Sucker bet - James Swain [85]
Bill’s room was on the seventh floor. Valentine opened the door with Bill’s key, stuck his head in, and said, “Anyone home?” then went in.
Fresh flowers were on the night table, and a mint creased the pillow. His son pilfered it. Valentine said, “Put it back.”
“But, Pop, you said he wasn’t coming back here.”
“Doesn’t matter. You didn’t pay for it.”
Gerry put the mint back. Opening the closet, Valentine spotted the safe above the clothes rack. From his wallet he removed the slip of paper with the combination Bill had given him. He punched it in and heard the safe make a whirring sound. Inside he found a .45 Glock and a spare clip.
“So, what do you think?” his son said.
The gun felt good and solid in his hand, and he slipped it into his jacket pocket. He knew what his son was asking. Make a commitment, Pop. Say yes right now.
“Something’s bugging me,” Valentine said.
“What?”
“Why this sudden urge to go legit?”
His son didn’t flinch.
“I don’t want my kid knowing I was a criminal.”
It was the right answer, only Valentine wasn’t sold. This was Gerry he was talking to.
“One thing at a time,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“First you sell your bar, pay me back, then you relocate, then you start working for me.” He paused and looked Gerry square in the eye. “As in, I’m the boss. Understood?”
His son dutifully nodded his head.
“Understood,” he replied.
39
Club Hedo was located on a narrow street in South Beach, the windows papered with eight-by-ten glossies of naked lovelies. TOPLESS, BOTTOMLESS, TWO-DRINK MINIMUM. A meanlooking bouncer sat on a stool outside the door.
Ray Hicks found a parking spot at the block’s end. Mr. Beauregard sat beside him, listening to the radio. Leaving the hospital, Mr. Beauregard had managed to snatch a green surgeon’s hat off a passing tray, which he now wore comically on his head.
Hicks stared at his friend. Mr. Beauregard’s previous owner had neutered him, but Hicks had long suspected that the surgeon’s knife had not cut deep enough, and a vestige of manhood still remained. Mr. Beauregard loved women. He loved to stare at their pictures, or when they walked into Hick’s trailer. The fact that he’d never acted on these impulses meant nothing. He had them, and that was the problem.
Hicks shut the radio off. Mr. Beauregard flapped his gums disapprovingly.
“We are going across the street,” Hicks said. “There will be women inside. Naked women. You must not touch them. Is that understood? You must not touch them.”
The look on Mr. Beauregard’s face was forlorn. Hicks had once found a Playboy in his cage. All the naked pictures had been pawed until the colors had faded. The chimp let out a sigh.
“Thank you,” Hicks said.
They crossed the street, looking no stranger than any of the dozens of bizarre couples Hicks had spotted driving through South Beach. The bouncer leapt off his stool.
“You can’t come in here!”
“Deal with him, Mr. Beauregard.”
Even in his weakened state, Mr. Beauregard was more powerful than any man, and the bouncer sailed over the hood of a parked car and hit the pavement with a dull thud. Mr. Beauregard thumped his chest triumphantly.
The club was cavelike, the patrons bathed in fruity-colored strobe lights. Hicks walked through the beaded entrance. Up on-stage, three naked women were dancing. Mr. Beauregard let out a primal yell.
It was a frightening sound, and the patrons dived under tables or into the johns or out the front door. From behind the bar, a man in a ruffled tuxedo shirt ran out, swinging a baseball bat. Mr. Beauregard took it from him, then whacked him.
“Give me that, Mr. Beauregard.”
The chimp tossed him the bat. Hicks crossed the room. A smoky mirror hung on the back wall, and he hit it with the bat. Glass rained down, exposing an office on the other side. Hicks and Mr. Beauregard entered through the door.
At a desk sat a startled Hispanic with his pants off. Beneath the desk hid a naked