Chapter Seventeen
Lai
The only thing that separated the enormous metal door from the dozens of other loading docks of the industrial warehouses was a black security panel mounted flush to the frame. There was no bouncer outside the club, no velvet rope, no line of hopeful patrons.
I knew we were in the right place.
This wasn’t the kind of club that wanted to attract attention and clout; quite the opposite.
The club offered its patrons what they couldn’t obtain legally, publicly, or without shame.
Those invited here– politicians, billionaires, judges, lobbyists, arms dealers, royalty– already owned everything money and influence could buy, and they came to places like this to indulge in the final luxury they could ever purchase: the freedom from any of the consequences that plagued the common man.
I knew these kinds of places well. I had worked inside their private rooms long before I was old enough to drink the expensive liquor they served.
Al stood beside me with his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket, studying the blank metal door. “This is it?”
I nodded as I slipped my matte black credit card from my wallet—no brand; no ‘Visa’ or ‘Mastercard’ logo on the dark titanium.
Brands were tacky and cheap, the hallmarks of the nouveau-rich.
There were maybe thirty of these cards in all the world, and they belonged exclusively to the kind of person who never needed to put anything on credit.
I placed it against the security panel, and the door slid open silently, reverently, humbled by my wealth.
Warm air rolled over us, thick with club music, sweat, and rot, the usual cocktail of places like that.
It didn’t matter how rich the guests were; no amount of money could mask the stench of their decaying souls.
Al glanced back at the empty car park, his fingers catching my hand. “You sure about leaving Fox and Ghost alone?”
“No, but what’s the worst they can do?” I gave a dry laugh, trying to hide my disgust as we walked into the dark entry of the club.
The metal door sealed behind us, separating the underground world from everything respectable above it.
It felt like the jaws of an enormous monster closing around us, trapping us in its claustrophobic throat.
◆◆◆
The facade of the warehouse fell away as we descended into an enormous subterranean chamber, pausing at the first of three levels of balconies that circled a central dance floor, each layer made up of dark glass booths stacked one above another.
In the yawning center of the chamber was a stage lined with swinging cages and platforms suspended from chains, where bodies of every shape and size–and age– flexed and gyrated and moaned.
Some of the dancers wore leather, feathers, jewels. Others wore very little at all.
The richest people in the country watched from shadowy lounges; some hid behind elaborate masks, but most made no attempt to conceal themselves, basking in glitter and sex. They were amongst their fellow monsters, after all, and who was going to tell?
But brother, what were YOU doing at the Devil’s Sacrament?
The guilt and gold did not dazzle me. Being here made me feel sick; I had spent years working in those shadows, wishing it would all burn straight down to Hell.
Now, instead of setting it all ablaze, I was here as a guest. Younger me would have hated me for it.
I didn’t blame him. I kind of hated me right then, too.
But I was here on a mission, and my little birdies had told me exactly where to find who I was looking for.
Federal Judge Haines of the Texas Court of Appeals was a corrupt, greedy, ugly little man who took great pleasure in condemning men– black men in particular– to death, while good Christian pedophiles had their convictions overturned.
Nothing out of the ordinary in Texas. If my information was correct, he was currently enjoying the attention of entertainers in one of the lower VIP rooms, surrounded by enough private security to make a direct approach inconvenient, but not impossible.
That was why I had brought Al.
We descended to the ground floor, winding our way through the growing throng of dancing bodies. Here, on the edges of the dance floor, the music was almost too loud for conversation; that didn’t matter. Al knew his role.
I pushed up against him, dancing lazily as he dipped down a little to hear me over the thunderous beat.
“I need ten minutes,” I almost had to yell, even though I was only an inch from his ear.
“I can do that.” Al’s hands settled around my waist; the words were nearly lost beneath the music. “Just be careful, okay?”
“Don’t get hurt,” I demanded, holding a fistful of his shirt. “Create a distraction, that’s all. No heroics.”
“I’m not an amateur.” He laughed, rolling his eyes.
“You were arrested less than a month ago.”
“That was performance art.”
“That was a felony.”
Al laughed again, then took me by the shoulders and shoved me toward the private booths. I spared a glance backward; it was showtime, and Al knew how to put on a show.
I watched as his shoulders loosened and his steps became wider, less coordinated. His smile turned vacant and hungry as he stumbled into a passing waiter, apologized by taking the man’s entire tray of champagne, and wandered toward the stage with three glasses balanced between his fingers.
It was convincing; I had to admit that much; Al had plenty of practice as a rowdy drunk.
I moved with the music toward the edge of the room. The security posts outside the private booths were still occupied; Al hadn’t raised any real Hell yet, and I took a moment to watch the crowd.
Al began innocently enough. He intercepted another drink from the bar, lifted it in salute to a seven-foot-tall bouncer, and poured most of it over his own mouth.
The bouncer laughed when Al leaned heavily against his chest and praised the size of his arms; Al flirted with him for nearly a minute, running one hand over the man’s shoulder and whispering something that made the enormous guard choke on his own breath.
Nothing about Al’s behavior was unusual enough to justify intervention; this was not the kind of establishment where security interrupted a patron merely for getting drunk, pawing at the staff, or exposing an unreasonable amount of skin.
Membership prices began in the high six figures.
VIP packages cost millions. The club’s performers knew how to handle overeager guests.
Then Al drifted backward toward the main stage; the bouncer he’d been flirting with had already looked away, clearly not deeming Al anyone he needed to worry about, and Al took advantage of the lapse in judgment by climbing up onto the stage and grabbing a microphone from the bewildered DJ.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and those undecided or unbothered!” Al’s voice thundered through the room, playful and charming as he moved to the edge of the stage, wrapping one hand around one of the dancer’s poles and raising the other toward the balconies.
The spotlight operator, amused or incapable of resisting chaos, swung a white beam directly onto him.
The crowd turned as one toward the man.
Al spun around the pole, allowing his footing to slip just enough to suggest he had lost his balance.
He caught himself against the chest of a male dancer, gazed into the man’s face with exaggerated surprise, then, in one fluid motion, dipped him backward and kissed him.
The dancer recovered from his initial shock immediately, wrapping a leg around Al’s waist and playing along.
The room erupted.
I covered my smile with one gloved hand.
The performers understood the assignment; they retreated from the center of the stage, but not because they feared a drunken patron, no.
That was a daily occurrence. The dancers shared Lai’s keen sense of drama, recognizing a disaster unfolding in front of them and committing to the bit, knowing they wouldn’t be punished for what was, as far as they knew, a scripted dream for a spoiled patron.
“Tonight,” Al announced, dragging his hand down the pole. “You have been blessed with a special treat.”
His leather jacket was coming off as he spoke. He rolled one shoulder, allowed it to slide halfway down his arms, then let two dancers pull it from him like attendants undressing a condemned king. One of the performers tossed it into the crowd, and I sighed. I liked that jacket.
Encouraged, Al gripped the front of his black shirt with both hands and ripped it open. Buttons flew across the stage.
The response was immediate: the music became louder, the crowd surged closer. Money appeared in raised hands, the members of the club more than happy to burn some paper on satisfying a fantasy.
The crowd was growing, working the guests up into a low frenzy. It wasn’t enough yet, though; the guards hadn’t been lured away yet, not quite under Al’s spell. I didn’t mind waiting; I was enjoying the show as much as everyone else.
Al dropped the mic and shimmied effortlessly up the pole. He wrapped one thigh around the metal and lifted himself above the dancers, shirt hanging open, tattoos stretching across his chest and stomach. He spun slowly, head thrown back, allowing the spotlight to catch the silver in his piercings.
Then he dropped.
The crowd gasped.
Al stopped himself less than an inch from the stage floor and hung upside down, suspended by the strength of his legs.
I was genuinely impressed. Doing all that in jeans was next to impossible; the lack of friction meant his thighs were working overtime to save his face from the floor.
I was still admiring the tightness of his abs as the dancer he’d kissed approached and poured champagne down his bare chest.
Al caught the stream in his mouth, then spat it in a glittering spray across the front row. Apparently, that was worth several bills. I watched as eager, laughing clubbers tucked the crisp notes under the waistband of Al’s pants.