Chapter 9
JOKER
I flag Rattler over to my side of the bar and point across the room. “You see that guy over there?”
“Which guy? The fuckin’ place is packed.”
I turn to Rattler. “The guy against the wall in the Indian costume.” When I turn back, he’s gone.
“I don’t see him.” Rattler pushes off the bar to help another customer, and I search the room with my head on swivel.
A hand runs up my back, and I jump.
“Relax,” Daisy coos in my ear. “What’s got you so edgy?”
“Nothing.” I draw in a deep breath and slosh another shot into my glass from the bottle of Jack Rattler left in front of me.
“I thought that stuff was supposed to cool you out, not amp you up.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
“They’re going to start judging for the best costume soon.” She waves her hand between us. “I really think we have a good shot of winning this year.”
Daisy’s words jumble together as I stare across the room. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the same guy heading for the exit.
I push off the bar stool, and Daisy grabs for me. “Where’re you going?”
“I’ll be right back,” I throw over my shoulder.
I elbow my way through the crowd, keeping the Nomad in my sights. I’m about twenty feet behind him when he pushes through the main door. Five seconds later, I do the same, but when I get outside, he’s gone.
I push past the line on the sidewalk waiting to get into The Gold Mine and through the single line of cars parked at the curb. I jerk my head in all directions, but it’s like the guy evaporated.
I rub my fingers over my forehead, then press the heels of my hands against my eyes. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’ve gone through hell and back in my early years, and yet a few words from an ancient Native American is getting up my ass.
I suck in the dry desert air and will myself to get it together. I’d get my shit together, then go back inside and enjoy the night with my beautiful pregnant woman and my brothers. No big fuckin’ deal.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, and I flinch. “What the?—”
“Shit, you better cut back on the coffee.” Samson’s giving me his best shit-eating grin, and I try desperately to chill.
“Hey, man.”
He furrows his brow. “You all right?”
Why do people keep asking me that?
“Of course.” I draw in another breath and smirk, determined to steer the conversation in another direction. “Love the whole gladiator look.”
Samson rolls his eyes. “Lisbeth’s idea—she’s Cleopatra.”
I scan the sidewalk. “Where is she?”
“Inside with the other women. I just came out for a smoke.” He sticks a cig between his lips and offers me one, then lights us up.
I draw deep, letting the nicotine do its job.
“I didn’t see you when we first got here. The fuckin’ place is packed.” He eyeballs me. “Then I saw you take off for the door.”
“Got a lot of shit goin’ on.”
“Anything you need help with?”
“No, man, but thanks.”
Samson and I go way back to our cage fighting days in New York basements under the rule of the Russian mob.
Brutal, savage and ruthless, but we made it out.
I came to Vegas and hooked up with the Serpents, while he escaped the mob and opened up a mega-nightclub in Vegas with his business partner, Nick.
“Gotta say, you look pretty authentic.” Samson motions to my costume. “Wasn’t there some urban legend about Bugsy Siegel using The Gold Mine as a hangout back in the day?”
I pitch my smoke to the curb. “Let’s get a drink.”
We push back through the doors of The Gold Mine and head for the bar. I’m determined to have a good time and leave all this bullshit behind me when Mamba appears at my side.
He and Samson do the male backslap thing, make cracks about each other’s costumes, then Mamba turns to me. “Can I have a word?”
“Go get a drink,” I say to Samson. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Samson heads toward the bar, and I turn back to Mamba. “What the fuck now?”
Mamba cocks his head. “Derek’s here.” Mamba throws up his palms. “Not that I give a shit, but I know how you feel about it.”
I blow out a heavy breath. So much for enjoying the party.
“Where is he? ”
Mamba jerks his head to the back of the room. “He’s back there with some of the club girls. He’s dressed like a pirate.”
“How’d I miss him come in?”
“The fuckin’ place is packed.” Mamba jerks his chin to the back of the room. “Why don’t you let the kid slide tonight?”
I pull a face and Mamba adds, “It’s not my business, but I think we both know we were doin’ way worse at his age.”
At nineteen, I was a full patch member of the Raiders out of New York, running drugs at illegal underground cage fights and about to be a father, so yeah, Mamba is right.
“And that’s why I gotta stay up his ass.”
“I get it.”
“Hey, you didn’t see a guy dressed like an American Indian before, did you?”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
Great. Now I was seeing things, but first things first.
I head to the back of the room, and sure enough, there’s Derek lounging on one of the sofas, passing a blunt to Charmaine, one of the club girls.
She’s draped over him, and although I don’t have any idea what her costume is supposed to be, it sure is showing my son an ample amount of tight, firm skin.
The smoking weed doesn’t bother me, or that he’s supposed to be home watching Deana.
I know he’d never just leave his sister unattended and probably got Mrs. Parker from next door to come over.
The woman loves Disney movies almost as much as Deana.
It’s the fact he deliberately disobeyed me that bites me in the ass.
I stay back so I can observe, and I can’t help but smile.
The kid’s literally holding court with the other prospects and hangers-on.
Gotta say, he makes a great pirate with his dark hair and tawny complexion, and he sure is charming Charmaine.
Makes me glad I’ve had the condom talk with him more than once because Charmaine has a rep of not always being selective .
I guess he thought the eye patch, bandana and face paint would throw me off. Typical kid, thinking he could get over on his parents. Only this parent knew all about bending the rules, breaking them, then stomping on them long before Derek was born.
I slowly move around the couch, but he’s so engrossed in whatever story he’s telling, along with Charmaine’s hand dangerously high on his thigh, he doesn’t see me at first, but Charmaine does.
“Hey, Joker.” She bats her overly mascaraed eyes at me. I’ve never given the girl an ounce of attention outside of normal hellos, and yet she never stops trying. I guess she figures coming on to my son is just as good.
Derek’s head whips in my direction. His back stiffens, then he realizes he doesn’t want to lose his cool in front of his fan club.
“Having a good time?” I ask them all, then zone in on Derek.
The prospects and other hangers-on all nod, but the mood has definitely shifted, and they all feel it. One by one, they disperse until it’s just me and Derek. Even Charmaine quietly exits with a chaste peck on his cheek.
I nod toward the back hall, and Derek follows me. Then we stare at each other as I try to figure out how I’m gonna handle this situation.
“If you’re worried about Deana, I had Mrs. Parker come over,” Derek offers.
“I’m not worried about Deana, ‘cause if you ever left your sister alone to go to a party, you wouldn’t still be breathing.”
“And you know the weed’s no big deal. Shit, everybody does it, and I only do it at parties.”
“I’m not worried about the weed either.”
“So, what’s the big fuckin’ deal then?”
Yup, my teenage son is testing me, and what I say next is important .
“The big fuckin’ deal is not doin’ what I said. The big fuckin’ deal is thinking you know more than me. The big fuckin’ deal is your attitude right now.”
He lowers his eyes to the floor, and I can practically see the steam coming out of his ears. He’s dying to tell me to fuck off, but he’s either afraid or has too much respect for me. I hoping with everything I’ve got it’s the respect thing.
“I don’t tell you to do shit just to be a bastard. When I tell you to do something, or not do something, it’s for a reason, and usually for your own good.”
“But if you don’t care about the weed and the other shit, then why can’t I be here?” He narrows his eyes. “You worried about me getting with Charmaine?”
I bark out a laugh. “Charmaine’s the least of my worries, but if you ever do get with her, for fuck’s sake, strap up.”
“I just don’t get you. You know the score, and you’ve told me you’ve done way worse at my age, so I don’t know why you’re freakin’ out now.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it.
“The big deal is?—”
Then it buzzes three more times in succession. Not normal and definitely not good.
I jam my hand in my pocket, retrieve it, and swipe at the messages. Three pictures pop up, and my heart beats fast and then dangerously slow.
“What’s the matter?” Derek asks, but my eyes stay glued to the phone.
“Nothing.” I meet his gaze. “I want you to go home, understand?”
My order had nothing to do with Derek disobeying me and everything to do with the pictures on my phone.
“What’s on your phone?” Derek leans in, but I swipe at the screen.
“Nothing, just go home, now.”
I move through the crowd, desperate to find Daisy, and Python steps in my path. “Hey, help me get some more cases of liquor from the basement.”
“Can’t.” I try to move past him, but he grips my biceps.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” He moves me to the side of the room by the cellar staircase. “You’ve been jumpy all night.”
I hold up my phone and show him the screen.
He swipes through the pictures. “Who sent these?”
“Good fuckin’ question.” I take the phone back and examine the pictures again, then the message:
We have eyes on you.
Python dismisses it with a wave of his hand. “Just some asshole trying to rev you up.”
“No, man, this is serious. They brought in my fuckin’ family just like the note that came with that damn black stone.”
“Whoever is trying to fuck with you, no doubt, but we’ve been though shit like this before, and it’s usually just bullshit.”
“It wasn’t bullshit five years ago when I missed the signs from that psycho, Harold, who ended up kidnapping Daisy. I almost lost her and Deana because I wasn’t paying attention.”
That sobers Python. “All right. Help me bring up these cases, then we take it to Cobra.”
I turn toward the crowd, but I still can’t locate Daisy, and when I turn back to Python, I sway slightly. Probably from pounding all those shots earlier.
I follow Python down the stairs, and the same eerie sensation washes over me. The same prickle of doom I’ve been getting all week when I come down here.
Python hoists a case of vodka and tequila on each shoulder, and I lift up two cases of beer. Python goes up ahead of me, and as I hit the middle of the staircase, I hear the whining sound again, only this time it’s so loud and high-pitched, it stings my eardrums.
“You hear that?” I shout over the noise, but Python keeps going.
My vision clouds, and I force myself to focus, but the room spins out of control.
I try to steady the cases, but they slip from my shoulders as I grab for the railing.
The cases of beer crash to the concrete floor below, but I hardly hear it over the piercing, shrieking vibration surrounding me.
I try to steady myself, gripping the banister harder in an effort to escape this overwhelming vortex.
Like being caught in a whirlpool, I sink lower, swallowed up by the swirling turbulent storm raging around me.