The Hitman's Angel(2)
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, Hank hip-bumps a door and the lecherous cheering grows slightly louder. We’re in some kind of dressing room area. It’s dark. There’s a row of lockers and a girl hunched over on a bench, smoking a joint. She gives me a lazy once-over and gets back to puffing. I don’t blame her. She’s trying to make a living and well-paying jobs around here are scarce. I know from the years my mother and I spent living in motels, her struggling to stay legit while I went to school. Until Hank came along and promised to take care of us and she was too tired and broke to say no.
There’s another group of half-nude women up ahead and Hank propels me by the scruff of my neck into their midst, snarling, “Put her in something innocent. She’s about to give her first private show and some shithead is going to hand over his salary to watch it up close.” He starts to turn away but changes his mind and charges back. The girls scatter as he grabs me by the throat and tosses me up against a rattling locker. “You listen here. If you don’t satisfy whatever customer I send you, I will burn every single one of your belongings. That little box of knick-knacks you think you’ve hidden under the floorboards? Think again. I’ll make you watch as I light it on fire.”
I’m shaking so hard, my back teeth chatter. This is how he did it. Forced my mother to work for years until her feet bled, then hand over every cent of her money, turning her into a dead-eyed robot. He threatened and terrified her until she gave up. “Please don’t do that.”
“I won’t. As long as you…” He raises a patronizing eyebrow.
“Satisfy the customer,” I rasp. “I’ll try.”
His eyes flash angrily, hand tightening around my throat. “You will.”
“I will. I will.”
“Good girl.” He rakes me with a glance, his gaze lingering on my breasts where they rise and fall beneath my mother’s old Nirvana tank top. “I should have thought of this arrangement sooner.” He laughs while walking away. “Happy Birthday, Margaret.”
CHAPTER TWO
Lenin
This place is trash. I wish to go back to my jigsaw puzzle at home.
Back in Moscow, strip clubs aren’t quite so obvious. They are more like a regular night club, less like an alcohol-fueled free-for-all. Alas, I suffer in this kind of environment no matter what. There is no control or predictability in a place where men are frustrated and women are making them so on purpose. I thrive on control. Having things in order, where they fit. In a place such as this, there is always some resentment in the air, coming from the stage and cheap seats alike. It annoyed and distracted me, so I said da when the sweaty, pale man offered me a private dance in another part of the club.
He reminded me of a gnat, buzzing around me, landing briefly with words like first-time dancer, special price, blah blah blah. I care about none of it. I simply wanted him to shut his mouth and it suited my purposes to leave the main floor with this man.
Where I can kill him with ease, as I’ve been hired to do. The contract was set up by his ex-business partner through my employer, but I care not for the details.
I let out a bored breath and let my elbow graze the Glock holstered at my side. This one isn’t even going to be a challenge. When my employer ordered the hit, I hung up without accepting right away. It only took me a few minutes of internet searching to confirm this man deserves to be put into the ground. Drug charges, soliciting prostitution in this very club. Assault against a woman. That last one sealed the deal.
As soon as we’re alone, I’ll perform my duty and be home in time for Shark Tank.
That Barbara Corcoran is a shrewd one. I find I enjoy her insight very much.
But first, the job. It is just another task in a series of many. It is nearing its end, however. My debt to my employer is almost paid and then I will be free to do my puzzles in peace. I follow the gnat man through a curtain of silver beads into a small lounge that, if possible, is even more disgusting than the main floor. The room glows in a neon blue light, doing nothing to hide the torn leather couches and stained industrial carpet. If the moans coming from the dark corners are any indication, the stains are not from spilled drinks.
I sigh and briefly close my eyes. “Is there somewhere more private?” I ask.
In a place like this, there always is. A backroom where men are allowed to do a lot more than receive a lap dance. For an increased fee, of course.
I merely want a place with no witnesses.
His answering laugh sets my teeth on edge. “Is that an accent? I didn’t notice it before. Where are you from, buddy? Russia or something?”
“Nyet. I’m from hell. Have you been?”
He thinks this is very funny and slaps his knee, giggling like a small child. “Perfect. This is perfect. You’re going to put that spoiled bitch right in her place.”
I assume by “spoiled bitch,” he’s talking about this first-time dancer—and these are words that don’t make sense to me. If she was spoiled, she wouldn’t be working in this godforsaken dump. First-time dancer. Spoiled. Is she here against her will?
I find I do not like this idea very much at all.
Congratulations, gnat. You have earned an extra minute of breathing because I’m now interested in seeing the dancer. If I can help it, I never let women suffer, like so many women in my life did when I was a youth. Powerless. Too young to help them.