already.

His gut disagreed. Running was a mistake. He’d cleared the club without incident. Now he had to casually put some distance between it and himself. A second cab honked at him, two short pips, sussing him out for a fare. Nash flagged the yellow car down. Nearby, the clicking sound sped up. He opened the back door and slipped in, his elbow digging into the person who had unexpectedly entered the cab from the other side.

“Ow!” she exclaimed, rubbing her arm. “Fucking hell . . .”

“Hey, get your own damn cab—”

Nash turned to regard his uninvited companion as she pushed back a long lock of black hair and eyed him challengingly. He was immediately disarmed. She was maybe twenty-five with pale skin and pouting lips, smoking body in blue jeans and tight black tee, rating an eight out of ten in Nash’s book. There was a hint of wear and tear on her, but nothing he couldn’t smooth out if he played his cards right.

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought I had this one to myself.”

She wasn’t impressed. “That makes two of us.”

They had a standoff. Neither of them moved an inch. The cabdriver watched irritably from the rearview mirror. Nash took off his hat and made a show of locking his door.

“Look, honey, ordinarily I’d be a gentleman and let you take this one and wait for another, but tonight ain’t an ordinary night. I really, really need this cab.”

“Where do you need to get to so bad?”

“Just can’t be here right now, that’s all. Sooner I’m gone the better.”

The girl gave a thoughtful pause, held his eyes, and didn’t budge. The driver turned in his seat and spoke in a gruff, impatient voice.

“I ain’t got all night. Where to, mister?”

“Take me east.”

“I’m going east too,” said the girl. “You wanna . . . ride partway together? Maybe split the fare?”

Nash’s smile was sly. “Works for me.”

o o o

Across town, Ginger Rosen was sitting on Curtis Moffat’s couch, putting a much-needed needle to vein. The apartment was a mess, fast-food containers strewn about, empty beer cans on every flat surface, cigarette butts overflowing from ashtrays onto the floor, where they caught in the shag carpet and were crushed underfoot. Curtis was in the next room negotiating another of his business ventures, leaving Ginger to get high alone. Whatever had him tied up on the phone was important enough to miss out on a hit. Ginger didn’t know and didn’t want to know. He’d been moody since she’d shown up on his doorstep an hour earlier looking to score.

“Come to Momma, you little prick.”

She was overdue for it. The needle trembled slightly in her hand, trying to find a vein beneath the belt that tied off her bicep. She pierced her skin and depressed the plunger on the syringe while singing a lick of Rick James.

“Give me your stuff, that funk, that sweet, that funky stuff.”

The sweet, the funk, the illicit stuff infused with her blood, attaching to receptors, swallowing her biochemistry in a warm, satin-lined mouth. A hit hadn’t been this good or strong in years. Felt like she was having her cherry popped for the first time.

“Ohhh, give it to me, baby . . .”

Ginger trailed off into mumbles, the junk disabling her finer functions as it bloomed inside her. Right here, spoon cooked and syringe shot, this was her lover, her partner, her angel and demon rolled into one. She didn’t know where Curtis was scoring his shit from, but she was determined not to go back to anything less pure. If there was a God who gifted paradise to those made in his image, then this brand of heroin was surely the sample. It gave her a glimpse through the very gates of heaven. If only she could find a way to chain herself to them, then she might feel blessed again.

Curtis came out from the bedroom, cell phone in hand. He sat next to Ginger on the sofa, distracted, distant. Ginger reached out and caressed his arm, fingertips seeming to connect with every individual blond hair on his tanned skin.

“This stuff you scored is sooooo good, baby.”

Curtis pulled his arm away and refused to look at her, expelling a breath of aggravated air that turned into a cough. When he spoke his tone was unusually quiet, thoughtful.

“Yeah, you dig it?”

“Uh-fucking-huh. I think it’s the best I ever shot.”

“It’s that good, eh?”

“Oh, yeah, you gotta try and get this shit for us all the time.”

“Right,” Curtis snorted. “You gonna pay for your share of it if I do?”

The sudden curtness in his voice pinched Ginger. She tried to crease her brow, feign a pout. The slack muscles in her face didn’t respond well. She made her voice as pitiful as she could instead.

“Baby . . . I . . . I ain’t got no money right now, baby.”

Curtis did look at her then. There wasn’t an ounce of empathy in his eyes, though something else swam in the blue irises. To Ginger it looked like guilt, but she didn’t understand why that would be.

“You never have any fucking money, Ginger,” he grumbled, sounding oddly defensive. “I can’t even remember the last time you went out and grabbed for us.”

“Baby—”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me, for Christ’s sake!” he snapped. “I doubt you’d even stay with me if I didn’t hook you up on a regular basis.”

Curtis rose and went to the kitchen to fix a drink. Ginger didn’t know what was upsetting him, but figured it had more to do with the phone call than any money she owed. Her own emotions were smothered under the weight of the junk. She couldn’t duel with him in such a state.

“Don’t be like that,” she moaned.

Curtis poured a straight scotch. “Don’t be like what?”

“Don’t be all mad at me and shit. I ain’t done nothing except lie here and stay out of your way tonight.”

“All you ever do is lie the fuck around, Ginger.”

There was a marked downshift in her drugged delight. “C’mon, I don’t want to fight, baby. I’ll pay you back next time I have it.”

Curtis laughed. “And when would that be?”

Ginger went quiet. Truth was, she didn’t know. Even if she did, both of them knew it would be a cold day in hell before she’d cough it up for dope already consumed. Curtis leaned against the kitchen counter and threw back a mouthful from his tumbler.

“The world runs on money, sweetheart. You get that, don’t you? Everything has a price; nothing in life is free. Here I am, paying the rent, paying the bills, buying the groceries, supporting both your ass and your habit. I got fucking debt, Ginger, and lots of it too. What are you bringing to the table?”

Another downshift and her euphoria was first gear all over again. Ginger worried her high would get stuck in reverse if Curtis kept up his attack.

“Fuck, why are you being like this?” she snarled. “You’re totally ruining my high.”

That look slipped again onto Curtis’s face, something guilty, something worried in his eyes. Ginger turned and buried her face in a pillow, playing up the sad act, hoping to make him come to her. In no time she felt his weight sink into the cushions beside her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You do bring something to the table.”

Ginger’s muffled voice was little more than a moan. “What?”

Curtis paused, leaning over to massage her shoulders until she turned her pout toward him. He looked into her eyes and tried to smile, brushing back strands of hair from her forehead.

“You.”

He kissed her then, gently, awkwardly. There was something boyish and scared about it, but the kiss was enough of a gesture. She rose as he withdrew his lips, draping a leg over his lap to straddle him.