make her a member of the midnight crew
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO It's August of 2008, South Bend, Indiana, a club called the Happy Jack Saloon. He's Harry Kowalski, and for five years he bounced here. Watched the owner run it into the ground, with a golden arm and a blind eye to what the girls put into their bodies; got a mob loan to keep the doors open when the owner finally went away. So far he's been allowed to run it more or less his way. He's got no illusions that'll last if they ever get too successful or dip back into the red. But right here and now he's fifty-three and owns property free and clear (almost) for the first time in his life. The club was his by sweat and blood for years, his because he kept it safe; now its his in the eyes of the banks and the law, too.
All of which is to say he takes hiring his replacement seriously. So far he doesn't take the kid on the other side of the desk the same way. Self-possessed as all hell, sure, with dark serious eyes and a compact but powerful body. But too young. The paperwork says his name is George Hill, and maybe it is, but work in a strip joint long enough and you get an eye for under-age runaways and refugees.
"Twenty-one, huh?" Harry says. "Only it looks like you can still leave out the blade when you shave mornings, chief."
The kid's eyes narrow; not impassive, but one hell of a slow burn. "It's an Indian thing. I'm legal."
Hell, maybe you are, Kowalski thinks generously. By coincidence. "Done this kind of work before?"
The kid blinks, slow and stupid-looking, which Kowalski trusts less than the SSID. "If I'd done that it would've been illegal."
"Yeah," Kowalski says. "So have you? Bounced, or hit people for money generally?"
"I thought bouncing was about protecting the girls," the kid says, with the same impenetrable expression. "I'm not a goon." It's not wooden or stoic, but a kind of unassailable false (?) ingenuousness, and the answer touches Kowalski's craggy heart anyway.
"Let's go see what's happening out on the floor."
He sees what's wrong the minute they leave the office; hell, maybe he sensed it the minute he saw the old Gran Torino with the Detroit plates in the lot. The thing is sometimes the guy's a model customer. Sometimes. And it's better when he's happy.
A blonde girl in a plaid skirt and eight-inch Mary Jane-style heels is swerving towards him, holding a tray, false stripper smile in place. "He's telling jokes," she hisses, and keeps moving.
It's bad when he's telling jokes. "Thanks, Carmen." The kid, he realizes, barely flickers a glance at Carmen's artificial chest; his eyes are exactly where they ought to be, on the big (BIG) guy in the open cambray shirt (cursive script says MARK, although that's not his name). Dark hair; beaky Armenian features; tufts of chest hair spilling from the undershirt, and a golden libra medallion nestled among them in the hollow of his neck. He's got one meathook hand clamped on the hip of Jade, a petite black girl with murderous curves, and the other is nursing a drink that looks like red Kool-Aid but is actually red wine and vodka. And yes, he's telling jokes. The working class has an evening out.
He throws back his head and roars laughter (Jade is not laughing) and his teeth are needles.
"Who is he?" says George Hill, and Kowalski wonders what he sees. Most people don't see what's wrong about the guy the first time.
"Belushi," he says, and when the kid double-takes he allows himself a small smirk. Not completely unflappable then. "It's a common enough name in the right neighborhoods. He's a goon. Sometimes he comes in here in the wrong mood. I'll handle him."
"I don't mind," the kid says, and Kowalski snorts.
"I said I'll handle him. I know how. You can watch."
"...is in the sink," Belushi is saying. "See? The note says--hey, Harry." Jade turns eyes of mute appeal on the boss. Everyone knows where Belushi's jovial moods end up; after the jokes, the crash, and the incoherent religious muttering, all about the Holy Mother, how he's accursed and forgotten, and then people start getting hurt. There's no worker's comp for strippers, and no recompensation for lost tips when a monster is beating the living hell out of everyone who looks at him. Belushi knows, and maybe he knows why Kowalski is here, and hell, maybe he knows it's for the best. Sometimes he's a model customer. "What's--"
Then his eyes go past the owner, and fix on the kid, and his lips peel back from those god-awful teeth, and then he lets go of Jade and shoves past Harry with a speed that no one would have credited the big man with, grabbing the bottle of vodka in passing and bringing it down on the kid like a club.
The kid is wide-eyed, caught off-guard again, but he moves faster than Kowalski ever saw anyone move, even in the war; snake-bobs out of the way and hits Belushi hard in the solar plexus. The bottle drops and smashes; Belushi picks the kid up in a bear hug, crushing the air out of him, and actually, seriously, snaps at his throat with that mouth full of razors, as if he means to bite the kid's head clean off.
Kowalski is thinking about calling on the Holy Mother himself. He's just now hit the ground from the shove, everything is happening too fast. He sees the kid plant a steel-toed boot square in Belushi's crotch, and Belushi howls and lets him go; the kid drops to the ground and springs back up with the remains of the bottle of vodka, holding it by the neck, and jabs it at Belushi's face, twice. The first time he misses the eye, by some miserable luck, leaving shards of glass in a messy arc over the eye; the second time, his weapon reduced to basically the jagged edge of the bottleneck, he slashes two horizontal lines across the big man's face. One of them crosses the eyes, and Belushi roars with rage and tackles the kid, massive paws closing his windpipe even as George stabs frantically at the monster's abdomen with the splintering glass.
A shotgun blast goes off, and everyone looks up. Carmen, barely half again as tall as the gun is long, works the pump action again with a little difficulty, and points it. She's probably a danger to all of them; her eyes are wild and she's close to hyperventilating. The blue laces of her bustier top look seriously overstrained. "Goddammit, Belushi," she says, wavery. "You get out of here. People are trying to work."
Sometimes Belushi is a model customer. Once, when Carmen was younger and a conventioneer from Seattle didn't understand how the VIP room worked, she screamed for help. Belushi beat Kowalski through the door. They were finding teeth for weeks.
The big man looks at the tiny blonde girl, and a growl passes between his fangs, and then he lets the kid go. Slams out the door, and there's a roar of gravel as the Gran Torino peels out.
Kowalski helps George up. "Guess you got a job. Why'd he come at you?"
George grimaces and rubs his throat. "Fuck if I know," he croaks, and Kowalski has an intuition: this is the first real lie the kid has told him. "But I think he might come back."
About that, he's not wrong.
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All of which is to say he takes hiring his replacement seriously. So far he doesn't take the kid on the other side of the desk the same way. Self-possessed as all hell, sure, with dark serious eyes and a compact but powerful body. But too young. The paperwork says his name is George Hill, and maybe it is, but work in a strip joint long enough and you get an eye for under-age runaways and refugees.
"Twenty-one, huh?" Harry says. "Only it looks like you can still leave out the blade when you shave mornings, chief."
The kid's eyes narrow; not impassive, but one hell of a slow burn. "It's an Indian thing. I'm legal."
Hell, maybe you are, Kowalski thinks generously. By coincidence. "Done this kind of work before?"
The kid blinks, slow and stupid-looking, which Kowalski trusts less than the SSID. "If I'd done that it would've been illegal."
"Yeah," Kowalski says. "So have you? Bounced, or hit people for money generally?"
"I thought bouncing was about protecting the girls," the kid says, with the same impenetrable expression. "I'm not a goon." It's not wooden or stoic, but a kind of unassailable false (?) ingenuousness, and the answer touches Kowalski's craggy heart anyway.
"Let's go see what's happening out on the floor."
He sees what's wrong the minute they leave the office; hell, maybe he sensed it the minute he saw the old Gran Torino with the Detroit plates in the lot. The thing is sometimes the guy's a model customer. Sometimes. And it's better when he's happy.
A blonde girl in a plaid skirt and eight-inch Mary Jane-style heels is swerving towards him, holding a tray, false stripper smile in place. "He's telling jokes," she hisses, and keeps moving.
It's bad when he's telling jokes. "Thanks, Carmen." The kid, he realizes, barely flickers a glance at Carmen's artificial chest; his eyes are exactly where they ought to be, on the big (BIG) guy in the open cambray shirt (cursive script says MARK, although that's not his name). Dark hair; beaky Armenian features; tufts of chest hair spilling from the undershirt, and a golden libra medallion nestled among them in the hollow of his neck. He's got one meathook hand clamped on the hip of Jade, a petite black girl with murderous curves, and the other is nursing a drink that looks like red Kool-Aid but is actually red wine and vodka. And yes, he's telling jokes. The working class has an evening out.
He throws back his head and roars laughter (Jade is not laughing) and his teeth are needles.
"Who is he?" says George Hill, and Kowalski wonders what he sees. Most people don't see what's wrong about the guy the first time.
"Belushi," he says, and when the kid double-takes he allows himself a small smirk. Not completely unflappable then. "It's a common enough name in the right neighborhoods. He's a goon. Sometimes he comes in here in the wrong mood. I'll handle him."
"I don't mind," the kid says, and Kowalski snorts.
"I said I'll handle him. I know how. You can watch."
"...is in the sink," Belushi is saying. "See? The note says--hey, Harry." Jade turns eyes of mute appeal on the boss. Everyone knows where Belushi's jovial moods end up; after the jokes, the crash, and the incoherent religious muttering, all about the Holy Mother, how he's accursed and forgotten, and then people start getting hurt. There's no worker's comp for strippers, and no recompensation for lost tips when a monster is beating the living hell out of everyone who looks at him. Belushi knows, and maybe he knows why Kowalski is here, and hell, maybe he knows it's for the best. Sometimes he's a model customer. "What's--"
Then his eyes go past the owner, and fix on the kid, and his lips peel back from those god-awful teeth, and then he lets go of Jade and shoves past Harry with a speed that no one would have credited the big man with, grabbing the bottle of vodka in passing and bringing it down on the kid like a club.
The kid is wide-eyed, caught off-guard again, but he moves faster than Kowalski ever saw anyone move, even in the war; snake-bobs out of the way and hits Belushi hard in the solar plexus. The bottle drops and smashes; Belushi picks the kid up in a bear hug, crushing the air out of him, and actually, seriously, snaps at his throat with that mouth full of razors, as if he means to bite the kid's head clean off.
Kowalski is thinking about calling on the Holy Mother himself. He's just now hit the ground from the shove, everything is happening too fast. He sees the kid plant a steel-toed boot square in Belushi's crotch, and Belushi howls and lets him go; the kid drops to the ground and springs back up with the remains of the bottle of vodka, holding it by the neck, and jabs it at Belushi's face, twice. The first time he misses the eye, by some miserable luck, leaving shards of glass in a messy arc over the eye; the second time, his weapon reduced to basically the jagged edge of the bottleneck, he slashes two horizontal lines across the big man's face. One of them crosses the eyes, and Belushi roars with rage and tackles the kid, massive paws closing his windpipe even as George stabs frantically at the monster's abdomen with the splintering glass.
A shotgun blast goes off, and everyone looks up. Carmen, barely half again as tall as the gun is long, works the pump action again with a little difficulty, and points it. She's probably a danger to all of them; her eyes are wild and she's close to hyperventilating. The blue laces of her bustier top look seriously overstrained. "Goddammit, Belushi," she says, wavery. "You get out of here. People are trying to work."
Sometimes Belushi is a model customer. Once, when Carmen was younger and a conventioneer from Seattle didn't understand how the VIP room worked, she screamed for help. Belushi beat Kowalski through the door. They were finding teeth for weeks.
The big man looks at the tiny blonde girl, and a growl passes between his fangs, and then he lets the kid go. Slams out the door, and there's a roar of gravel as the Gran Torino peels out.
Kowalski helps George up. "Guess you got a job. Why'd he come at you?"
George grimaces and rubs his throat. "Fuck if I know," he croaks, and Kowalski has an intuition: this is the first real lie the kid has told him. "But I think he might come back."
About that, he's not wrong.
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