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Wanting to make a good impression, I approach one of the burly bouncers manning the purple velvet rope outside the double front doors.
“Hey, man,” I say, offering my hand. “I'm here for an interview with Justin.”
The man with a guarded gaze and gruff voice stares at my hand for a second before looking me up and down before switching his attention to the large tablet in his hand. “Name?”
“Aiden Lawrence.” He grunts as he glances from the tablet to my face and back again, pressing something on the screen. “He's on his way.” He cracks a small smile and holds his hand out, shaking mine. “The name's Hawk. Do me a favor till J turns up, stand aside, and stay clear. You may be one of us soon but believe me, you don't want to cause problems before you start. You don't seem the type to do me wrong like that.” His arched brow and twitching lips have me smirking back at him. I jerk my chin up, already relaxing a bit.
As asked, I step aside and watch as the bouncers expertly handle the crowd, turning away those who don't meet the dress code--something that's strict and formal, only the best of the best will do, it seems--as well as those who are too drunk or high to function. It may be early on a Thursday night, but it is still Vegas.
What I do like is the way Hawk and the two other bouncers work together. They're the first line of defense and gatekeepers of the club and they operate like they live and breathe it. I can tell that they've seen it all before and they're not swayed by anyone or anything. From the way they just kicked out a young actor with three strippers hanging off his arm for trying to bribe them with a few Benjamins--they're not impressed by any of it. It’s a good start.
I switch my focus to the crowd, watching as they hustle and bustle to get inside, their eagerness to experience the lavishness of the club is palpable and hangs in the air like static electricity. Just the thought of Marquis and what’s inside has people willing to wait in line for hours.
Lost in thought, a voice behind me snaps me back to reality. “Lawrence?”
I turn around to see a sharply dressed man with a well-groomed beard and a sleek black suit. He extends his hand for me to shake, and I notice the expensive watch on his wrist, and it's not a brand you pick up from Walmart. It's money--and a lot of it. I know this guy…
“Justin?” I say shaking my head to make sure I'm not seeing things. Alarm bells ring but I’m here now, so I have to go with it. Justin Howell was working patrol when I made detective in San Francisco. That would've been at least six years ago though. “I had no idea you'd left the force.” My only hope right now is that he's believing the smile on my face. Never have I been more grateful for coming into this case as myself.
“Yeah, man. Had enough of the rules and regs, you know?” He laughs. “Well of course you do, that's why you’re here,” he replies. “Let's get inside and we'll grab a drink and get started.”
“I don't drink on the job,” I state.
“Way to make a good impression, Lawrence. But don't worry, this interview is just a formality. I knew it was you when your CV crossed my desk. I haven't even called anyone else.”
“Had I known that I wouldn't have dressed up,” I shoot back with a chuckle. Justin looks me up and down and shoulder bumps me. “Sorry to say, but if that's you dressing up, then thank god we've got a uniform for you.”
“Uniform?”
“Gotta look the part and Decker doesn’t skimp on anything. So just take it and say thanks, yeah? Who knows, it might actually help you get laid around here. Call it a bonus.”
I follow him through the double doors that lead into the lobby of the club. There's a large coat check to the left with smartly dressed attendants working the registration desk. On the other side is a sleek black counter manned by two black-suited security guards. They both have earpieces in, and I hazard a guess that they're likely armed too, side and ankle if they're thorough.
A quick scan of the periphery and I spot cameras covering every inch of the area, meaning I'm going to have to be smart about this. With eyes everywhere, it means there's very little chance of going where you're not supposed to be, to find things you're not supposed to find. Where there's a will, there's a way though.
“It's a lot to take in, am I right?” Justin asks with an easy-knowing smile. “Wait till you see behind the purple curtain.” And he's not lying, there's a huge purple velvet covering over the wide arch entry to the club proper.
“Definitely a lot different to the clubs I used to go to.”
He smacks my shoulder with a laugh and I remember why I never became friends with the guy. He was always very loose and casual—with patrol, the law, orders, all of it. I’m not surprised that the cop life wasn’t for him. I do feel at ease with him though, at least enough to get the job done. Doesn’t mean I trust him, but he could easily come in useful later. The key to acclimatizing and ingraining yourself when you’re undercover is to make friends and collect favors because you never know when they'll come in handy.
As soon as we enter the club, I stop dead in my tracks and take in the scene in front of me, because believe me, there’s a lot to take in. The photos online were very few and far between—probably adding to the intrigue and interest in the place. Even the promise of this place didn’t do it justice. It’s so much more than I could have ever imagined.
The interior is dark to go along with the ambience, an array of purple and blue lights flashing up the walls and over the crowd. There are holograms of scantily dressed men and women dancing provocatively in cages hung from the ceiling. Below them is a thick throng of clubgoers dancing shoulder to shoulder on the dance floor in front of a dimly lit DJ booth like they don't have a care in the world. The combination of lights and music are almost disorientating, especially with the polished floors reflecting everything happening above them like mirrors.
There’s marble, glass, and steel everywhere else. Frosted windows with thick chrome panes. Shiny black counters front well-stocked bars on both sides of the large room, bottles of liquor that cost more than my paycheck stacked high and lit up like the Empire State Building.
Justin ushers me toward the closest bar, the chairs looking more like thrones than the dingy stools from the bars I’m used to. He waves to a bouncy blonde bartender and holds up two fingers and thirty seconds later, whisky sours are placed in front of us.
He nods down at the drink. “Said I didn’t drink on the job, Howell.”
“Thought that was just lip service,” he says, arching a brow as he takes a sip.
“Nope. Gotta stay sharp to be sharp. Learned my lesson the hard way.”
“Yeah, heard about all that,” he says as he ushers the bartender over again and orders me a sealed bottle of water. When she delivers it, I offer my thanks and turn back to the man next to me.
“Surprised you didn’t file my CV in the trash then. Are you sure you don’t drink on the job?” I muse.
