Part 9 (1/2)

Tony thought for a moment. He jammed the money into his coat's inner pocket and placed both hands on the steering wheel. Snow covered the winds.h.i.+eld, so he turned on the wipers. He stared ahead. Where did he go from here? He had a cell phone and a number that could be a lead if he pursued it enough. But how? He usually had something more to go on when he hunted down people, a place they hung out, an address, a photo even. He had squat on this one. Tony did have a friend at the telephone company. That would be a start, he supposed. And he had a name. A little digging might at least give him a direction. He also knew about the Internet and sites where all you needed was a name to help you find someone. That might be the way to go. Hang out in an Internet cafe somewhere and do a little investigating.

But...

His pa.s.senger sat in his seat, staring out at the grey morning. The wipers did a quick one-two across the winds.h.i.+eld, clearing it of snow.

”Yes, by Christ we're moving now,” Fred muttered. ”Really speeding along here.”

Tony ignored the man. It was his dream that suddenly took a hold of his attention. Premonitions were one thing, but he had a strong sense of direction with this one. It was really there, for whatever screwy reason. A golf course. He could not shake the image of a golf course from his mind and truthfully, with the way his morning was motoring by, it seemed like the best thing he could do.

”Whenever you're ready...” Fred said.

More snow gathered on the winds.h.i.+eld. One-two. The wipers swished it all away.

West. The country was under a polar blanket of snow, but out west, Vancouver west, he heard that it rarely snows at all. Something to do with being on the coast. He even saw folks on TV playing golf out there in January. Golf! Now, there was a sign! But how the h.e.l.l was he supposed to get all the way out to British Columbia in the thick of winter? Go west. But, Jesus, did that ever feel right. He considered going the other direction but a feeling in his chest, right above his heart, made him think something would burst out of there if he deviated from heading west. Was that logical? But how to explain his hunch to Freak boy was another question.

”You ever been out west?” Tony abruptly asked Fred.

”We're going west?”

”Considering it.”

”Why west?”

A scowl came across Tony's face. ”I have a hunch.”

”A hunch?” Fred said with an unmistakable you're s.h.i.+ttin' me right? tone underneath it.

”Yeah,” Tony answered, ready to tell the man to bite it hard if the flack was forthcoming. He didn't want to tell the guy he didn't like to fly. Hated the thought.

”We'd best get going, then,” was all Fred said.

That brought a look from Tony. Fred was staring ahead, watching the wipers flick back and forth, back and forth. Tony waited a moment more and realized Freak Boy wasn't going to say anything. A week. It would take more than a week to get to B.C. by car. Maybe Fred would help with the driving. Tony would ask him later. Right now, the less interaction he had with the man the better.

”Get your seatbelt on,” he instructed the man, reaching around for his own belt and then placing both hands on the steering wheel.

Fred came out of a daze. He watched Tony buckle up, examined his own chest, then the winds.h.i.+eld, and finally reached around and got a hold of his own seatbelt.

West.

We're going west, the words came to Tony, and disappeared in that cringing sound of wiper rubber on winds.h.i.+eld.

Chapter 11.

Wednesday night, and Hillman was getting into the music, his big shoulders moved to the beat like a hip-hop dancer. It was his lucky break that he got the call for work, and what a job! Anytime he had to watch over a bunch of half-drunks with a stage full of naked or near-naked babes on it wasn't really work to Hillman. This was paid vacation with a license to smack people around. And smacking around drunken b.a.s.t.a.r.ds was the best if you were into smacking people around to begin with. They were easy to goad into taking the first swing, and after that, it was all game on. The fights were usually over much faster than they took to start, mostly because Hillman would strike to kill. He didn't give a f.u.c.k. If someone was throwing a punch at him, he would reply. His hands were toughened by years of construction work and punching a leather bag he had hanging in his apartment. When his fists connected with flesh, there was a distinct stoppage in play. Hillman could drop anyone with one punch. He'd like to take home Suzie, and drop her with one punch. That was one friends.h.i.+p he would love to work on. He reached into his jean pocket and discreetly adjusted his stiffening buddy there. Thoughts of Suzie were making his second-in-command come to dazed attention.

Boomer watched Hillman out of the corner of his eye as he strolled around the club, doubling as a waiter when need be. He didn't like him in the least. The bouncer wished that 'the House' was available for tonight's s.h.i.+ft, but the man had a bad cold, and listening to him h.o.a.rk and sniffle on the phone made Boomer wince. There was no other choice after that. It was Hillman or no one. And if it was no one and something happened in the club, he would never hear the end of it from Gary.

His route took him from the coat check room to the outer edge of tables, along the tables to a pause at the bar and a slow walk on past the door to Gary's office. He had a good view of things, and he didn't have to make small talk with Roy Hillman. The man was a big b.a.s.t.a.r.d, almost as big as Boomer himself, with an equally-sized ego. Boomer heard the man was once a rugby player but got tossed out of the league as he liked to enrage the other players to get them off their game. That included, as far as the stories went, Hillman jamming his thumbs up opposing players' a.s.ses in scrimmages. If he ever tried something like that on Boomer, the bouncer would quickly reciprocate with his size-thirteen boot up the man's a.s.safter breaking both the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's thumbs. Even the man's face was skewed up. His eyes were too big for his face, as if he were constantly choking on something.

Sensing he was being looked at, Hillman broke away from Suzie on stage and gave a cool what's up flick of his head.

Boomer ignored him. He was no comrade of his and did not want any such idea manifesting itself in Hillman's orcish skull. Then, on second thought, he made his way over to where Hillman was standing, who asked him a question.

”Just wave then,” Boomer informed him, ”but no jerking off in the toilet. You got that, man? And I f.u.c.king mean it.”

Boomer liked the shocked expression on Hillman's face, knowing he pounded the nail hard on the head. He could read these unprofessional p.r.i.c.ks like bad books. At least Hillman could be embarra.s.sed at times. If it were Adam Lorne, the man would have probably offered Boomer a stroke or two. The thought made the big bouncer grimace. The people he had to work with. Why did House have to be sick? And part of him was sorry for not being able to get Levin for the night. Probably in some jail somewhere for kicking the s.h.i.+t out of someone. He could probably work with him. Levin hadn't completely gone mad-dog just yet, but he had informed them only yesterday morning that he was heading out of town. Heading to Vancouver on a job. Gary didn't ask any other questions, knowing that Levin was a freelancer. He just pa.s.sed it along to Boomer that Levin was unavailable. It was probably best he was out of Halifax for a while anyway.

The music reached a chorus, and Suzie began gyrating around one of the poles on the tongue stage, her legs flas.h.i.+ng out and scissoring up and down. She was a natural athlete, that one. Beautiful body, too.

Boomer scowled at Hillman. ”Hear me?”

”Right, no problem,” Hillman answered in an embarra.s.sed voice.

Boomer didn't believe him, but he nodded grimly and moved on. Jesus, he hated working with the freaks. He hoped Danny got lucky tonight to justify the pain he was enduring here.

Hillman watched the bouncer go, his shock lingering in his head and chest. His eyes found Suzie grinding her pelvis up and down against the stage pole. His embarra.s.sment was soon forgotten.

Boomer counted fourteen customers in the Beacon as he stopped by the coat check. Three of them were sitting right up in pervert's row. If no one got rowdy, then it would be a peaceful night, and that was just fine to him. It was uncommon to get so many on a Wednesday. Suzie's kibbles 'n bits brought them in any weather.

As if on cue, the outside door opened, letting in a gust of wind.

Along with the Stickman.

The man gave a wink and a nod at Boomer. Stickman paid the coat check fee and shrugged out of a leather coat. He wore a matching black turtle-neck underneath, which accentuated the man's bulk. He was short, but then so were some of the toughest walls.

”Cold out dere, brudder,” the Stickman said happily. ”Is whatserface on tonight?”

The scowl on Boomer face showed up too quick. ”Whatser face has a name.”

”Suzie? I tink,” the Stickman tried, appearing to think very hard on the subject.

Boomer did not want to let him in, but he'd already taken his coat. He flicked his head in the direction of the inner door. Stickman nodded and winked again at Boomer, and then he entered the bar. The tension in his body told Boomer all he needed to know about the little s.h.i.+t's presence. It was not good news. He wished he had Danny Boy around to watch his back instead of Hillman.

In the bar, Stickman caught Suzie's eye almost immediately. It was strange how the woman picked up on that. He supposed it was his animal magnetism or some s.h.i.+t. Maybe his pheromones or whatever they called them were acting up, and she could smell him. Suzie was already naked, and must've caught some of that wind from the outside. She looked all perky. A part of him thought it was too bad. The Stickman loved to see them undress up there. He went to the bar and ordered a Keith's Beer from a mouse of a man behind the counter. He then found a place to sit with his back to the bar and sat down.

And watched.

Anyone seeing him would have thought he was enjoying the show, but after the first hour, Stickman was still on his first beer, and had seen all he needed to know. There were a few too many people in here for what he wanted to do, but he wasn't too concerned about the patrons. He was interested in the burly figure standing by the far wall, who was watching the long-haired brunette called Alexia that came on after Suzie finished her act. Alexia pranced around the tongue stage as if it were electrified, and even looked in Stickman's direction a couple of times. So did Boomer. When Stickman caught their eyes, he calmly winked back. Alexia didn't seem to mind. The Boom was another matter. Boomer was the walker. The other bouncer was stationary. Stickman did not see Mr. Tigh around, so he figured the manager was in his office. He doubted he ever took the night off. And why would he with all the talent he had up on the stage? Man would be an idiot! All in all, there were three men visible to the Stickman. Two of them were threats. The bartender did not seem so unless he had a bat underneath the counter. He thought about the pair of bouncers. He wanted to catch them apart.

Divide and conquer.

He waited. He had his walls erected about him, or, as Stickman liked to think of them, his ”force fields”, invisible boundaries surrounding him that were sensitive enough to detect anyone approaching him. Ninja Bill had taught him a thing or two about elevating his sixth sense ability, his sensitivity as to who was inside his personal s.p.a.ce. Most people thought such things were bulls.h.i.+t, but Ninja Bill demonstrated to the Stickman quite convincingly that such preconceptions could be fatal, especially to an attacker thinking he was sneaking up on a would-be victim. What was incredibly freaky was utilizing such abilities in fights where a person couldn't see. Blind fighting, Ninja Bill called it. The Stickman had learned quite a bit from Ninja Bill. Stickman had learned to elevate his ability to a level where, when he looked, almost always he would catch Boomer's eyes on his person. Call it paranoia, but Stickman's sensitivity to such things had saved his bacon a number of times. So, while he appeared outwardly calm to most, the invisible fields surrounding him were crackling with energy, and were as sensitive as a spider's freshly spun web.