Royal Flush (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 6) (22 page)

I saw someone I recognized as a checker from the supermarket in my old Oakland neighborhood, a young woman in her twenties who’d never really noticed me before and wasn’t looking at me now. Turning toward Gilly again— what the hell, no harm in looking— I came face to face with Maryanne and her boyfriend, the kids who’d been tossed out of Thor’s. She stared hard, straight into my eyes, before she moved away.

Leslie and a friend were whispering to each other and looking at me. Gilly wasn’t with them anymore. Red was still talking to the bouncer.

Royal showed up, with Deeanne. I’d been afraid he would come. I’d been even more afraid she’d be with him. He’d insisted that he had to hang, to act like he was innocent and try to be part of the group, and here he was. And Deeanne had not agreed when I’d told her to avoid him. But they couldn’t understand how bad things had gotten, or they would have stayed away. They hadn’t heard what I’d heard in the bar that night.

I pulled them aside, trying to look casual.

“You don’t have any friends here, Royal. I think you’d better go.”

“Can’t. If I run it’s as good as admitting—”

“That you have a brain.”

He shook his head, placed his hand lightly on the back of Deeanne’s neck, and steered her into the large room. The kid was a fool, but I had to admire his stubborn courage.

I managed to maneuver Floyd to a table up front, close to them.

Keeping an eye on Royal and Deeanne, I was waiting for a fight to break out, waiting for Zack or a bunch of the warriors to swagger in their direction, to challenge Royal, to start shoving him around. It didn’t happen. Although there were some nasty looks, no one seemed to want to start anything, at least not here in the club. This was Skink’s big night, after all. A fight might scare away the crowd. I caught sight of Gilly again, sitting at Leslie’s table. She saw me looking and blew me a kiss.

The show opened loudly and abruptly with Skink riding his motorcycle out on the stage. It roared and backfired and the crowd roared and probably backfired too. Skink jumped off his hog and turned away from the screaming audience, showing the skull and crossbones on the back of his black sleeveless T-shirt.

Also showing the crowd his tight little ass in its tight little jeans. Leslie and her friends jumped up and down and cheered. Whether it was for Skink the man, Skink the skull-wearer, or Skink the buns, I couldn’t tell. Maybe they didn’t know, either.

While he stood there, his back to the audience in what struck me as a hostile or at least contemptuous statement, three more shaven-headed adolescents ran out on the stage, one of them pushing a platform with a drum set on it to the middle of the stage behind Skink and his hog, the others carrying a bass, a guitar, and a keyboard. Skink jumped up on the platform and began to batter the drums while the other guys fiddled with their instruments, plugging in the bass, setting the keyboard up on a table. The band members arranged themselves around the motorcycle, and began to join in with Skink’s bashing.

I was beginning to regret not sitting at the back of the room, but our seats gave us a good view of the group, and of their various decorations. They all had tattoos. Snakes. Crosses. Double lightning streaks. On their arms and their foreheads.

After a few seconds of heavy metal noise, they started singing. I tried to hear the lyrics— obviously some people either could hear them or knew them, because applause and cheers rose from the audience from time to time. I heard the words “kill,” “stomp,” “death,” and the phrase, “We’re gonna make ’em pay with blood,” which the kids in the audience, at least, seemed to like.

About halfway through the first number, the bassist, who seemed to be the lead singer, took off his shirt and flexed his muscles. He also flexed a newly revealed swastika tattoo on his right pec. I heard a few hisses, but they were weak. A few yells of approval too. Two people near the back got up and left, to the hoots and laughter of their neighbors. I got the feeling that, mostly, the people who had come to see Skink’s band knew what to expect.

After the second song, which seemed to consist mostly of the line, “All the soldiers, all the warriors, gone to battle in the streets,” Skink stood up and made an announcement: “That one was for a great soldier, a great hero, who died on the front lines— Pete Ebner!” Then he took off his shirt to reveal a big clavicles-to-abs tattoo on his chest: crossed lightning on the red and black shield of the Thunderskins, the shield roasting in red and yellow flames rising from the blue words that underscored them: WHITE POWER. A few big roars for that one, and suddenly someone— a bald black teenage boy— was rushing the stage, shrieking.

Two of the bouncers I’d seen out in the lobby were there before he got to the musicians, lifting him off his feet and carrying him out the door, earning some laughter, several shouts of protest, a few untranslatable yells, and a big cheer. But mostly people seemed to be just rocking with the music and trying to ignore the graphics.

Maybe there wouldn’t be a riot outside later.

Actually, the band wasn’t bad. A heavy beat, a lot of sweat, muscle, and macho posturing, and some very dangerous messages— I could see how the right audience might find the show enthralling. It was loud and it was rousing, and if I’d been stupid enough, and hadn’t understood the message, I might have gotten swept up in it myself.

Floyd grinned at me. “Good group, huh?”

“Great. Really great.”

Leslie was bouncing up and down in her chair and crying. Gilly sat watching, an odd little smile on her gorgeous full lips. Maybe the boys turned her on too, but I somehow doubted it.

After an hour, we staggered, exhausted, out to the lobby for the break between sets. Floyd, Red, Rosie, and I. Royal and Deeanne joined us. Gilly walked over, and much to my amazement, so did Leslie. Keeping an eye on us?

“Is the show over,” I asked, “or is this an intermission?”

“They’ll do another hour after this, and that’s the show,” Leslie told me, flaunting her familiarity with the group. Flaunting it for whom, I wondered. Deeanne, the rival? Royal, the traitor? Rosie, her recent sparring partner? There seemed to be some kind of truce in effect here, although I didn’t know why, how long it would last, or what it meant. Just more erratic crap from the terminally nuts, I thought.

We were standing there, drinking sodas, chatting about the Killer B’s— yes, Leslie said, the
B
did stand for buff. That was why they took off their shirts. Well. Silly me. Here I’d been thinking they’d undressed to show their politics.

I was picking up bits of a quiet conversation nearby, between a man and woman in their thirties, in ordinary, casual clothes. He was saying he wanted to get the hell out of there, it was making him sick. She was objecting. She said something about, yes, it was disgusting, but she was enjoying the sense of danger, the excitement, the “alienness.” They mumbled some more, and finally she seemed to agree to leave. As they walked past us, the woman— pretty, dark-haired, athletic-looking— did a double take at Gilly, and swung back around, squinting at her.

“Milly?”

She didn’t respond, but I noticed a flicker of hesitation in her chat with Leslie.

“Milly Levine?” The woman was smiling. She touched Gilly’s arm.

Gilly turned toward her. “Got me confused with someone else, I’m afraid.” She smiled. Was that sweat on her perfect pale forehead?

“No! You’re not Milly Levine, Jody’s older sister? From L.A?”

“I’m not from L.A. I don’t know them.” Gilly stopped smiling and turned away to continue her talk with Leslie.

“But—” The woman’s companion took her arm and led her off, glancing nervously at our little group of Nazis.

Leslie had backed away from Gilly.

Red, on the other hand, moved toward her.

“Milly Levine?”

“Oh, come on, Red, she made a mistake. Nobody ever thought I looked like a Jew before.” She laughed, but I could see she was shaken.

“Maybe she didn’t. Make a mistake, that is.” He reached out and gripped Gilly’s arm.

Floyd moved in and put his hand on Red’s wrist. “Hey, Red, lighten up— Gilly’s no Jew. Kind of funny, though, huh?”

Red’s flushed, sweaty face was right up in Gilly’s pale, sweaty one. Floyd was trying to pull Red away.

One of the bouncers noticed and came over. “Take it outside, please. Then you’re welcome to come back in for the second half.”

“Good idea,” Red said. “Let’s go out and talk, Gilly.”

All of us went outside, following Red down the block and around the corner, out of sight of the club. Dark warehouses, no cars, no people.

“You know, Gilly—” Red pronounced the name as if he no longer believed it “—I always wondered how come you disappeared sometimes. When shit was going down.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was right there with you and the boys in that cemetery.”

“Yeah. Dead people. That’s the only time you ever came along. No live ones, though. I’m trying to remember, but I don’t think no live ones.”

“Bullshit. The bitch mistook me for some Jew. I can’t help that.”

“Royal, help Gilly take down her pants.”

Royal stepped back, shaking his head. “What the hell you doing, Red? What kind of crap is this? You can’t pull down the woman’s pants!”

“She told me once she had a swastika tattooed on her right cheek. We was all talking about tattoos and how we wore what we fought for. She said she did too. I always wondered about you, Gilly, or Milly, or whatever the hell your name is. Cold bitch, nose in the air. Too good for anybody. Pull ’em down, Milly, or we’ll do it for you.”

She didn’t move. Was there any way I could help her? Floyd led the way.

“She shouldn’t have to do it out here in front of all these men. It’s wrong, Red. What if she’s not a Jew after all?”

“And maybe she is. And if she is, maybe she’s JDO.”

“What’s JDO?” I asked.

Floyd, his eyes still on Red and Gilly, answered loudly. “Jew Defense Organization or something like that. They’re not like most Jews. They like to fight. They’ve even been known to assassinate their enemies. Almost like real people. Almost like white men. See, they’re the military arm of the ZOG.”

Oh, right. There was that secret Jewish government again.

Gilly shook her head and laughed. “You’re crazy, Red. JDO!”

I jumped right in. “How about a couple of the women take her back to the club, into the restroom, and check out this tattoo thing? Rosie? Leslie?” If there was no tattoo, Rosie could take Leslie down and Gilly could run.

Red shook his head. “Here. Now. Take off your pants.” He was really into it. He couldn’t wait. He was practically licking his lips.

“Fuck you.”

Red lunged at Gilly and fell with her to the sidewalk, turning his fat gut into dead weight and pinning her down with it. Gilly struggled, bucking, and Leslie ran to help Red hold her down. Between them, they had her overpowered, and Leslie managed to unzip her pants. I noticed Red had his groin pressed hard against her rump. He caught his breath and wheezed, “Royal!”

“Yeah?”

“Royal— you get your ass over here and you pull off this bitch’s pants.”

Royal hesitated. Deeanne was clinging to him, her mouth open.

“Now!” Red yelled. Royal pushed Deeanne away and did as he was told. Red, the horny bastard, slid upward, wriggling, and straddled Gilly’s back, holding her arms. Royal yanked her pants down to her ankles.

Gilly didn’t have a tattoo. Rosie and I caught each other’s eye. How long should we wait before we blew our cover and started kicking ass? What if Gilly was just a Nazi who lied about tattoos?

Red heaved himself to his feet. “Get up, Gilly. We’re gonna go someplace and talk now.”

She stood, glared at Red, turned her back, and yanked up her pants again. She also dipped a hand into her jacket pocket.

And turned around pointing a small handgun at Red.

“I ought to kill you right here.”

He stared at her. You could see that dull brain spinning behind the piggy little eyes, trying to decide how to handle this. He went with contempt— a choice I would not have made.

“You won’t shoot. You’ll turn around and run like a Jew, won’t you?”

Gilly licked her lips, as if she were tasting blood.

I was a mass of ambivalence. Was she or wasn’t she? If Gilly was a ringer, that might take some of the suspicion off Royal and me. On the other hand, if Gilly was a ringer, I wanted her to get away. In any case, I might enjoy seeing her shoot Red.

Just as I was juggling all those feelings, Leslie jumped Gilly, who fell to one knee. She was still holding her pistol but was distracted long enough for Red to get to her and disarm her, beating Floyd by a yard or two. I ran toward them, hoping to get in the way, but Royal was there at the same instant, stumbling, colliding with Red. At which point, Gilly sprang to her feet, kicking out and scattering Red, Leslie, and Royal, and ran. Floyd ran after her.

“I’m going to find you, Jew-bitch, and I’m gonna kill you!” Red screamed in rage and frustration, nursing what appeared to be an injured ankle.

“Come on, Red, let’s get you inside and have a look at that, get some ice on it,” I said. Whoever she was, I was glad Gilly had gotten away. And I was feeling a lot better about my attraction to her too. I kept remembering what she’d said about how she balanced books: credits, debits, credits, debits…

“Nice try, Leslie,” Red muttered. “You did better than Royal.”

“Yeah.” She gave Royal a nasty, scary smile. “You kinda got in the way, didn’t you?”

“I tripped.”

I cut loose. “For Christ’s sake, lay off him. You know who the spy is now— Gilly. Not Royal! You got JDO in the Command, it shouldn’t be too hard to figure out who’s been making trouble.”

Red was shaking his head. “I don’t think Gilly knew about Switcher.”

“I thought almost everyone knew.”

“No. Warriors. Inner Circle. A few other people. But not Gilly. Pete didn’t trust her.”

Shit. I didn’t know whether Royal had interfered purposely or had just been clumsy in a try at winning back some approval. But either way, it was obvious he wasn’t going to be winning any Warrior of the Month plaques any time soon.