2. Jackson
CHAPTER 2
JACKSON
D ad grinned at me, snaggle-toothed, over his beer. “Remember that time at the Grand Canyon? When you got on that pony, and it snatched off your shoe?”
I chuckled, distracted. “That was a mule.” When was Dad going to get his ass to a dentist? Two chipped front teeth wouldn’t cost much to fix, but the longer he left them, the worse it’d be.
“And the sunsets…” He sighed. “Those were some sunsets.”
“Yeah, they were.” I finished my drink. That had been a great trip, and a great summer, driving Dad’s trucking routes across the Southwest. That’d been the summer he taught me to drive, and the last summer before he met Marla. Our last summer road trip, and for my money, our best. Since then, he’d married Marla, then Kathy, and they’d both divorced him, and now he had jack.
“Dad, if I pay, will you go to the dentist?”
He laughed, and he flashed me his wide, busted grin. “What, for this? Forget it. Adds character, right?”
“It’ll add a whole lot of character when those teeth rot out.”
“You worry too much.” Dad slapped my shoulder. “I should head out. Got a pickup in Reno. Hey, you remember that time we did Vegas?”
I groaned. I remembered. I’d been thirteen. I’d come home full of stories of blackjack and porn slappers, and Mom had called Dad and screamed a hole in his ear.
“Give your old man a hug,” he said.
I gave him a hug. He’d gotten skinnier, and he smelled of tobacco. If I called him out, he’d say his buddies were smoking, but his teeth were all yellow, his fingernails too.
“Love you,” I said. “Take care on the road.”
“Love you too, son. Don’t get yourself shot.”
I headed out then, full of frustration. Dad made a good living driving long-haul. But he had three ex-wives and nine children between them, six of them still getting child support. Why he’d kept marrying, I never could figure, unless he liked sleeping in the back of his truck. Unless he liked living from job to job. He never had anything, and he was getting old. One day, he’d get too old, and he’d have to retire. What would he do then, with no home to go back to?
I’d worked up a good head of steam when I spotted the sign, a huge silver D bathed in white light. I knew that D, for Club Desire. One of my Army buds had just scored a job there, doing security, as a lot of us did. I headed over and shouldered up to the doorman.
“Hey, man. Mike Richards working tonight?”
He sized me up quickly — six six and beefy, buzz-cut black hair. The shape of my dog tags under my shirt. “You one of his Army pals?”
“Yeah, that’d be me.”
“He’s not working tonight, but you’re in if you want.” He lifted the rope, and I frowned for a moment. Did I want in, if Mike wasn’t there? A drink could be good, to cool my frustration. But it looked packed, full of wannabe types.
“Hey. In or out?”
I headed inside to instant regret. The place was a flash-bang PTSD nightmare, all pounding beats and bright, strobing lights. The kind of place, just to picture it would give you a migraine. I’d stay for one drink, then home for the night. Then I’d text Mike to tell him, man, your job stinks. I’d been bugging him a while now to come work with me. To help run my one-man bodyguard business. We’d hire a few guys, keep working ourselves, and in two, three years max, I’d buy Dad a house.
“Old fashioned,” I said, elbowing up to the bar.
The bartender nodded and headed down the bar, taking more orders as he moved along. I leaned on my elbows and surveyed the place, the boiling dance floor, the stuttering lights. By the men’s room, a thin man was selling cocaine. From the way he kept sniffing, he’d been at it himself. Two guys by the VIP stairs were plotting a brawl, sizing up every joe who came stumbling by. When they spotted one drunk enough, they’d draw him out: a quick body-check, then verbal sparring. Then one side or the other would throw a punch, and that end of the club would be a war zone. Unless — yep. Security’d spotted them too.
I watched them get tossed out, then turned back to the bar. To a girl who didn’t want to be seen. She stood stiff six feet from me, staring straight ahead. Holding a drink she hadn’t touched — no smear of lipstick along its chilled rim. I couldn’t make out her face behind her dark shades, but I could see she didn’t belong. She was far too well-groomed for a place like this, magazine-cover hair, perfect skin, perfect nails. Her dress was off-the-rack, but her shoes were high-end.
The bartender swung back and thrust a drink in my face. I took it reflexively.
“Hold on. What’s this?”
“Peach crush,” he said.
“But, I didn’t order?—”
He was already gone. I stood feeling silly, peach crush in hand. It was full of peach slices and a couple of cherries, and a purple umbrella sticking out at one side. I tried a sip and, big surprise. Peach. Well, I liked peach cobbler. Whatever. I’d drink it.
I took another sip, turned, and surveyed the room. It was a habit I couldn’t shake, scanning for threats. Cocaine guy was over where the fight guys had been, making out with a girl in skintight red jeans. Something sketchy was brewing in the VIP loft, an argument turning heated. Guys talking fast. I guessed, from the look of them, their bill had just come, and one or both of them was short on his share.
By the fire exit, some guy had a gun. He wasn’t used to carrying, and he was nervous.
A man near the dance floor was ready to puke. I watched him for a second, then looked away.
A girl had her phone out to take a selfie. Or, not a selfie. She was nudging her friend. Pointing at the bar — at the redhead in shades. I glanced at her, myself, and she’d set down her drink. She was twisting her purse strap, nervous. On edge. Scanning like I was, fixed on the crowd.
The girl with the phone dragged another friend over. They both had their phones out, up in the air. I saw a flash, then another flash, and a tall man glanced over. He squinted where they were shooting and cocked his head to one side. Pulled a friend over. This was bad. Whoever that redhead was, they knew. Word was out. The atmosphere thickened as it spread through the club.
I glanced back at the redhead, and she got it. She knew. She was sidling away now, back pressed to the bar. The whispers were shouts now, excited babble.
“Over there, isn’t that?—”
“Ooh! Get a selfie!”
“—can’t tell with the shades, but check it out?—”
I started toward her. This was about to get bad. The crowd was massing, ready to swarm. In maybe ten seconds, she’d be hemmed in.
“Excuse me, ma’am?—”
I’d no sooner moved than two girls lunged forward, the same ones who’d first whipped out their phones. The redhead jerked back and made a dash for the door, and that was her first mistake. The sudden move. It was like tossing a ball in a crowded dog park, and all the dogs went for it. The crowd moved as one. They swung in behind her and cut off her exit, and one man steamed in and grabbed her arm. She screamed and her shades flew off. Someone yelled out It’s her!
I thrust my elbows out and mowed through the crowd. Whoever she was, she needed help.