Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller (21 page)

I sip my scotch and say nothing.

“So wait—” He pauses, something hitting him, yet seemingly unsure how to phrase it. “The spa club…”

“Yeah?”

“Your face, the money you keep laying on the bar…”

I only stare at him.

“You did it,” he says. “You pulled it off.”

I look away, replaying it all in my head. Despite the fuzzy clarity the alcohol has given the film, the ending is always the same.

Angela.

I drain my scotch and wince, but not from the scotch. “I didn’t pull off shit.”

A solitary car was in the club’s lot. A black Mercedes with tinted windows.

(
Angela drives a black Mercedes with tinted windows.
)

Maybe it was Mr. John’s?

(
Or maybe she’s inside.
)

What sense would that make?

(
Has ANY of this shit made sense so far?
)

I continued past the club for about fifty yards, pulled a U-y, rolled alongside the curb until I had a good view of the club from afar, and killed the engine. The key Angela had given me was to gain access through the back of the club. That meant the rest of the way would have to be done on foot—a car in the back lot after hours would raise too much suspicion, she’d said.

I glanced over at the passenger seat. The black leather bag was there, as ominous as ever. I opened it, took out the gun. I’d held it once since Angela had given it to me. It felt unnatural then, and it felt just as unnatural now. More so.

(
Sure does beat a baseball bat or a machete though.
)

I put the gun back in the bag and exited my car.

No mask this time. Masks were only if you’d planned on leaving people alive—or were being filmed. None of that applied here.

The second time in my life. I’d wager two percent of the population had done it
once
. And I’m discounting military and law enforcement, of course. Hopefully I needn’t explain why.
Maybe
I’d get a few justice points for offing scumbags like Mr. John and his help, but any I’d earn would bounce off the mountain of debt I’d accrued after the Stephanie incident.

Second time in my life. I looked down at the black leather bag in my hand. No box-cutter in there. We got us a Glock and a foot-long knife that could shave a beard of nails.

I opened my fist and looked at the brass key. Angela’s words in my head:
“This gets you in. You feel good about the floor plans? The money will be there.
Where?
is the question. You might have to…get him to show you… They should be there by now. Probably into their first bottle of vodka already. Now is as good a time as any…”

They were here already. On the other side of this door. Not a drugged woman. Three men,

(
and maybe Angela?
)

two of them lethal.

Angela’s words in my head again:
“I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

I used the key and went inside.

A few more delicate steps and I heard something. People talking in the distance. My heart began a rapid beat that instantly found its way to my ears. I held my breath to compensate, but the drumming of my pulse would not be deterred. I needed to get closer.

My steps forward were light and calculated, the floor beneath me changing from ceramic to marble tile. The smell of chlorine grew stronger, the humidity increasing and forming a faint mist. I was approaching the hot tubs. So far, the layout Angela had given me had proved correct. The hot tubs were at the far end of the club, swimming pools and other amenities in front. She’d said Mr. John and his protection would be in the hot tubs, drinking. I’d told her I was crap with a gun. She’d said to hide in the locker room and pick them off one by one when they inevitably went in to take a leak.

I continued further, two, maybe three more steps max. The mist was getting stronger, its veil forcing me to squint. I remained tight to the wall, the corridor providing me good cover from the voices bathing in the wide-open luxuries ahead. I could see the locker room door—half a dozen feet ahead and to the left. I could manage those half a dozen feet and slip inside while still maintaining good cover. So far, Angela was steering me just fine.

I made the half a dozen steps. The mist increased, but so did the voices. My pulse still thumped my head, but proximity was now my ally. I held my breath again. I could hear them. The bass of male voices.

(
Any female?
)

I craned my neck forward, thought about risking a few more steps forward for a quick peek, but self-preservation kept me rooted. I held my breath once again.

Still the heavy bass of male voices.

No—I don’t hear a female.

(
Don’t you look.
)

I won’t.

(
Don’t
)

I won’t!

An accent on one of the male voices. It sounded Russian.

She’s right again. So far, everything Angela’s said has been right.
(
Then get in that fucking locker room and get ready to finish this.
)

Firm grip on the leather bag, I crept over towards the locker room door, eased it open, and slipped inside. I waited a tick, ear pressed to the door, making sure I hadn’t been spotted or made a noise that needed investigating. I heard nothing but the steady bass of their chatter, no change in tempo, no cause for alarm. I let out a long sigh, turned and began searching for the bathroom stalls. I would lay in wait in one of those stalls like a trapdoor spider.

The stalls weren’t a difficult find. The restroom area was adjacent to the communal showers, a strip of wall dividing them. On the left you had your sinks, your urinals, your stalls. On your right you had your beautifully tiled communal shower with multiple high-powered showerheads in a row; and beneath one of those showerheads, you had your giant naked man covered in tattoos, standing there with his back to you, getting ready to take a shower.

I went to open the bag.

The bang of the locker room door swinging open froze me. No subtle entry like mine. Drunk and in need of a piss.

I spun in panic to meet the new offender…momentarily forgetting about the naked offender behind me.

“
Ahueyet
!?
” I heard the naked offender behind me yell, a split-second before he knocked me out.

“
Idono.
”

“
Whoosafuckisee?
”

“
Idonfuckino.
”

It felt like I was underwater.

“Whosafuckisee?”

“Idonfuckino.”

And then I began floating upwards, like the anchor had been cut, the surface clarity my reward.

“So who the fuck is he?” Annoyed American voice.

“I don’t fucking know.” Annoyed Russian voice.

“What the
fuck
is he doing here?” Annoyed American.

“I
don’t know
.” Annoyed Russian.

Shuffling around me, followed by angry American saying: “Get him up. Get him on his feet.”

I was snatched by the hair and belt and yanked to my feet, then backwards into the lockers with a metallic bang, a forearm pressed into my throat and staying there. Things were still fuzzy, but the haze was fading quickly.

I was in the locker room. I’ve made a colossal fuck up of the entire plan, and I’m looking at three pissed off gentlemen who I’d assume are Mr. John, Yuri, and Vlad.

Mr. John was wearing a white undershirt and boxer shorts. Probably the first thing he grabbed after hearing the commotion in the locker room. He’s about average height, dark hair and eyes, handsome-ish. He truly
did
look like your average American Joe that could be your neighbor.

His Russian buddies did not. Yuri and Vlad would be cul-de-sac chatter the second the U-Haul arrived. Both bald, both frowning lumps of muscle, both with eyes cold and gray. The one with the tattoos had since (thankfully) slipped on his swim trunks, but remained shirtless. The other was dressed the same; shirtless and swim trunks.

Mr. John was seated on a bench, my gun in his hands, the knife lying next to him.

“So who is he?” Mr. John asked.

Both brothers said nothing.

“So who are you?” Mr. John asked me.

I squirmed to relieve some pressure from Vlad or Yuri’s tattooed forearm against my throat. “You know who I am,” I managed.

His eyebrows went up. “Do I? Well please enlighten me. Because I must say, I haven’t the slightest clue.”

I squirmed some more; it felt like a baseball bat was being pressed into my neck.

“Vlad?” Mr. John said patiently. “If he passes out, I won’t get my answers.”

So tattoo was Vlad. He lightened the pressure—a little.

“I work for you,” I eventually said.

“A disgruntled employee?” He smiled. “I have many people working for me. What makes you so special?”

“I’m not,” I said.

“Oh, I can see that. Still, I need to know why an insignificant such as yourself would risk coming in here, after hours, to attack an innocent businessman and his two associates. Were you after a raise or something?”

His comment made Vlad chuckle. Yuri stood in the background, scowling, arms folded.

“Businessman?” I said. “You’re a sick fuck.”

Forearm still on my throat, Vlad looked over his shoulder to gauge his boss’ reaction to my comment. Mr. John did not look upset. He merely shrugged his shoulders and started nodding.

“I see,” he said, still nodding. “Well…you must be a pretty tough guy to come in here all by yourself.” Addressing Vlad and Yuri now: “What do you guys think? He look tough to you?”

Yuri and Vlad said nothing.

“Well come on, boys—this is what I pay you for. Can I please find out how tough this guy is?”

I coughed some more, still bent over.

Vlad flicked the top of my head. “Cough, cough, little baby.”

I launched myself upward, my right fist rocketing towards his jaw with every ounce of juice I had…

…And Vlad parried it easily, countering with his own right, shattering my nose. I dropped to all fours, my nose—or what was left of it—a bloody faucet.

“
Oooohh…
” Mr. John said. “How you doing, tough guy?”

I cupped a handful of the blood pouring from my nose and flung it towards Mr. John.

Vlad immediately ripped me to my feet by the hair and fired three sledgehammer uppercuts into my body. I dropped to all fours again and puked up my Mom’s stew.

I heard Mr. John laugh, and I was pretty sure Yuri and Vlad started laughing too.

“What the hell?” I eventually managed, squinting upward as though looking into the sun, “I thought you were a grappler…”

“
You want grapple!?
” With a sudden burst, Vlad ripped me to my feet yet again, ducked then snaked his free arm between my legs, and hoisted me up and onto his shoulders in a classic firemen’s carry. I wiggled and fought to no avail; he was a fireman saving a child. I lay draped across his massive shoulders like a human scarf, waiting to be spiked head-first onto that hard tile floor, hoping I’d die on impact as opposed to becoming another notch on the brothers’ quadriplegic post.

Of all people, it was Mr. John himself who saved me from becoming that notch. “Vlad…” he said calmly.

Vlad, still holding me, keener than ever to get to the spikin’, gave a reluctant glance over his shoulder.

“Vlad, put him down and give Yuri a turn.” Mr. John spoke as if they were his children. You’ve played with it enough now; give your brother a turn.

Vlad dropped me. Better than being slammed, but still no fun. I rolled to all fours yet again.

Yuri approached. “Get up.”