Part 2 (1/2)
”A saw? No, sorry, man. Let's play that again.” The sound that issued from the radio sounded like an old dog coughing unbearably hard, almost as if the thing had just taken its first draw on a b.u.t.t when no one was looking.
”Whaddaya think?” The DJ blared, sounding like he was perpetually happy seven days a week. ”Gimme a call on this gorgeous morning, and you could be seeing these guys in concert on Sat.u.r.day night! Caller number 3! What's your name?”
”Chisel!”
”Your name is chisel?”
”No, my name's Bruce.”
”Oh,” the DJ picked up the pace. ”You want me to play it again?”
”G.o.d, no, you've played it enough already. It's a chisel. Any carpenter would know that sound.”
A symphony of horns and strings boomed over the speakers. ”You're right!” DJ Jeff. The name came to Tony as he navigated his way through traffic. ”You've won man, how's that?”
”Jeff,” Bruce asked in a snarky voice. ”What are the tickets for?”
”You don't know?”
”Naw man, only just tuned in.”
”Oh,” the admission caught DJ Jeff off guard. ”Well, it's a concert in the Palace on Sat.u.r.day night with-”
”Bayside Legs?”
Tony didn't know the name.
”Yeah,” DJ Jeff said in a perky voice. ”You like those guys?”
”Aww, can't go. Too busy. Can I get a t-s.h.i.+rt instead?” Bruce informed DJ Jeff in a bored voice.
”A t-s.h.i.+rt?” this stupefied DJ Jeff, but only for a moment. ”No, you can't have a t-s.h.i.+rt. I don't even have any t-s.h.i.+rts.”
”Whaddaya mean? You guys always have t-s.h.i.+rts to give away.”
”I don't have any now. We're out, and it's the wrong promotion, and why am I talking to you about this, anyway? It's concert tickets, Bruce!”
Tony had to agree. Bruce could scalp them if he really wanted to.
”Well, I can't go to the concert,” Bruce announced over the airwaves in a stand-offish tone.
”Who am I, your counselor? I got Melissa on the other line here who's begging to get these tickets. Melissa, you hearing this?”
”Sure am!” a giggly voice answered promptly. Someone who took in way too much sugar in the morning.
”Whoops, sorry, Bruce. I just hung up on Bruce,” DJ Jeff reported in a not-too-upset voice. ”It was an accident, man. I was going to arrange a deal between you and Melissa ... but you know what I'm going to do now, Melissa?”
”No,” Melissa said with hope in her voice.
”I'm going to hang up on you too!”
DJ Jeff did just that and then switched to commercial, promising to give the concert tickets away in the next hour. Tony smiled when DJ Jeff did as he said would do. The man was a smart a.s.s. He would've hung up, too. Some callers were just too d.a.m.n ungrateful. His thoughts then turned to wondering just how many weird calls DJs like Jeff got in the run of a s.h.i.+ft. Probably a lot. It wouldn't be the job of choice for Tony. He'd be too abrasive with the weird ones. Still, it would be cool to just sit back and play tunes all day long.
That pleasant image hung with him until he pulled into the Beacon's parking lot. Tigh was in. His ”p.u.s.s.y bait”, as he called it, was parked in plain view, a '08 blue Camaro with a fresh coat of snow on its hood and roof. Tony thought the man was a strange one to venture out to the Beacon just hours after the place shut down. The Beacon was a glowering touch of men's entertainment in Dartmouth. Women's groups, religious a.s.sociations and even block parents had successfully closed down all other bars opened up by Tigh in the past. It was a hard town to keep a strip bar alive in, and why he would even keep trying for one was beyond Tony. The Beacon had lasted the longest, however, but it was a month to month thing. Tony really didn't care for the strip shows. He never even rented the hard core stuff from the adjoining DVD shop next door. He wasn't an angel as he had rented something a while back from the corner-store, back-room collection. The p.o.r.no was a group of amateurs performing ”the best amateur ride” or something to that tune. There were pictures of all of the 20 something young women on the back of the jacket, and Tony remembered the DVD promising a bonus episode. It was either a Sat.u.r.day or Friday night. He rented it.
The bonus was a rape.
It wasn't a set-up. It seemed too natural for that. Too d.a.m.n terrifying. A van had pulled up to a mini-skirted young lady of nineteen or so, and the driver asked for directions while two others snuck out the back. They had her in the van in a blink, kicking and screaming a little too wildly for Tony's liking.
Then one of the men brought out the pliers.
Tony didn't watch the rest. He turned off the player and just sat quietly, watching the blackness of the television screen and thinking. He felt sick and ashamed about a little voice wanting him to turn the machine back on. He didn't, however. He just sat there and thought and thought, the knowledge poisoning him that by renting the piece-of-s.h.i.+t video, he was funding more of the same. The wondering never stopped: what had she done? What could she have done? Hadn't there been papers or something for her to sign her consent to distribute the DVD? Or had someone forced her to sign with the pliers? Perhaps it had been an act after all.
And had she finally got home that night?
Maybe they hadn't even allowed her that. Maybe they had just killed her afterwards. Tony hoped to h.e.l.l they hadn't. He would have liked to get his hands on the producers of such filth. He had his own set of pliers, and he could be inventive when inspired.
Since then Tony had no use for any medium of p.o.r.nography.
The Beacon was a concrete bunker of a building, ready for any bomb blast. A dull white sign announced ”The Beacon” as if viewed through a fog. The sign was supposed to be ditched for something with a little more flash and bang. Neon was mentioned in certain circles, and then there were the newer digital signs where you could program in your own little slogan underneath. Nothing had been done yet, however, and Tony felt perhaps Tigh preferred the low profile. Ask anyone where to go for exotic dancers in Dartmouth and Halifax, and they would give directions to the Beacon. Word of mouth was the best advertising, and Tigh got plenty of that with the talent he employed. Apparently, he didn't feel the need to slap the protest groups across the b.a.l.l.s any more than he had to.
The door leading into the den of gyrating flesh and pouting lips was made of stylish oak, and a single diamond shaped window was set in the upper centre of its surface. Tony knew that the hinges and frame were reinforced with iron, and two more iron bars braced the portal from within when needed. Tigh fondly called it a holy door as most new employees would mutter ”Jesus Christ” upon seeing the fortification. Nothing short of an armoured vehicle was coming through there. Going through the concrete wall would be easier. No other entrance could be seen from the front. No windows were visible. A pa.s.ser-by would not really discern the place as a strip bar on the edge of the city. It looked more like a windowless storage building with an adult movie shop next door.
Tony parked the Mustang by Tigh's Camaro, smiling as he did so. It was like throwing dog s.h.i.+t onto someone's immaculate front lawn. The beast coughed and died as Tony withdrew his keys from the ignition. He would've parked somewhere else if it wasn't business, somewhere like a block or two away. But this was only going to be a short visit, and his mother was waiting. He would keep it short. He really didn't want to a.s.sociate too much with Mr. Tigh. Word was around that he was a high-ranking lieutenant for some European based mob on the Eastern Seaboard.
He slammed his door as hard as he could and regretted it instantly. Something metallic yawned painfully, and splinters of rust sprinkled the snow covered pavement underneath the beast. Tony exhaled, willing his annoyance away until later. With his luck, the door would probably remind him of its trouble by falling off. He forced that thought away as well. He didn't need the jinx.
He marched within three feet of the door when it opened up for him and was replaced by a wall.
”Morning Tony,” the monster called Danny greeted him. The big black man's eyes looked as if they ached for sleep, as dark as the boots and jeans that he wore. An off-white s.h.i.+rt stretched over his ma.s.sive frame, untucked and covering up the leather belt that he usually wore. Danny was the kind of man who tried to clean himself up as best as he could, considering the hours he kept. Tony thought the man looked like he had just gotten in from some far off war, and figured maybe he had done just that.
Danny nodded at the ball cap. ”Where you get that?”
”Present. From the Things Shop maybe.”
”Mmmmn,” Danny nodded again. He still blocked the entrance, watching Tony with a very sleepy set of eyes.
”Mr. Tigh in?”
”MmmHmm,” Danny acknowledged. ”But he's a little p.i.s.sed off at you, I think.”
This was news. ”p.i.s.sed at me? Why's he p.i.s.sed at me?”
”The job you did on Badger.”
Tony s.h.i.+fted his weight onto his right leg. ”What about the job I did on Badger? I took care of him last night like he wanted.”
”A little rough weren't ya?” Danny said, those sleepy eyes unblinking now and boring into Tony's own, seeking a flicker of a lie.
”Rough?”