Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
A couple of times, I could have sworn I was being watched, but it was hard to shed a year of paranoia à la Gentry.
Too much of his funk had rubbed off. I was determined to never again date a man I couldn’t trust. The string of men, or rather the lack of trustworthy men in my life, had become a standard not to uphold.
My grandfather had left my grandmother for another woman, I’d never even known my dad, and well, let’s say my luck with boyfriends had left scars.
The drive across the center of Portland turned into one long swearing fest, with two near accidents and one full stall. It was truly a miracle the fuel pump hadn’t completely failed yet. Said a lot for the tenacity of the Dodge. It didn’t give up. We had that in common.
It was close to midnight by the time I pulled into a quasi-parking spot.
I leaned back on the cracked vinyl headrest. What the fuck are you doing back here, Harlan, ran through my head. I looked forward to wiping the last twenty-four hours out of my memory with Gentry’s vodka, a bowl of ramen, and some classic noir, preferably with a femme fatale.
I was starving, and the last handful of cheese crackers did nothing to settle my stomach.
With a glance in the rearview, I ripped the elastic out of my long burgundy-tipped brown hair and re-smudged my dark brown eyeliner.
This wasn’t a goddamned fashion show, but I made an attempt to maintain standards. It was a club after all.
The door of the crap-mobile opened with its signature screech of metal on metal.
Grabbing my purse, I unpretzeled my Amazonian frame out of the car, then glanced at my cell.
It was almost dead because the car charger only worked if you jiggled it.
I jammed the phone into my pocket and tore a fingernail.
Jeezus. At least it wasn’t bleeding.
Chewing off the broken tip, I crossed the street.
The Signet Club represented my former life, which had pointed directly to a gravestone, Do not pass Go .
It had taken watching the kingpin of our last deal crumple in a bloody puddle of his own shit to smarten me up.
Ditching Gentry and pretty much everyone I knew had been the best decision I’d ever made, but endless hours standing behind a goddamned cash register turned every muscle-screaming step into a reminder to keep on the straight and narrow.
Since Mama died in jail, breaking the law had always been a specter.
But feeling the pain of an upright existence was better than ending up as a dumpster corpse, and I had no intention of dying anytime soon.
S quealing guitar and a throbbing drumbeat seeped out through the pumpkin-spice painted doors. The bitter sweetness of clove cigarettes lingered in the air from the few goths hanging outside the club entrance.
Fluffing my hair, I made eye contact with the broad-shouldered bouncer. His buzz cut was as fresh as he was.
“Cover is fifteen,” he said, his attention flicking from my chest to my face.
There was no way I was paying a cover. “I’ve got business with Tyre.
” I flashed my old Signet Club card and my driver’s license at him, along with a smirk that said, Fuck off .
The hulk of a man huffed and studied the photo and date but opened the door.
A fresh cloud of clove-scented smoke blew across my path before I made it over the threshold.
Coughing, I shot the smoker an angry look. The tall, lanky goth guy had his back pressed against the brick wall. His dark, shoulder-length hair swung back as he turned, revealing sunglasses, pale skin, and a chiseled jaw.
My pulse quickened as his long gloved fingers pressed a cigarette to a lush bottom lip.
He tilted his head, lingering on the sucking, then blew another cloud of smoke.
I paused on the threshold, my blood thrumming.
I hadn’t had decent sex in months, and my type didn’t come along often, but I liked guys who spelled trouble.
So I went in before I did something I’d regret.
In the gloom, my walk from the door to the bar turned into a stumbling weave between half-filled tables.
The throb of the bass pounded in my chest. A few emo-goths swayed on the sunken dance floor, and in front of the stage, some black-clads thrust air-fists in time to the beat that sadly didn’t smother the screeching vocals of the lead singer.
All surfaces of the club were flat black except for the mirror behind the narrow bar running the length of one side.
Downlights with centers shaped like the letter S illuminated circular patches on the streaky black paint.
I slid onto a bar stool and beckoned to Jules, the bartender, who was chatting up a guy at the other end.
Jules and I went back, way back, to places I’d rather forget.
I didn’t do the girlfriend thing. My life had never been stable enough, or so I explained.
The truth was, I’d learned early in life how getting too close to people was a great way to get screwed over.
Trust was a fool’s game. But Jules and I had hit it off.
We were both survivors in a world full of assholes.
The diamond in her nose caught the light. It was her version of an emergency cash stash. “Harlan! We weren’t expecting you.”
Jules knew I’d never set foot in this place unless I needed to see Tyre, but her curtness cut me.
It had killed me to ghost Jules, but there’d been no way I could get a clean start and still have ties to the old life.
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t expecting me either.
Slide me a brown, and tell Tyre I’m here. I’ve got something for him.”
“Already have, darlin’,” she replied, her dark braid bouncing as she popped the top off the ale I preferred.
Back when I still did illegal runs for cash, I’d worked for Tyre.
Somehow after all the sketchy stuff I’d done, I didn’t have a police record.
I think that’s another thing Gentry had liked about me.
I’d been squeaky clean but ready to party.
Now I was poor but law-abiding and forever marred by my descent into Portland’s underworld.
The beer went down cold but slammed hard on top of the cheddar crackers. Not a great choice for my sensitive stomach. Gut churning, I hopped off the stool and made my way to Tyre’s private table.
A shiver crawled up my spine, like someone walking over my grave. I glanced over my shoulder. The clove-cigarette guy had come in. He had sunglasses on, which was damned weird, but I could swear he was watching me .
I ignored him and slid into the booth beside Tyre.
“What’cha doing here, Harlan?” he asked, stretching out his neck.
He loomed like the brute of a male he was.
All sweaty, pumped muscle in a signature cheap white undershirt, which prominently displayed his perky nipples.
I’d called him out on it a while back, and he’d admitted it was only half for the chicks.
Shirts didn’t fit his gorilla arms unless he had them custom made, and he was too cheap for that.
Too cheap for a lot of things, like paying good people what they were worth.
“I’ve got a package for you.” I took Gentry’s pen out of my purse, peeling off a violet sugar candy that had glued itself to the note, and pushed it across the table. Violet had been my grandmother’s favorite and some memoires were worth keeping alive.
Tyre looked down at the ink-smeared hunk of gold, then up at me with wary brown eyes. A muscle twitched in his thick neck as he nodded at it. “Isn’t that Gentry’s?” he asked, his rubbery lips turning down into a frown.
“Who else do you know who has something that ugly?” I asked, rubbing my sticky fingers on my leggings.
Tyre sat back against the banquette and released a deep sigh. “Yeah, well… turns out… There’s no nice way to say this. The police called. Gentry is dead.”
“What? No, I just talked to him.” The air was hard to breathe as my brain raced to catch up.
Tyre nodded, and my stomach cramped. I struggled to form a sentence.
“What the hell happened?” Maybe it was shock, but the stark reality of it wasn’t sinking in.
I probably should have been crying or something.
I’d cried when my aunt died, but that was at her gravesite.
I rubbed my hand over my lips. Gentry hadn’t deserved to die.
I prayed it wasn’t by knives. He hated knives.
“They said the end was quick, as quick as it can be, anyway. Some kind of intestinal thing. They’re running tests. My contact down at the station said it might be poison. I got the call because I was the last number dialed on his phone.”
“Poison?” I pulled out my cell and looked at it dumbly.
It was dead. Like Gentry. Was he murdered?
It sure as hell wasn’t suicide. Gentry had no interest in leaving this world.
What poison would be accidental? Food? Drug overdose?
As far as I knew, he’d stopped using. I glanced at my phone, wondering if the police had called me too.
If it was poison, it must be fast-acting because I’d talked to him forty minutes ago.
Rubbing my forehead, I willed the dull headache away and latched on to the present to hold myself together. “Why did Gentry call you?” My voice cracked.
Tyre’s eyes were glassy, like he cared about Gentry. That was news. I didn’t think Tyre had a soft side.
“He was supposed to do a job tonight, but the voicemail was unintelligible. He was raving, maybe dying. I don’t know. He did say something about his pen, so I’m not touching that. Did he give it to you?”
“Nah, I picked it up.”
“So you didn’t see him, then?”
“He called and told me to pick the pen up. I have keys. He left me a note.”
“Keys, huh? So, you and Gentry got it on?” Tyre’s coffee-brown eyes searched my face. I kept my expression locked down.