Bang Job

Work in progress

Part One

The Romanova

The lights from the sign above the Romanova glowed neon pink. Girls! Girls! Girls! the lights boasted and down on the street the men and women of the city filed into the club; the anxious, swelling mass of their bodies contained only by some three inch thick felt rope. A man named Marcus stood behind the red, felt deterrent and stared at the swarming crowd, unamused and unimpressed. Only twelve hundred people were allowed in the building at one time. About every fifteen minutes or so a young girl with glasses and a scarf would appear behind Marcus to inform him that he could let more of the crowd into the club. Marcus would then proceed to lift the rope and admit the mass of people through the doors one at a time, pausing briefly to examine driver’s licenses. Marcus enjoyed his job. He especially enjoyed hitting people. He didn't get the chance very often, but once in awhile someone drunk or dumb enough would require a physical disincentive; which Marcus was always more than pleased to administer. Marcus also enjoyed his job because it was the only time he got to see the dancers with their clothes on. The uncompromisingly bridled demeanor of the bouncer was common for his trade, but there was always the trace of a smile buried beneath the layers of stoicism; an enthusiasm for his passion that anyone who looked hard enough could find. Marcus stared into the crowd until something absolutely brilliant caught his eye. A woman wrapped in fur walked alongside the red felt barrier, ignoring the reaching hands and the taunting coos of those that recognized her from behind the rope. The woman smiled as Marcus nodded at her and extended his hand to take her coat.

“I’ll keep it on, Marcus. Ivan keeps the heat off in our rooms now.”

“Tell me you’re kidding, Sallie.” Marcus had to raise his voice to match the roaring of the impatient crowd. The woman in fur flashed an exasperated, toothless grin and stepped into the club.

Inside the Romanova, colors of every kind shimmered and danced while just as many kinds of people shamelessly broke from any and every moral standard in a nefarious frenzy of unethical and occasionally illegal activity. The dancers were the main attraction and the stage room at the center of the club was never in short supply of the depraved company Ivan’s club was so familiar with. In the private rooms there was prostitution. In the basement there was gambling. It was rumored amongst the dancers that Ivan kept a collection of snuff films in his office that he’d brought from his country.

Sallie walked briskly to the dancer rooms, the sound of her high heels against the tile floor like a frantic metronome. She walked past Deborah’s room and her own room, hesitating to examine the corner of an envelope sticking out from beneath her door. Undoubtedly another love letter from Marcus. Sallie continued walking. She passed Gloria’s room and noticed that both she and Deborah had turned off their lights. Further down the hall was Rosie’s room. Sallie could see that the door was open and the hard light from inside poured out into the hall along with the sound of Deborah and Gloria laughing at something Rosie must have said. Sallie entered the room with her hands raised and her long blonde hair draping down past her lipstick smile. The girls in the room squealed at Sallie’s arrival and stood from their chairs to embrace and exchange pleasantries with the woman in fur.

“Oh, I love this coat on you, Sallie.”

“Thanks, Deb! It’s so warm.”

“It looks warm,” said Deborah.

“It looks expensive,” Gloria spoke up.

“My friend gave it to me,” replied Sallie.

“Same friend as last time?” Rosie’s black curls were tied up in a red bandana.

“No, this one was richer!”

“How do you keep track of all these friends anyway?” asked Gloria. Sallie shrugged.

“I dunno,” she said. “I never had so many friends before I became a dancer.”

“Does this one have a name?”

“He didn’t say,” sighed Sallie. “But he said I was a really good dancer!”

The Countryman

The gun hangs heavy on his side. He's held a pistol before. Many times. He’s a real cowboy; el Compatriota to the people in this town. The gun hangs heavy but it’s not the weight that makes him slow. He knows he'll use it soon. Best to take the time and do things right. He knows how things will be. Steady and calm for now but Hell’s on its way. He'll be ready. He’s quick like a whip crack when he’s sober. That in mind, breakfast must’ve slowed him down some. What kind of man is that? You might ask me this when he enters the bar. He walks in noiselessly, pushing the doors open with the grace of someone that handles infants for a living yet he attracts the attention of everyone in the room. You might be inclined, when he sits down and removes his hat, to walk over and ask him his name. Of course I'll put my hand on your shoulder and tell you to sit down. People don't know his name because people don't ask. Who is that man? You might ask me that as the bartender pours him a drink without him asking for it. Of course I can't answer that. Not many people could answer that. It's difficult enough to explain what kind of man he is, let alone who he is. I can tell you that he's the kind of man that doesn't have to look down at his feet when he's walking up the stairs. Most men do, he doesn't. He knows exactly where to place each foot and he doesn’t miss a step. Frustrated, intrigued, you might ask what do they call him, then? And I would tell you, my voice lowered and my eyes glued to the drink in front of me, they call him the Countryman.

Ivan, the terrible boss

Rosie shifted uncomfortably in the leather seat. Ivan lounged behind his desk, his right hand casually rolling a stirring stick between his Polish sausage fingers, his left hand holding a Gypsy Queen so stiff Rosie could smell it from her seat. On his desk was a paper covered in penciled cursive writing.

“Riveting,” Ivan’s voice filled his office and made the atmosphere thick like syrup or oil. “Absolutely riveting,” he said again. Rosie glanced down at her feet. “So you want to move back to the stage room.”

“Yes,” said Rosie. The despair in her voice only widened the smile on Ivan’s face, his lips stretching and exposing the stains of his teeth.

“You don’t like working in the private rooms?”

“No.”

“You make more money there, don’t you?”

“The men want extras.”

“Extras means extra money.”

“I don’t have sex for money, Ivan. I want to dance in the stage room again.” Ivan downed his drink and motioned for Rosie to retrieve the Vodka from the small table in the corner of the room. Rosie stood and walked to the table, the clicking of her high heels rattling off the walls of the office. She clutched the bottle and turned to face the smiling Ivan, sitting like a king at his throne. “Ivan,” she said. “I want to dance in the stage room again.”

“Bring that here, kotenok.” Rosie walked the Vodka over to Ivan’s desk and set it down in front of him.

“I won’t work in the private rooms another night,” she said before taking her hands off the bottle.

“Fine,” said Ivan. “But you lose your tips for this.”

“Ivan--”

“Say something else and Ms. Duthe loses her tips as well.” Rosie nodded and turned to leave the drunken king who was no longer smiling. “And you could have told me you didn’t want to be a w***e anymore. You didn’t have to write me a Goddamn letter.”

Detective John Hale meets the Countryman

Two men stood in a dark room. One rocked back on his heels, his hands shoved into the pockets of his windbreaker. The other had his hands at his side and his dark eyes lurked just below the brim of his Stetson.

“You know you’re in pretty good shape for your age,” said the Detective.

“I need to be in shape to do my work and luckily my work keeps me fit.”

“I gotta say,” sighed the Detective. “At first I wasn’t comfortable with the fee, but I think it’s fair to say you’ve more than earned it.”

“Professional service is all I have to offer and that’s what you paid for.”

“I hear talk you went pro a long time ago.”

“Maybe.”

“Like b’fore I was born.”

“Probably.” The men stood in silence briefly, the only sound coming from the Detective’s rocking feet.

“So how mucha what they say about you is true?” asked the Detective.

“I’m not sure what it is people say about me.”

“How many wars you fight in?”

“Why does this matter?”

“Sorry,” smiled the Detective. “It’s my job to ask questions.” The man in the Stetson folded his arms across his chest and smiled. “Captain calls you an artist.”

“I’ve been called worse,” said the man in the Stetson.

“Would you consider this your masterpiece?”  the Detective gestured at the scene before them.

“Not hardly.”

“Still, it looks like artwork to me.”

“To that I would say you have poor taste in art, Detective.”

“You’re just too humble.”

“No, Detective, I’ve just had more exposure to this sort of thing than you. I know good art when I see it.”

“More exposure? You know I’ve been in Homicide for nearly a decade right?”

“I know a lot more about you than that, Detective.” The air in the basement was cold and smelled of paint and glue. The Detective shivered.

“What’chu gon’ call it, anyhow?” asked the Detective.

“Call it?”

“Captain says you name ‘em.”

“The papers can name it.”

“Oh, this won’t hit the papers,” chuckled the Detective. “Forty-somethin’ lowlife hangs himself in basement? Not exactly front page material, especially not in this city.”

“I suppose that’s the whole point.”

“Captain would agree.” Silence fell once again on the men as they analyzed the scene in front of them like prospective buyers of some unknown artist’s painting.

Gloria and Sallie talk about boys

The wine bottle was nearing its end as the two friends lounged in Sallie’s fragrant room. Gloria, her knees tucked up to her chest, shivered beneath her bathrobe. On the couch beside her sat Sallie who was studying her pocket mirror.

“You could have a coat too, ya know,” Sallie’s voice was musical like always despite being tipsy.

“If I wanted a coat, I could buy one for myself.”

“But why would you buy a coat?”

“You’d rather I rely on the men that come here to clothe me?”

“They would if you weren’t so mean to them.”

“Don’t you ever wonder why it’s us out there dancing?”

“What do you mean?” Sallie blinked, her picturesque face completely unhindered by her puzzled expression.

“Why aren’t we lining up to see men dance for us? Why aren’t we buying fancy coats for them?”

“Ew,” Sallie snapped her pocket mirror shut. “Who would want to see a man dance?” Sallie poured another glass of wine and held it up. Gloria declined the offer with a shake of her head. Sallie shrugged and raised the glass to her lips. “If you wanted to, you could have any of the men that come here.”

“I need a man like you need another one of those coats.”

“I think you need a boyfriend.”

“What I need is for Ivan to turn the heat back on in my room.”

“I think I’ll let Marcus be my boyfriend,” Sallie finished her wine and placed the glass on the table beside the couch.

“Oh God,” Gloria moaned. “Why Marcus?”

“He loves me, Gloria. He wants to marry me.”

“Don’t marry Marcus. Marry if you must, but not Marcus.”

“What’s wrong with Marcus?”

“Nothing’s wrong with Marcus. He’s functioning the same way as all men function.”

“You’re so weird, Gloria. Marcus is nice.”

“Sallie,” Gloria’s stern voice smelled of red wine. “Marcus only wants what the other men that come here are getting, but he doesn’t want to pay.”

“That’s not true!”

“Of course it is.”

“Marcus told me he doesn’t like to watch us dance. He says boys shouldn’t see girls with their clothes off unless they’re married.”

Mario Duthe can’t get out of the game

“We’re not asking a whole lot here, Mario. You don’t even got to watch.”

“I’m done. I don’t train no more.”

“We don’t have no one better, ese. You’re still  a legend.”

“I’m making a new life for myself.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Mario. This is your life.”

“You told me one last show.”

“And we made alotta money, yeah?”

“I said I was out, and I’m out.”

“We know you need scratch. After that dime in the pen? You got nothing, homeboy. No money. No job. No family.”

“This life destroyed my family.”

“There’s a show planned. Big money. Couple old timers will be there. We can’t have no curs, Mario. We got a prospect needs to be trained. He showed alotta promise in his schooling.”

“I don’t train no more.”

“He killed every b***h we put in the rape stand, Mario. He killed a champ in his game test.”

“He sounds like Hernan.”

“Mario. It’s Hernan’s son.”

A brief history of dogfighting

It's likely, if you are an average citizen, that you don't often think about blood sports; one of the most prevalent in the modern world being dogfighting. If and when you do, what thoughts come to mind? Densely populated, poverse, urban cities? Highly publicized professional athlete scandals? Consider the origin of the central heating unit. A Roman invention that, though heavily modified from its original conception, is as crucial an appliance today as it was two millenniums ago. Similarly, the roots of dogfighting extend as far back as the times of the Romans.

When the Roman Empire invaded Britain in 43 AD they were introduced to the ferocity of British war dogs during a violent campaign that ended in favor of the Roman Empire. The victorious Romans were fascinated by these canines of war that seemed superior to the fighting dogs of Rome. The Empire began importing British fight dogs to participate in gladiator events. Spectators would marvel as the animals were pitted against ferocious beasts. Lions, elephants, and dogs competed for survival in the blood fests of the Coliseum. It is believed that the Romans bred these British fight dogs with their own breeds and exported the offspring to various regions of Europe.

In the centuries that followed, England developed the practice of baiting. Fighting dogs were placed into an enclosed area or pit with a bull that was fastened by chain or rope to a stake in the center of the ring or pit. The goal was for the dogs to “pin and hold” the bull, which involved seizing the bull’s nose in its jaws and bringing the bull to submission. The dogs were trained specifically to fight the bull and eventually kill it. These fighting dogs were called butcher’s dogs, as the act of baiting also served as a means of tenderizing the meat of the bull before it was to be eaten.  Twelfth century British nobility fancied baiting as sophisticated entertainment.

By the nineteenth century baiting had become too expensive of a practice as the growing scarcity of bulls had dramatically increased their cost. In 1835 the British parliament outlawed baiting all together. This contributed to the emergence of dog on dog combat as a cheaper alternative. Dogs were bred to be swift and aggressive and could last for hours in a fight. After America’s civil war, these new fighting dogs were imported to the United States where they were crossbred with American variants eventually leading to the birth of the American Pitbull Terrier. The sport became extremely popular and concerns about the humaneness of the spectacle had little effect on the bloody practice until relatively recently. Dogfighting wasn’t nationally outlawed in the United States until 1976. Almost one third of the dogs in U.S. shelters today are American Pitbull terriers. The sport remains legal in various countries across the world including Japan, Afghanistan, and parts of Russia.

The man from the PMC

ten years before the events of this story

The sergeant stared at the man standing in the entrance of his canvas tent, the flaps behind him dancing violently in the wind and sand.

“Come in, sit down.” The sergeant’s voice was barely audible against the raging desert storm. The man turned and drew the zipper of the dancing flaps to the floor.

“Got orders to bring you up to speed on what we’re doing here.”

“All ears, Sergeant.” The man’s piercing eyes closed the distance to the frowning sergeant who reclined himself and folded his hands behind his head.

“You know,” he said. “I don’t like PMC’s. And I’ve read all about you. I really don’t like you.” The man stood straight with his hands folded behind his back.

“All respect, sir,” said the man. “I’m here to serve your country, not to gain your military's affection.” The sergeant smiled. He sat up from his relaxed position and planted a meaty index finger on the manilla envelope on the table in front of him.

“You’ve served a lot of countries.”

“And my credentials trouble you?”

“I’ve never met a nameless soldier. Your curious privacy and special privileges are what trouble me.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah,” said the sergeant. “Impressive as your portfolio may be, you’re just like every other murdering dog that your firm w****s out to us. I don’t care how effective an asset you are.”

“I’m a murdering dog and you’re just doing your job?”

“I’m serving my country; on paper, you don’t even have a country.”

“So is it my loyalty that’s in question or my nationality?”

“From where I stand, you couldn’t care less about either.” The man’s dark eyes glimmered at the sergeant’s words.

“While I’d prefer not to entertain this hostile advance of which a lesser man might take offense to, how might I convince you of my loyalty and dedication to your country and its men?”

“What an interesting question,” the sergeant smirked.

Mario tries to visit his daughter

Marcus watched the crowd sway and lurch, it's unpredictable movements like a violent ocean of lust and sinners. Marcus was smiling, his cool placidity in direct contrast with the chaotic storm of people pushing and shoving before him. The bouncer’s smile vanished as he noticed the man approaching.

“Sir,” said Marcus. “Behind the rope, please.”

The man did not comply but continued his brisk approach. Marcus uncrossed his arms and clenched his fists. The man slowed his pace and stopped just short of an arm’s length from Marcus.

“Is Sallie here?” The man sounded more worried than curious.

“Yeah, maybe.” Marcus crossed his arms again. “But you gotta wait in line to get in.”

“I jes wanna talk to Sallie. She my daughter.” The bouncer looked the man over.

“Sallie doesn’t have a dad.”

“Not a good one.”

Reviews

[Sarah Wilson]

Wow! So intriguing! You've got a very noire way of writing. I would love to see where this is all heading! keep it up!