Page 5 of Vicious Souls

At 9:45pm that evening, I climb into my car and park it a safe distance away. I know the guards will change at 10pm, and I’m hoping the habitual routine of the Murrays will help me discover who the mystery woman is. And true to form, just after the guards change, a taxi rolls up and said mystery woman walks through the gate and hurries into the taxi, with me hot on her trail.

4

DANTE

The taxi stops by the restroom at a gas station. I watch as the mystery woman emerges from the car, hefting her handbag against her shoulder as she pushes through the ancient door leading into the restrooms. My eyes remain trained on the door as the taxi drives away. What is she doing out here in the middle of a deserted lot in the middle of nowhere?

It’s a while before anyone exits from the restroom; I squint and sit up in my seat as I watch a different woman emerge from the restroom. A cloud of confusion falls across my eyes as I watch the woman; so familiar yet so different. It is nonetheless obviously the same woman that had come from Murray’s compound by taxi. The woman who exited the taxi wearing a dress and now wore tight jeans, a tank top that clings to her chest like a second skin, and a leather jacket. Her dark hair falls in luxurious waves down one shoulder, and her heels dig into the ground with purpose, like she was born to wear them. I could have been fooled had it not been for two things; the designer bag still hanging from her arm and the black skyscraper Manolos caressing her feet like gloves.

My phone screen lights up with my father’s name. I look up and watch as the woman crosses the street, hurrying into a remote building housing The Udder, keeping my eyes on the entry as I answer. I can’t afford to miss a beat.

“You have eyes on the kid?” my father asks.

“Not the kid. Someone that could lead us to the boy.”

“Listen to me, Dante.” There’s a note of urgency lacing his tone. “It’s more important than ever that you find the boy.” I quietly digest my father’s words, knowing something’s changed.

“What’s happened?”

“Maddog just passed. If we’re to have a chance, it’s now or never.”

I realize the note of urgency in my father’s voice is not that, but rather desperation… and a sense of sadness. Regardless of their differences, Maddog had once been a brother to my father – that had to mean something to him. But ultimately, business is business. My father had taught himself to isolate his feelings and wrap them in a cocoon to shove past every fire that could possibly ever torch him. Few things could break him.

“They’re going to be on higher alert now,” I remind him.

“That’s why you have to make your move soon. The boy is young, restless. He’s still child enough that he’ll slip up and make a mistake.”

I end the call and walk briskly toward the building, taking note of all the vehicles parked in the empty space on the side of the relic that had once been home to a successful soft drink manufacturer. The building has now become The Udder, one of half a dozen illegal underground clubs that operate around town at any given time. It is home to anyone and anything under the sun. From those seeking to move their illicit drugs, to those looking for a spare kidney, or those wanting to try their luck at a hand of high stakes poker.

Which is where the mystery lady is, getting settled at a corner table, a stack of chips piled high in front of her. I sit at the bar and swivel in my stool until I face the crowd of revelers. About half a dozen bikers are crowded around a pool table, some yuppie types who have discarded their ties are throwing darts into a wall, and others are enjoying the live band nestled in another corner of the room. I have never seen so much chaos in one room, but I suppose that’s the draw for these people; the thrill of the unknown.

“What are you havin’, sugar?” The bartender’s syrupy southern accent assails my senses as I continue to watch the mayhem unfolding on the floor. I throw her a casual glance over my shoulder and ask for a gin and tonic. She scrunches up her nose and rolls her eyes at my request; one does not hit the underground to settle for the soft stuff.

“Trying to stay out of trouble tonight, honey,” I explain. “Otherwise wifey will have me out on my ass quicker than I could put the key in the door.”

The bartender laughs and swipes her cloth across the bar as she moves toward the next customer. I cast my eyes around the room, trying to stay inconspicuous as I observe the crowd. My eyes roam back to the poker table where mystery woman sits, raking in chips. She’s the only woman at the table, and she’s obviously the most qualified poker player. She is also the most beautiful woman in the room, a fact which is drawing onlookers like bees to a honeypot.

I’ve always observed her from a distance, never close enough or in sufficient lighting to quite make out her features. This is possibly the closest I will ever get to her, and I watch her through the cigarette smoke swirling around the room.

Her hair is long and luxurious, falling in soft black waves down her back, her bare arms bronzed with a sun kissed tan. Her eyes, large and feline, are dark and focused as she concentrates on the cards. Her lips, full and sultry, are perfectly plump and naturally pink. And she has a tell. It’s obvious but no help to any of the other players. She bites the corner of her bottom lip, which should’ve been enough to give her away, but with her looks and body, this one act has the opposite effect on all the other players. I watch as she lets her lip go, lifts her eyes to one of her opponents, then winks at him sexily before she drops her hand on the table.

“Another?” The bartender asks, coming to look over my shoulder. I regard her carefully. A suspicious bartender is the last thing I need.

“Bourbon, neat.”

“And wifey?”

“She’ll let me back in eventually,” I say, giving her a lazy smile.

When she sets the glass down, she leans forward on the counter, stretching her arms and twining her fingers, then follows my eyes to the poker table, where a healthy audience has gathered.

“Biggest drawcard we have in this place,” she says, looking at mystery woman.

“She a regular?”

“Thought you said you were married,” she frowns.

“I am,” I lie. “She looks familiar. Think she had a winning streak at another club across town a while back.” More lies. The bartender doesn’t know whether or not to believe me.

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