The Quickie - James Patterson [35]
A steady thumping rose from the raw concrete stairwell at his side, as if blasting were going on in the depths of the earth.
“Lewis spinning tonight?” I asked.
The bouncer shook his huge head almost imperceptibly.
Did he understand English? Did he automatically know I was a cop? I felt suddenly very glad Mike and the other guys were just a yell away.
“Is it a private party, or can I get in?” I said.
Private party, I prayed, glancing down into the black of the stairwell. I had no problem with going back to the van a failure. We could figure something else out. I was leaning toward a nap at that point. Or maybe a three-week vacation out of the country.
“Depends,” the bouncer finally spoke.
“On what?” I said.
The bouncer lowered his shades and adjusted himself in a way that made me glad I hadn’t eaten any breakfast.
“On how bad you want in,” he said.
“That’s really romantic,” I said as I turned on my heel. “But there’s nothing on this earth I want that bad.”
“Come back, come back,” the unsavory bouncer said, booming nasty laughter as he unclipped the velvet rope. “Don’t get so testy, white girl. Just a little joke. Bouncer humor. Welcome to Wonderground.”
Chapter 51
I WAS ALMOST READY to draw Scott’s gun for protection by the time I made it to the bottom of the treacherously dark stairwell. Instead, I took a deep breath. Then I stepped toward the amplified throbbing, passing through a doorway curtained with crystal beads.
On the other side, I stared, amazed, at the flat-screen TVs, the expensive lighting, the packed center bar that looked like it was made of black glass.
The female bartenders behind it wore black rubber cat suits and fake breasts. Heck, they might have been transvestites. The Bronx really was back.
I had to admit, I was kind of impressed. This could have been Manhattan. The Ordonez brothers had done their degradation research.
Among the predominantly Hispanic crowd was a well-represented contingent of upscale white people. They were sweating on the dance floor, faces rapt with foolish smiles as they spun neon-colored glow sticks in both hands.
Above gyrating dancers, in a steel cage suspended from the ceiling, a naked dwarf wearing angel wings was banging on the bars with a white nightstick. Who thinks this shit up? I wondered.
“I can feel your energy,” a bloated, middle-aged bond-trader type said as he spilled off the dance floor and tried to embrace me.
I tried to stiff-arm him away, and when that didn’t work, I lightly kneed him between the legs.
“Now you can — maybe,” I said as he backed off in a hurry. I fled toward the bar.
“Twelve dollars,” the bartender said after I ordered a Heineken.
Look at that, I thought, coughing up the money, they even had Manhattan prices.
Maybe thirty seconds later, a short, pudgy Hispanic man with a goatee smiled and wedged himself in beside me.
“I’m the candy man,” he said.
I stared at him. The candy man? Was that a new pickup line? I’d been out of it for a while. Actually, to tell the truth, nice Catholic girl that I was, I’d never actually been in it.
He placed an ivory-colored pill in my hand. I didn’t think it was a Sweet Tart.
“Twenty,” he said.
I gave it back to him and watched him shrug his shoulders and leave. The Ecstasy dealer had to be working for the Ordonezes, right? But I lost him when he stepped into the laser-light kaleidoscope of the dance floor.
I looked around for either Ordonez. I scanned the A-list booths at the rear of the dance floor behind the DJ. The strobes and violent waves of bass weren’t exactly helping my concentration. Like it or not, I had to get closer.
I was skirting the far edge of the dance floor to avoid any more unwanted advances, when one of the doors in the concrete wall beside me opened.
Victor Ordonez stepped out, staring right into my eyes. Before I could move, an iron hand was wrapped around the back of my neck.