Page 39 of Antihero

“Yes,” Evan said. “Thanks for asking.”

The floor-level VIP table was nestled into an alcove, backed by curved brass rails delineating the mezzanine level. Osman’s pal sipped at a watery beverage the color of apple juice, maybe a 7 & 7, and the man himself had a Midori sour set before him, garnished with a cherry and a slice of lime. He was a good-looking guy, with powerful shoulders and thick hair, but rot tugged at his eyes and jawline, the lifestyle catching up. Shiny silver Western belt buckle, complementary mall boots, shirtsleeves cuffed to show off muscular, hairy forearms.

“The fuck kind of man cozies up to other men at a strip club?” Osman asked.

“The fuck kind of man drinks a Midori sour in public?”

He bugged his eyes at Evan and then looked at his friend, a theatrical show of disbelief. “Okay. So it’s like that, then.” He shouted toward the entrance: “Hey, Red Pony!”

But the door was shut, the bouncer outside in the wind. Osman glanced nervously at the rear room into which the manager had vanished. Bubbles was back on her phone. No one else seemed to give a shit.

Osman recalculated, refocused. “Don’t fuck around here, pal. First of all, there are two of us.”

Evan looked at the friend, who quickly took interest in his drink, using his double stir straws to chase what was left of the ice cubes in circles.

“And second? You don’t want to mess with me. I deal with people, bad people, all the time.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yeah?” Osman leaned in. “What makes you think I’ll answer?”

“Well,” Evan said, “there are two ways we can approach that.”

Osman put a perfect smile on display. “If you wanna scare me, you’re gonna have to do better than that.”

“Noted,” Evan said. “You rent out your apartment there”—a flick of his hand in the rough direction—“by the night?”

Osman laughed mirthlessly, cocked his chair back, spread his hands again, looked at his mute friend. “So what?”

“Rent it for what?”

“What do I give a fuck? Whatever they need it for. Affairs. Orgies. Sometimes guys bring girls there, call girls, whatever.”

“Girls against their will?”

“No business of mine, man. Someone makes a dumb choice, takes the wrong pill, gets touched in a bad place? I’m gonna wade into that shit? We’re in a city of nine million people. I’m gonna, what? Do a full moral inventory of everyone before I conduct business? You do that?”

Evan said, “Yes.”

Osman hoisted his drink, offered Evan his first-ever Midori toast. “Well, good on you, pal. Not all of us can be bighearted saviors. I’m just getting by, man, like everyone else.”

“What if I told you a young woman was likely raped there last night?”

Osman pooched out his lips in a scowl, shrugged. “My dick’s clean so I know I didn’t do it. I just rent him the room now and then.”

“Him,” Evan said.

Osman spoke fast, trying to bury the blunder. “You gonna go after the company made the bed she was raped on, too? The guy sold the mattress?”

“No.”

“So why you bustin’ my balls?”

“Because,” Evan said. “You can tell me who rented your place last night.”

“No. I can’t. It’s, like, anonymous. And even if it wasn’t, I’m a businessman. I make business arrangements. So a client lucked into an amenable situation last night. I’m gonna stick my neck out for some broad got herself into something she woke up the next morning and regretted? Why’m I gonna borrow trouble?”

“A young woman was hurt,” Evan said. “There’s a code.”