Chapter 2 Nobody Likes Lawyers #2
"Oh, my god!" she suddenly exclaims in the middle of me trying to give our server my order for lunch. "Did you see? That guy woke up?"
I finish ordering and thank them as they walk away. "What guy?"
"The coma guy!"
"I have no idea who you're talking about," I shrug.
She slaps Seth's arm a couple times, "Come on, honey, remember the guy? What do they call him?"
"Bás Dorcha," Seth answers. "He was wanted on suspicion of something like two dozen murders before they found him beat to shit, left for dead. He's been in a coma since September but someone at the hospital leaked that he woke up."
"Oh. Yeah, I guess I heard something about that months ago," I shrug. "Why do they call him Boss... Dorka?"
Seth repeats, "Bás Dorcha. It's an Irish term for bat. Means dark death. They started calling him that because of the way he leaves his victims. And the way he abducts his targets in the dead of night before dropping them somewhere else to display. No one sees him coming or going."
I laugh, "If no one sees him, how does anyone have stories about him?"
They're speaking about this guy as if he's some apparition that can sneak into homes and commit murders without witnesses or evidence. But whoever he is, he's just a man.
Seth shrugs, "I don't know, but someone said he managed to kill their friend and string him up without making a single sound.
The friend went into the bathroom and didn't come out.
When they went to check on him, he had already bled out into the shower.
No sign of the killer. Only his signature.
Then this guy shows up with a fucking bat tattoo wrapped around his throat?
It isn't hard to put two and two together. "
"So, really, it could have been anyone," I raise a brow. "A man dying in a hospital bed would be an easy target to pin the murders on."
My faith in the justice system is, admittedly, not great. It's part of the reason I stayed out of the criminal side of my profession. The few cases I sat in on were miserable.
A case of fraud that couldn’t be proven, leaving a small business owner without a single penny to feed his family.
The heir to the Morrison Artillery Corp accused of murdering his father when he discovered he was going to be written out of the will.
And neither one of them had a happy ending.
The son, who was acquitted based on the sworn testimony of his dad’s security guard and no evidence of the supposed motive, still left that courtroom with a dead father.
The defrauded business owner who lost everything due to his business manager’s malfeasance tried to kill himself right there in the courthouse.
Even the few pettier crimes and the corruption scheme in the local PD were too messy for me.
"He was like an enforcer or something for the mob," my mom nods frantically, trying to assure me of the validity of the claims. "Used his company to find victims. The investigator in charge said they have more than enough evidence to put him away for life."
"Well, that's good then, I guess," I shrug, digging into the food placed in front of us. Mom has an affinity for true crime, and while I don't fault her for that, it holds no interest for me.
The conversation falls away as we eat in earnest until my obligatory time is up and I excuse myself, letting them return to thoroughly enjoying each other while other restaurant-goers look on in horror.
My afternoon slips by without incident, my prediction about the chemical plant being correct, ending my day an hour earlier than expected. As soon as they saw the projected numbers, they couldn't get away from me and my city fast enough.
Leaving me to prepare to attend my only vice.
One that no one in my life knows about.
Letting myself into my apartment, I take in a deep breath, enjoying the bright and fresh scent of lemongrass coming from my timed diffuser in the corner of my kitchen.
The sparkling white marble and warm brown cabinets surround me, bringing me back to center from a day that left me off-kilter.
My mom always has that effect on me, and I think she always will, no matter how many therapy sessions I complete, no matter how many years pass.
Janet will always throw me off balance with her chaos and constant need for attention.
As an adult, I don't mind her taking it all, but as a child?
It meant keeping my joy small and my sadness even smaller so they didn't disrupt her.
As I slowly shower, taking time to shave and exfoliate myself into shining perfection, I wash away any thoughts I've had about my past and all the things I've done to outgrow it.
I don't bother curling my hair, letting the dark brown strands fall where they may.
Laid out on my bed is the dress I bought for this excursion. Falling to mid-thigh, the black number with slits up to each hip emphasizes my curves, pushing my breasts up and hugging my waist, showing off every inch of my full thighs and wide hips.
I'm sure some might say a dress like this is made for someone smaller than me, but they'd be wrong. This dress was made for me. Made to mold to my every hill and valley.
Before darting out the door, I spritz my favorite perfume lightly, surrounding me with a light touch of coffee and caramel, muddled with heady spices, then drape my long peacoat around me, tying it in the middle to keep everything covered.
I'm nervous, though I know I shouldn't be.
It's hardly the first time I've done this.
Just like my hair color— the first Saturday of each month at nine AM— and my pedicures— every other Tuesday evening— I have a standing reservation, of sorts.
Instead of driving, I take a taxi to the destination. I don't plan to drink much, but it's less complicated than dealing with parking and the possibility of someone spotting my car.
Paying my fare, I slink out of the car a block away from my destination.
The inconspicuous door and the flashing sign above it make my heart pound.
Mingle, the sign reads as I approach, the neon fluttering, the slow, bass-heavy music leaking out onto the sidewalk, making my blood sing.
"Name?" The bouncer asks.
"Brigit Danaan," I respond, sliding my ID into his hand.
Scanning my license, he quickly and efficiently ensures that everything is in order before returning it.
"Welcome back, Brigit," he smiles, friendlier now that he knows I'm not only cleared, but a regular. With clubs like these, trust is everything. And I've more than earned theirs. I'm discreet, always follow the rules, and pay my debts the moment I receive them without argument.
"Thank you."
He opens the door, and the music behind it assaults my ears.
Shrinking myself to pass him, anticipation swells in my stomach, making my legs and hands shake.
The maroon and deep blue lights bounce off the walls, highlighting every inch in a stunning array of color, nearly as dark as the outside world.
Music shakes the ground beneath my feet until I can feel it sinking into my bones, making me as much a part of the scenery as the sound itself.
A large stage takes up the center of the room, the main show, a local band, already beginning their set.
And as much as I love an intimate concert, tonight I need something a little more potent.
So I make my way to the bar to the far left, leaning my hip against it to wait for the bartender's attention.
"Upstairs or down tonight, Miss Danaan?" Stella asks, popping up from behind the bar with a grin on her face and a different shaker in each hand. Her jet-black, pin-straight hair, pulled up in a crisp, long ponytail, swings behind her.
"Down," I answer. "And a martini, when you get a chance?"
She nods, “I’ll send it to your usual spot.” Continuing her mission, she makes a handful more drinks, handing me a navy blue wristband when she has a free moment.
I shout my gratitude, hoping she can hear me over the dull roar of the crowd around us.
The door at the back of the room draws my attention, my pulse thrumming at the thought of what I might see back there tonight.
I leave my coat, phone, and wallet in a locker as required before flashing my wristband.
With a nod, the armed security guard opens the steel door, standing aside to let me through, not taking his eyes off the room at my back.
A dark hallway with stairs and walls of concrete welcomes me, and the sound of a crowd cheering pulls me down at double speed, my heart pounding.
When the hall opens up into a grand room, mirroring the one above but with a completely different kind of stage, every hair on my body stands on end, chills zipping across my skin in anticipation.
Rows and rows of seats, some with tables and some without, all coalesce into looking over an octagonal cage spanning at least 20 feet, possibly more.
Already, the floor of the ring is smeared with blood, making mine pump harder as I reach my seat. I sink into the plush black chair I've become familiar with, ready to watch a night of depravity.
Within moments, one of the servers drops my drink on the table next to me, a maroon napkin with the name Mingle stamped in gold.
It wouldn't be fair to call the bar above a cover, exactly. It does well on its own. But a few of us know what this place is really for, how it makes the exorbitant amount of money it does.
And as the next fighters are called out, and the first punch is thrown, I settle in to enjoy the single indulgence I allow myself for the next few hours.