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“I remember you,” he leered. “Ready to strip?”
“No, but I’m ready to talk to your boss,” I said coldly. “Mr. Shaw’s expecting me.”
He went from a leer to a sneer in one second flat. “You stupid bitch – just cuz you found out a name to drop, you think you’re hot shit?”
“No, I know I’m hot shit. And when Jack Pollari says he’s going to call Louis Shaw and put in a good word for me, I believe him.”
At the mention of Jack Pollari’s name, Peanut’s face drained of color. He struggled to get back his bravado, though. “You bullshit real good, I’ll give you that.”
Without a word, I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Jack’s number. There was a pause, then a deep, sexy voice answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, Jack. Fiona here.”
Whatever color Peanut had gotten back, he lost again.
“Fiona! How’d it go with Lou?”
“I don’t know yet, since Peanut won’t let me in. Could you… convince him?”
Jack’s voice suddenly became quite pissed. “Put him on.”
I held the phone out to Peanut, who looked at it like I was offering him a live rattlesnake. When he didn’t move, I thrust it at him with a menacing expression. Take it!
He took it gingerly and held it up to his ear, looking sicker by the second. “…hello?”
From that point onward, Peanut’s entire contribution to the conversation was “Yes, sir,” and “Sorry, Jack.” When he handed the phone back to me, he was an entirely different man.
“Well, now that THAT’S taken care of… I’ll see you for that drink later tonight,” Jack said, back to his roguish charm.
“Absolutely. And thanks again.”
“Thank me later,” he chuckled, and was gone.
His last three words sent a thrill up my spine, but I let it pass and tried to pretend I hadn’t felt it.
I put away my phone and stared at Peanut. “Well?”
He glared at me like I had betrayed him every way a person possibly could, but all he did was mumble, “Follow me,” as he led me into the club.
It was faux fancy, with velvet couches and padded chairs – but everything was shabby, bordering on ratty. And that was with incredibly dim lighting. With the lights full on, it probably would have been a horror show. Thank God there were no ultraviolets to highlight the stains.
The place wasn’t anywhere near hopping yet, but there were a good dozen factory workers blowing off steam. Over on the main stage, a hard-looking chick with more tats than clothing was dancing for a couple of middle-aged men on the front row. They looked hypnotized as they peeled off dollar bills and dropped them at her feet.
Peanut led me through the semi-darkness and down a hallway to the back, then knocked on a door.
“Come in,” said a deep, gravelly voice.
12
Peanut held the door for me, and I walked into the office. It was surprisingly different from the club, in that it was tasteful and neat and clean. Lots of dark wood. Very masculine, in an Old World way.
Lou Shaw sat behind a stately mahogany desk. He was simultaneously not what I had been expecting, and yet a complete fulfillment of all my expectations.
The ‘not what I had been expecting’ part: he was dressed well. An expensive black suit with a black shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show a rug of chest hair. He was definitely handsome, with eyes so dark they were almost black, and hair so black it was like India ink. He sported a carefully trimmed Van Dyke, with a short but pointed tuft on his chin. The rest of his hair was long enough to cover his ears, but it was expertly cut and styled.
As for the complete fulfillment of my expectations, he looked like he could have easily slid into denim or leather and been right at home on a Harley. His skin was weathered and tan, with crow’s feet around his eyes. He was solid – not fat, just massively powerful without being ripped. Like a strongman out of a 1940’s circus, when they cared more about how much you could lift than how cut you were.
Despite the suit, he had a few trappings of a motorcycle gang member: a metal-studded leather band around his wrist, several ornate silver rings with skulls and snakes, the edges of tattoos peeking out from the cuffs of his black shirt.
