The rest of the floor area was taken up with tables, each with a lamp and a flower, and sofas, armchairs and low tables flanking the walls and making cozy nooks in the corners.
Sitting at the bar, at the far end of the room, were three guys. They were all looking at me. The guy in the middle was big, about six-six, with massive arms and legs and a back like an aircraft carrier. He swung slowly round on his stool to watch me. His head was big but his eyes were small and close together, making him look simian.
On his right was a man in his late thirties. He had short hair, tattoos on his face and a pencil mustache. He had that look about him that some men get when they’ve lived a long time with violence, like they could have grown wise, but instead they’d gone bad, poisoned by all the hatred in their souls.
On his left was a guy in a suit. He was tall and lean and his clothes were expensive. His hair was cut real short, the way Buddhists and ex-Russian military wear it. I figured him for the latter.
The gorilla said, “We are closed.”
“I’m here from Allied Security, Van Dreiver sent me.”
“We’re still closed.”
“I’m not here for a drink. I have an appointment to see Joe Chamorro.”
The simian, who I figured was Joe, jerked his head at the pencil mustache. Mustache slid down from his stool and crossed the room to stand in front of me, looking up into my face. He’d had acne when he was a kid and his skin was pockmarked and oily.
“You don’t hear so good? The man said the place is closed.”
I felt a small pellet of hot anger in my gut. I spoke quiet and calm.
“I hear fine. But repeating that it’s closed doesn’t change the fact that I have an appointment to see Joe Chamorro at six PM. Right now it’s six PM. Are you Joe Chamorro?”
He cocked his head to one side. “I ain’t Joe Chamorrow, but...”
I didn’t let him get any further. “Then get out of my face and get Joe Chamorro for me.”
He closed his mouth and looked back at the gorilla. I jerked my head at him and said, “You, you’re Chamorro, right?”
He nodded once. His face was impassive. I pushed the mustache aside and crossed the room to stand in front of the ape-man.
“We have an appointment, at six. I’m here. You want to offer me a job or you want to measure dicks?”
If he didn’t like my tone his face didn’t show it. “Dick said you been in special ops. That true?”
“For the last eight years, Special Air Service, Iraq, Afghanistan and other places I can’t mention.”
Mustache had come up beside me and was looking like he wanted to gut me right there. I ignored him and Joe asked: “You ever kill anyone?”
I narrowed my eyes at him like he was stupid. “That was my job.”
He grunted. “How many, one, two?”
“I lost count, Joe. Ask your barman how many drinks he’s served in the last eight years.”
There was a trace of a smile on his fat face, and his small eyes seemed to sneer. “We get fights here sometimes. People pull knives, break bottles. I don’t want no exhibition martial arts. I need a guy who can finish it fast and put the brawlers on the street. Can you do that?”
I sighed. I was getting bored. “Yeah, I can do that.”
Mustache gave me a shove on the shoulder. “Eh, you watch your tongue, gringo. You talkin’ to your boss. You watch your fockin’ mouth!”
Joe was still watching me. The pellet of anger in my gut was getting hotter and I was running out of patience. I spoke quiet.
“Tell your pet monkey that if he touches me again I’ll break his hand. Now, I am about through with this piss-ass interview. You have a job for me, make me an offer. You want to play tough guy, go play in the sandpit, boss.”
Mustache stepped toward me, planning to thump me with both hands on my chest. I took his right wrist in my right hand, seized his fingers with my left and made like I was breaking kindling for the fire. I heard three of his four knuckles crack. His mouth opened to let out a scream. I took a small step with my right foot, and smashed him in the jaw with my right fist. I heard that crunch too.
As he went down I stepped behind him and supported his weight long enough to pull the Glock from his waistband. Then I let him drop. I could see the alarm now in the Russian’s face and in Joe’s simian eyes. I ejected the magazine and put the pistol on the counter.
“Are we done with the bullshit? Or do I have to put you two in hospital too?”
Joe turned to the Russian, who gave a small nod. He turned back to me.
“OK, you got the job. You start tonight, nine o’clock. Be on time. First week you man the door. After that we see.”
“Yeah?” I shifted my gaze to the Russian. “So do I get paid, or am I doing this because Joe is such a nice guy?”
The Russian spoke for the first time. “One thousand bucks a week. We declare five hundred. The other five is tax free bonus. You on probation for one month. After that we see about promotion. Tonight we sign contract.”
“Agreed.” I showed him the magazine and set it next to the Glock. Mustache was beginning to moan on the floor. “Be advised, next time one of your clowns comes at me, I’ll break more than his fingers.”
He closed his eyes and gave his head a small shake.
“We must make small test. Now you are in family and Mr. Rusanov will make sure you are treat with respect.”
The next week was a drag. Not much happened and Joe’s men stayed largely out of my way. Most of my work consisted of standing at the door watching for people with average bank accounts who were going to be a pain in the ass for people with above-average bank accounts. Occasionally there was a bit of pushing and shoving, but there were no major incidents, until Saturday night.
Saturday night Mr. Rusanov showed up at twelve midnight in a black Bentley. He had three girls with him whose combined ages probably almost equaled his. His car was preceded by a dark blue Audi and followed by another. Two guys in suits climbed out of each Audi and stood around the Bentley while the chauffeur opened the door for Rusanov and his harem. Then the whole entourage proceeded across the parking lot to the door. There the girls went in with two of the bodyguards and Rusanov, and the other two stopped to talk to me.
He was sixty or sixty-five, in good shape, with big shoulders and hard blue eyes under a three-hundred-dollar haircut. His voice was the kind of tectonic disturbance that causes tsunamis. He rumbled, “Bauer.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hear good things about you. I like.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tonight maybe I have visitor. I don’t want visitor. He is Mexican motherfucker, Gregorio McDonald. He want my club. You make go away. OK?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he rumbled a laugh and repeated, “Good.”
He went inside and for the next two hours did the kinds of things rich bad people do when they don’t feel like watching TV or playing Scrabble. Then at two AM a red Ferrari pulled into the lot, followed by a Chevy van. I knew what the van meant, and suddenly felt acutely the loss of my C8 Carbine and my P226.
The growl of the Ferrari died and a man in a cream suit with elaborate cowboy boots climbed out. From the other side emerged a perfect woman who had apparently been lobotomized shortly before having her face pumped full of Botox. They approached at a relaxed pace, he stroking his thin mustache, she clinging to his arm, watching the night with empty eyes. I blocked the door with my body. His face hardened. Before he could say anything I asked him: