9. Chapter 9
Tuesday, as I’m hauling cases of liquor to the storage room, I hear the steel door slam closed at the top of the stairs.
What now? Setting the box of vodka on the shelf, I turn and step out of the small room.
Several feet come into view as Deke and friends join me for another round.
Sighing, I get on the balls of my feet and wait.
Deke has been even more of an asshole since he was shot.
I get the feeling he blames me for something he did.
He's got four guys with him today. Hank, Donnie, Ethan, and Chance decide to charge me at once while Deke watches.
Knowing these guys after all these months, I punch Hank first in the temple just hard enough to stun him, then kick the legs out from under Ethan after he makes contact with my stomach.
Unfortunately, he tears my shirt as he falls.
They hit the hardest out of the four, so it's better to take them out first.
Next, I shove Donnie on top of Hank after he gets me in the jaw and punch Chance in the stomach.
I always try to inflict minimal damage, especially to Chance, since he's just a kid.
Stepping over them, I walk up the stairs as Deke starts yelling at them.
Imagine purposely starting a fight regularly with someone who always beats you. Idiots, the lot of them.
His crew can finish putting the last few crates away.
Looking at my shirt, the bastard ripped it right down the middle, and it's not fixable.
I wouldn't mind, but I only have a few shirts to begin with.
Patrick interrupts my thoughts when I get to the bar area, telling me Artur is here to speak to me, and his eyes get big when he sees my torn shirt.
Following a step behind him, we walk into his office where Artur kicks him out and closes the door. The scowl on Patrick’s face as he leaves is priceless. Artur is alone today, no goons is sight, but he has his gun strapped to a holster under his arm.
Taking a seat on the couch, I quirk an eyebrow at Artur to begin. "What happened?" he asks, pointing to my shirt.
"Just a scuffle," I respond.
"Who?"
Well shit. If I throw Patrick under the bus, he's vindictive enough to go after Shortie or Gabs. "Just a misunderstanding. Nothing to worry about."
"Names, Nicholas."
"Deke and friends."
Artur seems to think for a minute before nodding to himself.
He removes his phone from his pocket and sends a text before bringing his attention back to me.
“Nicholas, your performance these past 6 months has impressed Mr. Fitzgerald. You’ve kept your head down, haven’t complained, and followed instructions.
We believe you could be a great asset to our business ventures.
He would like you to join the Tuesday fights, starting this evening.
If you perform as we expect, you’ll have a bright future here in Tennessee. ”
Interesting. “How does Patrick fit into this?”
Artur waves his hand. “Patrick is where he will stay. He does a sufficient job of running this bar and managing his small crew. You have greater potential, Nicholas. Your father is unaware of what occurs on Tuesday nights, and you will keep it that way. I will have someone pick you up at 5pm this evening with appropriate attire. Do not disappoint me tonight.” With that speech, he stands and leaves the room.
Sounds like Tuesday nights are much different from Fridays. I wonder what I’ll be in for. Maybe I’ll finally get to meet in elusive Mr. Fitzgerald.
At 5pm, a security guard in the common navy uniform from the office building finds me in the bar.
He hands me a garment bag, telling me to change in Patrick’s office.
Going inside and shutting the door, I find a black tuxedo and leather shoes inside.
What the fuck kind of fight night is this?
Quickly changing, I stuff my regular clothes into the empty bag and rejoin the security guy in the hallway.
He looks me over with a nod, and then I follow him outside to a blacked out Cadillac SUV. Fancy. He opens the back door for me, so I climb inside. Is Mr. Fitzgerald trying to impress me, or is something else going on?
I’m driven to the same office building as the Friday fights, but instead of taking the back elevator downstairs, I’m ushered into the regular bank of elevators near the entrance.
On the top floor, I follow the security guard down a short hallway to the only available door. After two knocks, Artur answers, ushering me inside.
The room looks very similar to Artur’s office in the basement, except there are desks on each side of the door in here, and no windows.
He gestures for me to take a seat in front of the left desk.
“Welcome Nicholas. Tonight will differ vastly from Fridays. On Tuesdays, we entertain our wealthiest clients. They prefer a more civilized and cultured experience. There will be cocktails and dinner, followed by the fights. These fights resemble MMA fighting, except they have three rounds, and the winner is decided by points or knockout.”
“What’s the catch?” I ask.
“We cater to our wealthiest clients. They like to lower themselves and get to know the entertainment, and that includes you. Be pleasant, answer their questions, and keep them happy.”
That leaves a lot of room for interpretation. Too much. “Be specific.”
“Let them fawn over you, touch you, ply you with drinks.”
Fuck that! I would never cheat on Shortie, and my dick isn’t interested in anyone else. “I’m not a prostitute. You’ll have to shoot me if you expect that.”
“There are guidelines they must follow,” Artur waves me off.
“No sex or sexual acts for our fighters, but the women like to pretend they can have you.
It makes them feel powerful. I am aware you are not a people person, Nicholas.
I don't expect your personality to change overnight. Be yourself, but be tolerant of them. Your fighting will more than make up for it.”
“Am I winning or losing tonight?”
“Ah. That is up to you. These fights are not rigged, so do your best to win. The more you win, the more sponsor money you will make from our clients. We, of course, take a substantial cut of your earnings.”
“What earnings?” I raise my eyebrows at him.
Artur seems confused for a minute, then his expression flattens. “Each fight you take part in on Fridays and Tuesdays earns you a percentage of the betting pool. It’s small, but it is yours. On Tuesdays, some of our clients like to sponsor specific individuals, which gives you a boost in earnings.”
Fucking Patrick. I shake my head.
“Have you not received your wages from Patrick?”
“No.”
“You have been paid your security salary and cut of the business runs, yes?”
I shake my head in the negative. “Haven’t received a cent since I came here.”
Anger flashes across Artur’s features quickly before his usual mask's back in place. “I will rectify that immediately. Unfortunately, I cannot provide back pay.”
I nod that I understand, and Artur stands from his desk. “Follow me. Cocktail hour is beginning.”
We enter the central door at the back of the room via a thumbprint scanner, and into a lavish world.
Still richly decorated, but it looks like a stuck up fancy bar.
Long burgundy cloths adorn tall tables and leather topped stools, and men and women dressed to the nines are scattered around them.
Servers in black and white carry drinks and appetizers around the crowd.
Fancy looking sconces provide low lighting and reflect metallic wallpaper with some kind of swirly pattern.
Dark wood floors and oriental rugs are underfoot.
Artur ushers me towards the left side, where a rich mahogany bar is set up. “Preferred drink?”
“Whiskey neat.” I started drinking it during my long nights at the bar. It's better than the watered down beer they serve.
The bartender hands me a crystal glass with two fingers of whisky while Artur gets a glass of champagne. I spend the next hour being introduced to too many clients and women with wandering hands. Weirdly, very few names are given. Many are introduced as important clients or friends. Not helpful.
Finally, dinner is announced as we move into a full scale dining room.
Unbelievable. Crystal, gold cutlery, and gold-rimmed plates sit on top of lace.
I’m left to my own devices to find a seat as Artur moves to the head of the table.
I grab a chair near the middle so I can see everyone.
Unfortunately, one of the women dressed in a low cut gown I met earlier takes a seat beside me.
I endure four courses of admittedly great food while removing the old lady’s hand from my thigh too many times to count.
Everyone seems to be discussing business around me.
There are quite a few young women, possibly teens, in attendance that aren’t attached to anyone in particular.
I hope Fitzgerald isn’t running a human trafficking ring, but it seems he may be.
The girls are clean, fed, and well dressed, most taking part in the surrounding conversations.
I’ve even seen a few smiles, which I wouldn’t expect, but you never know.
They can’t all be daughters of the business associates in attendance.
I once asked Patrick where he found all the girls for his parties, and he told me there was an escort service he uses, and none of the girls are part of Fitzgerald's business.
Finally, two hours later, the clients are escorted through another door, but Artur stops me from following.
He ushers me down a set of stairs to a locker room similar to the one in the basement.
There are 5 other fighters inside getting dressed.
I’m introduced and then shown my locker.
Nodding to them, I change and take a seat at the bench.
Several tvs come on, showing a fancier cage than I’m used to with an announcer in a tux welcoming everyone.
Lights only illuminate the cage, so I can’t tell what the rest of the space looks like.
Nicholas The Crusher is announced for the second fight.
It appears I’ve earned a nickname. The word crusher is written in cursive down the sides of my red shorts.
Two fighters leave the room, each escorted by a scantily clad beautiful woman, and lights briefly illuminate three judges sitting at a table near the edge of the cage. Like old school Vegas boxing matches, a woman in a bikini holds a sign with the number one above her head and circles the ring.
A referee enters the ring next, calling the two fighters to the center before they separate and take positions opposite each other, ready to begin. I watch intently when the bell goes off. This fight truly seems similar to any other MMA fight, which is a pleasant change from Fridays.
As the third round begins, one fighter joins me in my row. “First time?”
Looking up, I nod. This guy seems to be well built, and he’s around 6ft 3. His shorts are black and say knockout on them.
“MMA rules apply; it’s just three rounds instead of five. No death.”
“Thanks,” I grunt out as he leaves me alone again.
I can’t read the shorts through the tv but the guy in green wins. They return to the locker room and head for the showers as the cage is disinfected.
My fight is announced as a bulky guy in orange shorts nods at me.
I follow him through the door, where a brunette loops her arm through mine and leads me to the cage.
While the fanfare is happening, I stretch and look around but can’t make out anything further than 5ft from the cage.
The same referee ushers us to the center of the ring, going over the rules, which indeed are the same as an MMA fight.
I step back and wait for the bell. When it rings, I circle my opponent as he does the same.
We test each other out and then begin a genuine match.
I’ve missed legitimate fighting, so I relish the challenge.
My opponent is much more skilled than the Friday night fighters, and I truly enjoy the first proper fight I’ve had in six months.
I win my match by a tap out and follow my opponent back to the locker room to shower, and find the navy clad security guard waiting for me at my locker.
I’m back in my tux once I’m clean since I left my regular clothes in Patrick’s office.
The guard escorts me back up the stairs and through the door the other clients went through earlier.
There are a series of tinted glass rooms without doors, similar to the concrete basement, but much more luxurious.
Each room is as lavish as the dining room in reds, navy blues, and black.
All with low lighting, plush rugs, and a view of the cage.
We stop at a room partway down the hallway with Artur inside, so I walk over to him. “Ah, Nicholas. Good fight. Relax and have a drink or a bite to eat.”
Nodding, I step over to the counter to have a look.
Liquor, drugs, and various appetizers are laid out.
Spotting a bar fridge, I open it and find a sealed cold water bottle.
After downing half of it, I walk towards the tinted glass.
We aren’t very high up, just high enough to have a clear view of the match.
I take a front row seat in the plush velvet chair to watch the last fight of the night.
Knockout is extremely skilled, and I look forward to meeting him in the cage someday soon.
At least I have something to look forward to each week now.
Surprisingly, no one bothers me. I half listen to the conversations going on around me, memorizing names and occupations, but it’s boring everyday business talk, with no mention of Fitzgerald, drugs, or human trafficking.
When the match concludes, I follow Artur and the crowd back into the cocktail area.
The navy security guy is waiting and asks me to follow him out.
Taking the same route as earlier, we exit the building, and he drives me to the condo, opening the front door for me. Seems no one is aware I have a key yet.