Powder Trade (Black Magic Outlaw Book 4) Page 6

  "Let me check it out, Milena."

  She turned away and crossed her arms. "Whatever."

  I stepped inside and set the door quietly against the brick behind me. A hallway led to closed black curtains. Doors on either side of me. I tried both knobs as stealthily as I could—they were locked—and then I crept to the end and peeked past the black velvet.

  The curtains framed the main room, but it wasn't much to look at. A small stage along the right wall, booths along the left, and freestanding tables and chairs in between. The entrance was on the far wall next to a raised DJ booth. On my side, a long bar ran along the wall. In fact, the curtains emerged directly behind the bar, but there was a lift-open section of table that granted access back and forth, currently up.

  "Classy joint," commented Milena over my shoulder. I jumped.

  I turned to Milena with a scowl, but she stood her ground with a triumphant smile. "Makes where I work look like the Grand Hyatt."

  I shook my head to double down on my displeasure and checked the room again. It was weird seeing a place like this devoid of all the flashy glitz and music. All the energizing visuals were shut off. In their place, white overhead lights sharpened the room with a worn veneer. It looked empty, but I couldn't be sure from here.

  "Once again," I whispered to Milena, "stay here."

  I brushed past the curtains. No one working the bar. A couple other hallways at each corner flanked me. I checked them to be sure. The left contained bathrooms. The right had private dance rooms, which were essentially booths with low love seats. Some changing rooms backstage led me to the elevated stage back in the main room. Only it wasn't empty now. A man walked from the bathroom and zipped up his fly.

  We both froze.

  "What are you doing here?" he demanded. He spoke quickly, unsure what to make of the situation.

  I smiled casually as my mind scrambled to come up with a lie. I maneuvered around the stripper pole, careful not to touch it, and hopped off the stage. After all that I still hadn't thought of anything. Maybe I could try the Axl Rose shtick again.

  "Who are you?" he asked, his voice gaining steam.

  "Who are you?" I shot back. I'm sharp like that.

  "I'm the bouncer."

  Good answer.

  He stepped toward me confidently, which was weird because he wasn't especially large. I had him on height and mass. He was just a dude with a crew cut, a strong brow, and a burgeoning goatee. I wondered what qualified him to be a bouncer at a place like this. But as he neared I saw the tattoos on his scarred knuckles, his cauliflower ears, and his bent nose. The dude may have been a welterweight, but he looked like an MMA brawler.

  "One last time," he warned. "What are you doing here?"

  "I'm sorry," called Milena from behind him.

  He flinched and spun around. A bit jumpy, this guy.

  Milena sauntered up like a sidewinder, commanding all our attention with the sway of her hips. "I didn't see anybody and asked my boyfriend to help me look."

  He examined her with a sulky face. She stood with her chest out, back arched, and put on her best entertainer's smile. She was good at it, and that's all he cared about.

  "You here to see Nikolai?" asked the bouncer.

  Milena's eyes swiveled to me. She hesitated only a moment. "I sure am. I'm not too early, am I?"

  "That depends on Nikolai." He pointed to the hallway we came from. "Okay. Head on back. The office is the door on the left. Just knock." He turned to me. "But your boyfriend stays here."

  She locked eyes with me in momentary panic. It was fleeting. She had to go in there alone to see what this Nikolai guy looked like. She was determined to do it even if she didn't like it. Hell, I liked it less than she did.

  "Fine," she said, lilting her head like it was no biggie. She headed to the office.

  "Wait," said the bouncer. He walked over to her and said, "Hands out."

  "What do you think you're doing?" I warned.

  She glared at me, her voice going low to convey she meant business. "It's fine, baby. I really need this job."

  I gritted my teeth as the man patted down her arms, legs, and body. His search was a bit liberal when it came to her ass, but he saw me seething and decided not to push too far.

  "Fine. Go," he said, smirking like a guy begging to be decked. She quickly got out of there. The bouncer waited till she was gone and chuckled. "She really your girlfriend?"

  "That's right, buddy."

  "Don't take it so personal. Just doing my job."

  "No one's supposed to enjoy their job that much."

  He shrugged melodramatically, like he was enjoying this too. "Perks of the biz. You know, if she does get the job, Mr. Boyfriend, you won't be allowed in when she's dancing."

  "I know the rules," I snapped. His smugness aggravated me. It also made me want to pile drive his face into the sticky carpet.

  But maybe I could use his cockiness. Braggarts often speak too much when they think they have the upper hand. And our little friend here definitely thought he was the big dog in the room.

  "Why don't you sit down," he suggested flatly. "Relax. She'll be in there awhile."

  I nodded and pretended I was unsure. "A drink?"

  "Sure." The man moved behind the bar and closed the flip-up table to lock me on the outside. He grabbed two glasses. "Any requests?"

  I didn't sit. I planted my foot on the metal footrest and leaned into the padded table. "I'll have what you're having."

  He shrugged and proceeded to mix milk and weight-gain powder in a blender. When he poured the two glasses, I stared at him blankly.

  "Creatine activates muscle growth," he explained, taking a swig. "Strength, not size," he added with a sneer. "Remember that." Was this guy overcompensating or what?

  I wasn't interested in my shake. "I was kind of assuming you'd be drinking something a little harder."

  "It's ten in the morning."

  I shrugged.

  He wiped his milk mustache and reached for a bottle of vodka behind him. "What, this?" He slammed a shot glass on the bar and poured a couple fingers of swill for me. I probably should've stuck to the shake. "People always assume I drink vodka because I'm Russian. Well, guess what? I'm not Russian. I just work for the Russians."

  I eyed the bouncer. "You're not Russian?"

  "No, I'm Ukrainian. Big difference."

  "Big?"

  "Very big. The Russians are the ones with the money up here. Me? I'm just the muscle."

  "Hence the creatine." Ukrainians versus Russians. I could use that.

  I downed the vodka in one gulp and bit back the burn. My throat was on fire. The only way I could play it off casually was by chasing it with the protein shake. His eyes widened.

  "Good, huh?"

  I nodded. "I can feel my muscles activating as we speak."

  He didn't say anything so I took the opportunity to examine the pictures on the wall behind him. Lots of group shots, usually a few girls surrounding one guy. The same guy was in a lot of the pictures, getting a lot of female attention. He was an older guy with a wrinkled face and a sharp nose.

  I nodded toward the wall. "Who's the hotshot?" I asked.

  The bouncer smiled. "Your girlfriend's finding out for herself right now. That's Nikolai. You better watch out 'cause he has a way with women."

  He giggled like a dumbass when he saw the look on my face. An old, skinny guy like that? I wasn't worried about Milena anymore. But it was immediately clear that Nikolai wasn't the guy we were after. What was she still doing in there then?

  We stood there without conversation for another minute or two. Turns out, waiting with a bouncer while your stripper girlfriend auditions for the boss is an awkward social situation. I knew Milena wouldn't really do anything compromising and it was still off-putting. A new plan was forming in my head, one where I would pump this lackey for information and grab Milena and get out of Dodge.

  I couldn't ask him about Connor or the boat deal. Anything tying to
the meeting tonight would spook them, force them to call the whole thing off before I had a chance to infiltrate it. But the guy who'd gone after Hernan was actually looking for attention. He wanted to get called out. He was fair play, so I took the shot I had.

  "I know I won't be allowed here," I started, "but sometimes I come by on business."

  The bouncer pulled his glass from his mouth. "I've never seen you."

  "You might've seen my friend. He comes around a lot more. Bald dude with a black beard. Tattoo right here on his face."

  The bouncer paused and narrowed his eyes. It was a reflexive movement that betrayed his words. "Never seen him either," he lied.

  I shrugged and looked away casually. "That makes sense. I guess he'd only associate with the top guys. You know, the Russians."

  His dour face studied me before exploding into laughter. "It doesn't matter who you know. It won't help you here."

  I acted unconcerned but the bouncer grew suspicious. I slid along the bar and positioned myself so I could peek down the hall through the half-open black curtains. Still no sign of Milena.

  The Ukrainian killed his glass and tossed it into the sink. He dumped out the remainder of mine and shook his head like it was a waste. He ran the faucet but studied me the entire time. Finally he broke the silence. "This man with the face tattoo," he asked like it was just small talk, "how do you know him?" Oh yeah, interested in a guy he doesn't even know. I like how that works.

  "I forget," I said.

  He chuckled and shut off the sink. Then pulled a revolver from underneath. "Maybe this will jog your memory, no?"

  Chapter 11

  With the gun pointed at me, I fought every urge I had not to throw up my shield.

  Spellcraft, remember, wasn't something I could readily use without giving away who I was. One pull of the Intrinsics and they'd know I was Cisco Suarez, the shadow charmer taking out Connor's shipments. The very man they'd been hired to stop.

  Then again, maybe me asking about the tattooed man had already blown my cover. If they knew him and he knew me, wouldn't they connect the dots? This is what happens when I wing things. Maybe I'd just spooked them. The whole operation would be shut down. No more secret meeting. If I knew Connor, he wouldn't even make landfall in Miami if he thought I was on to him. But that was making quite a few leaps in logic. I had to believe everything wasn't wrecked yet.

  So I stared down the barrel of the revolver, hoping my Ukrainian friend slash protein-shake junkie wasn't willing to commit homicide in his place of business in the middle of the morning.

  "Relax," he said in a notably unrelaxing tone. "Sit down."

  I took the barstool beside the flip-up table so I could keep an eye on Milena's progress (or lack thereof).

  "This is not what you think," he said.

  I arched an eyebrow. "That's not a loaded gun you're pointing at me?"

  He cocked his head. "I guess it is what you think. But it's more than that." He flipped the revolver open and dropped all six rounds into his palm. He placed five below the counter out of sight and squeezed the last back into the chamber, then spun it closed. "You like Russians so much," he said, "I figure you like their games too."

  I swallowed slowly. "You don't have a set of those stacking dolls in the freezer, do you?"

  He pointed the gun at my head. Maybe blowing my cover was worth it. A quick survey of the area was disheartening. The white overhead lights killed much of the useful shadow in the room. That meant I couldn't phase out where I was.

  My shield was the next most reliable option, but at arm's length things get hairy. It's not hard to twist an arm around an obstacle in close quarters.

  That left my magically enhanced skin. My stint as a zombie had left me with hardened flesh and healing abilities. Bullets have bounced off me before. But again, at this range and pointed right at my head, those were bad odds, even with only one in six bullets chambered.

  The bouncer reveled in commanding my attention, and he finally got to the point. "You like asking questions," he mused, "so let's make it a game. We both ask questions. You first, then me, and we need to answer truthfully or—" He nodded at the gun.

  I swallowed nervously. I still couldn't get the flavor from the damn protein shake out of my mouth. "Can't we just play chess or something?"

  His expression didn't lighten. "Is that your question?"

  "No," I said quickly.

  "Then ask."

  What was this asshole getting at? He wanted to know who I was, but why the pretense of Russian Roulette? Why the concession to answer questions of my own?

  "Okay," I said as slowly as I could. (I should've picked a longer word to stall with.) "I have a question. I ask you, and you have to answer truthfully or pull the trigger?"

  He nodded.

  "Fine then. Do you know the Russian with the face tattoo?"

  He lowered his weapon and chuckled. "No. Not a Russian."

  Damn it. Did I mention I was awful at Twenty Questions? Somehow I doubted my luck would hold up for half that many right now.

  "My turn," he said, jutting out his chin as he thought how best to phrase his question. "How do you know this man you ask about?" He pointed the revolver to remind me I was on the spot.

  "I don't. He's looking for me, so I'm looking for him."

  The bouncer stroked his goatee, the stuff behind his broad forehead working overtime to decide if that was a fair and truthful answer. He fingered the trigger. He wouldn't actually kill me in the middle of the strip club, would he? Then again, maybe Russian Roulette was why the carpet was sticky.

  "Wait," I said, reaching into the back of my jeans with two fingers and withdrawing the calling card. "He left this. See?"

  The Ukrainian backed away as if he was scared to touch it. He nodded quickly and lowered the pistol. "Put that away."

  I did. The prop worked. He clearly believed me. Now it was my turn. "Do you know a Ukrainian who has— No, wait." The bouncer smiled and I rethought my phrasing. "Who's the man with the face tattoo who left me this?"

  "You learn quick," said the Ukrainian, waving the revolver. "Pressure stimulates us. It's like creatine for our brain, no?" I waited silently for his answer. He crossed his arms over his chest and made sure the back hallway was clear. Then he lowered his voice. "This man you look for is Vukasin Petrovic." He spit a loogie on the rubber mat behind the bar after voicing the name. Maybe the Department of Health would break down the door and save me.

  "Petrovic," I mused. "Sounds Russian to me."

  "He is not Russian or Ukrainian. He is Serbian. And he does not work here, so you are looking in the wrong place."

  Wrong place, but a name at least. "How do I know you're not lying?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "Because I do not pull the trigger with the gun to my head."

  I suddenly realized how unfair this game was. The bouncer wouldn't likely catch himself in a lie and shoot himself. I wondered if there was such a thing as a fair game of Russian Roulette.

  The bouncer watched me squirm. His smile broke out into a laugh and he volunteered more information. "This man, Petrovic, he is an animal. The bosses don't like the Serbians, but they work with them sometimes. Animals can be useful." He sized me up. "They can also be dangerous. If Vukasin Petrovic is looking for you, you should run."

  I narrowed my eyes. "Why is that?"

  His overconfident grin didn't waver in the slightest. "Your question is over," he said. "It is my turn now. And I want to know about you." He leaned toward me. "Who do you work for?"

  I thought for a moment. It was an easy answer but the gun complicated things.

  The bouncer had messed up. He should've asked who I was. But he probably assumed I was like him, a hired gun with a job. He didn't give a shit about a random tough guy asking around. Everything with these guys was politics. He wanted to know who'd sent me and why. He had the why, so he wanted to see which outfit he was dealing with. He wouldn't be expecting my next answer either.

  "I don't w
ork for anybody," I told him.

  His face tightened and he squeezed the trigger. The hammer struck and the gun clicked before I'd fully fallen backward off the stool. I landed with my left palm out ahead of me. The gun hadn't gone off. I cut off power to the Norse tattoo. I closed my hand to cover up its fading glow.

  The Ukrainian peered over the bar and laughed again, trading tension for levity. "You're lucky. You got a free lie."

  I stood indignantly. "It wasn't a lie."

  "I can tell."

  "My ass you can."

  He laughed it off. "It's okay. You're still alive." He spun the wheel of the revolver to reset the odds.

  I stood against the bar. "My turn, asshole. Where can I find this Vukasin Petrovic?"

  "No," he said. "That's not how the game works. You lied, so it's still my turn."

  "But you pulled the trigger."

  "And you lived. But it's still my turn. I get another question."

  He pointed the gun at me. I clenched my fists. The bouncer cocked his head from side to side. Made it seem like his decision was as casual as wondering how many scoops of ice cream to get on his cone.

  "I want to know... who you are working for."

  I scowled at him. "That's the same question."

  "I want a different answer."

  My heart pounded in my chest. The last one I hadn't seen coming. Hadn't thought he had the balls to shoot. This time I knew he'd fire.

  The Ukrainian clicked his teeth. "Come on now. No answer is the same as a lie."

  I clenched my teeth. I could either blow my cover or give him false info. The truth he wanted. But maybe he'd pull the trigger anyway. Maybe he was just playing with me.

  Somehow, this game of Russian Roulette turned into a staring contest. Our eyes burned, each seeming to become more dangerous than the revolver. I noticed a slight chink in his tough guy facade, like maybe I'd force him to kill me right here and now, and maybe he didn't really want to do that. Then again, the bouncer didn't look like a man who made well-thought-out, long-term decisions.

  He pulled the trigger back a hair.

  "I work for Vukasin Petrovic," I chanced. "And I'm pretty pissed off you just gave out his name."