The Love You Crave (A Donovan Creed Novel)

  “What about afterward?”

  “After PNQ?”

  “Yes.”

  “That part’s not so much fun. But it’s work, you know?”

  “I do.”

  By now, Shirl and I have climbed the side steps to the stage, and Jimmy comes over to meet us. The Emcee has been watching this mini drama unfold, and he’s stalling, telling jokes, to buy a little time.

  Roy’s furious. His reptilian eyes have narrowed to slits, and the veins in his temples are pulsing. But he doesn’t say anything yet. He doesn’t know me, but figures I’m connected, since Carmine called Shirl over to meet me. But he’s connected too, and he’s a certified tough guy, something I can tell by the scar tissue around his eyes, and the fact his nose has been broken at least twice. Up in his hairline I see a thin line where he’s had surgery. If I’m guessing, that’s from a beer bottle. Bouncing’s a tough life. Roy’s got to be happy he’s moved up a step, running strippers. Helluva lot easier beating up young girls than tough drunks.

  The three of us are standing on the stage, just beyond the steps. Shirl’s nervous. I’m sizing up this young, stocky warrior, and Roy’s probably doing the same to me. He’s waiting for me to speak, but I’m in no hurry. They’re on a time clock here, not me.

  Roy says, “Get your ass center stage, you piece of shit.”

  Shirl moves quickly. As she passes him, he puts his leg out and trips her. She stumbles, but shows remarkable athleticism correcting her fall at the last second. She manages to keep from hitting the stage. He snarls, “You and me are gonna have a little talk tonight.”

  She looks at me.

  I nod back.

  “You got something to say to me, asshole?” he asks me.

  “Nope.”

  “Then get your ass back with grandpa before I kick the shit outta you.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “You’re still here.”

  “I am?”

  He pauses. Then says, “You don’t want to piss me off.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then get the fuck outta my club.”

  “Wait. I thought you wanted me to get my ass back with grandpa.”

  He shows me that look people give when they wonder if I’m some kind of wise ass.

  “What’re you, some kind of wise ass?” he says.

  “Yeah, but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  He makes a sudden move, hoping to catch me off-balance, to push me backwards. There are only four steps, but we’re high enough that a push could cause serious injury.

  No matter. I’ve been expecting the shove since Roy joined us. Most bar fighters want to shove you before launching their power shot. It gets you off balance, gets your hands away from your face, so they can inflict the most possible damage before you can retaliate. If they get you on the ground it can be a rough night if you’re unskilled.

  Unfortunately for Roy, I’m plenty skilled. Before his right hand makes contact with my chest, I reach up and grab it with my left hand and start squeezing. Roy’s been around tough guys all his life, but he’s never had his hand stuck in a vice grip like mine, and it shows in his expression as I crush the bones in his hand. He screams in pain and tries to get his hand away, which only makes it worse for him, because it gives me the opportunity to clamp down harder.

  In the background, I hear the emcee go quiet. The whole club is watching us, but Carmine’s holding a hand up, to keep them from interfering. I turn my attention back to Roy. His eyes are bugging out. As he begins to panic, he makes another blunder by moving his body into mine, attempting to muscle me down the steps. But before Roy’s chest makes contact with my body, I grab his belt with my right hand and spin us around to where our positions are reversed. I continue squeezing his hand, but now I’m also grinding the broken bones together. Tears are pouring from his eyes, and he’s holding his left hand up in supplication, trying to get to his knees. I lower his hand enough to accommodate him.

  Now, with Roy on his knees, I lean over and whisper in his ear, “You don’t hit Shirl, you don’t touch her, ever again. You got that?”

  I squeeze his hand harder, for emphasis. Then back it down slightly so he won’t pass out.

  “I got it!” he gasps.

  “If you so much as raise your voice to her, I’ll hear about it, and you’ll regret it. Tell me you understand.”

  He nods his head, vigorously. “I understand,” he says.

  Roy really is a tough guy. I’ve crushed the bones in his hand so badly it’s going to require extensive surgery to correct. In a few years he’ll probably end up with the worst case of arthritis imaginable. Roy’s at a point where I could make him do anything. I consider making him sing Mammy, by Al Jolson. I mean, he’s already on his knees, right? But that would be cruel. And anyway, I have a better idea.

  “One last thing,” I say.

  Roy’s trying not to cry in front of the whole bar. His tough guy persona is really taking a beating tonight, and he’ll probably have to maim some drunks to re-establish his rep. I just hope he doesn’t treat the other girls worse because he’s angry at Shirl. I’m not going to threaten him about it, though. These girls, they come and go. They’ve been around the block. I’m not going to warn Roy not to pick on them. I don’t know the other girls. They could make something up about him, and I wouldn’t know the difference, and that wouldn’t be fair. But there is something I need to warn him about that will be easy to monitor.

  “You’re disrespecting Carmine,” I say. “And I won’t have it. He made his bones before your parents were born. In other words, he’s earned his place. I’m going to let go of you, and when I do, you’re going to walk over to Carmine and kiss his ring. And Roy?”

  He looks up at me.

  “If you don’t, I’m going to kill you before the sun comes up.”

  He looks down. Then back up.

  “Do you believe me?”

  He nods through his tears.

  I release his hand and watch him walk over to Carmine with his head bowed. When he gets there, he apologizes, and kneels to kiss Carmine’s ring. As he does so, Carmine slaps the side of his face, hard. There’s not much force on the blow, since Carmine’s old and out of shape, but it makes enough of a sound to fill the room.

  Then Carmine stands and embraces Roy, and calls someone over to drive him to the hospital. When that’s worked out, I rejoin Carmine at his table in front of the stage, and the emcee announces how the game is played.

  22.

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, you’re in for a treat,” the emcee says, “because it’s time to play PNQ!”

  The rules are simple. Anyone who wants to play gets a card to fill out. The card costs ten dollars. Carmine insists I play, and buys me a card. At the top left is the number one, and beside it are pictures of a penny, a nickel, a quarter, a half-dollar, and a silver dollar. The pictures are repeated for numbers two through eight. There will be eight strippers on stage. The idea is to pick the smallest coin that can completely cover the aureole on the left breast of each girl.

  We’re given a marking pen to make our choices. Looks like thirty of us are playing. Winner gets half the pot and a lap dance from the stripper of his choice. The girl he chooses gets one-fourth of the pot, the house gets the rest.

  First girl up is Shirl, wearing her nurse costume. She walks to the front of the stage and peels down to her bra and panties, which surprises me, because she’s wearing an actual bra and panties instead of stripper gear. Gear’s probably not the right word, but I don’t know the lingo. I don’t frequent stripper bars. They’re too depressing. Take Shirl, for instance.

  While she’s up there, smiling, the men hoot and holler. She puts her arms in the air and moves for them, and ends her little dance by turning her backside toward the audience and shaking it. The men like what they see. They like it a lot.

  This is why I don’t do strip joints. I’m quite annoyed
watching Shirl perform for these rowdy drunken customers like some sort of stage monkey. If I weren’t Carmine’s guest, I’d walk out right now. Of course, if I weren’t Carmine’s guest, I wouldn’t have entered the Top Six in the first place. I watch Shirl play up to the men. She’s facing us now, caressing herself, licking her lips while giving that universal bedroom look these women have all perfected. I can’t imagine why Shirl would act like that.

  Then it hits me.

  She’s trying to win the lap dance money.

  I think about the emotions I’ve just experienced, and realize what a colossal hypocrite I am! Getting all worked up wondering how a girl like Shirl could do this. Wasn’t it just this morning I had sex with Gwen, who danced on this very stage eight months ago? Look at me, Mr. High and Mighty, indignant about this poor waif. If Shirl was two years older and a little prettier, I’d almost certainly pay her for sex tonight.

  I think about Kimberly, and how she wanted to shock me by telling me she’s having sex with the pet salesman. I wonder how shocked she’d be to learn I’ve been dating a 20-year-old hooker named Miranda.

  When she’s done milking the crowd, Shirl moves down the stage, not far from where we had the altercation with Roy a few minutes ago. With nothing to go on but a hunch, I put an X on the picture of the penny, meaning, I think when she takes her top off later, the aureole circling her nipple will prove to be smaller than a penny.

  Next girl up is Tina. She’s heavy, maybe five-four, one-eighty. She’s wearing a cow girl outfit, but again, a real bra and panties. I put her down for the half-dollar. Third is Allison, who’s about thirty. Allison’s dressed in a business suit, complete with reading glasses. I figure her for a quarter.

  The game continues through the progression of eight, then several guys go through the crowd, inspect the cards, sign them, and collect the pens. The emcee calls out “Girl number one!”

  Shirl comes to the front of the stage and removes her bra. Guys are yelling now. Some are screaming “Penny!” Others, “Nickel!” They’re all claiming to be right. The emcee makes a few demeaning jokes about the size of her chest that piss me off, then Shirl produces a coin, pushes it onto her nipple, ending all speculation.

  Shirl’s a nickel.

  Guys are hollering at each other in a good-natured way.

  Carmine smiles. “Helluva game, right? Really gets the crowd worked up. Great for business!”

  “Gwen came up with this idea?” I say.

  “She did.”

  I’m thinking Gwen’s creativity might be a good thing for Ropic Industries. Then I remember she doesn’t want me around to see it.

  The heavy-set girl, Tina, amazingly, is a penny.

  “You’re not very good at this, are you?” Carmine says.

  I shrug.

  Allison, the business woman, is indeed a quarter.

  “One out of three!” I say, more enthusiastically than I would’ve expected.

  By the time the last woman proves her size, I end up with a paltry two out of eight. I’m amazed to see three men on their feet, holding up their cards, claiming to have gotten them all. One of the winners is Tony Spumoni.

  He’s got an enormous cast covering one side of his head. Looks ridiculous.

  “You did that to his ear?” Carmine says.

  “How’s it possible three guys got them all?” I ask, realizing I’m more interested in the contest than Tony’s condition. What does that say about me?

  “They’re regulars,” Carmine says. “We always bring in one or two housewives to make it interesting, but the rest are our girls.”

  “So the system rewards those who support the club day in and day out.”

  “Pretty clever, right?”

  It is clever. Proving Gwen has a lot more going for her than a great face and killer body.

  Before they bring the next stripper out to break the tie, Carmine says, “Come with me.”

  We get to our feet and start walking toward his office. As I pass Tony I say, “I’ll meet you after you collect your lap dance.”

  He nods.

  In Carmine’s office, I move the chair he wants me to sit in so that I have a clear view of his office and bathroom doors.

  “It’s in your nature to disrespect me,” he says.

  “Too much respect can get a guy killed.”

  23.

  “REASON I WANTED to talk to you,” Carmine says, “this thing with little Gwennie has my stomach all tied up in knots.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  “You been fuckin’ her,” he says. He puts his hand up. “You don’t have to answer. It’s between the two of you. I also know she had something to do with killing Lucky. Figure your girl’s the one who did it. What’s her name? Callie something?”

  I say nothing.

  He waves his hand. “Whatever. None of my business. I’m an old man.”

  “You’ve still got teeth,” I say, referring to his power.

  He chuckles. “A few.” Then he says, “That was nice of you, crushing Roy’s hand like that.” He chuckles again. “Bad for Roy, though.”

  “You gave him a good slap.”

  “I should’a killed him.” He sighs. “In the old days…” his voice trails off.

  “What about little Gwennie?” I say.

  “That,” he says. “I gotta wonder. How did things get so bad between you?”

  I shrug. “Tell you the truth, I thought we were getting along really well.”

  He nods. “Women, right?”

  “The smart move is to kill her.”

  He nods. “I know.” He pauses, looks at me.

  “What?”

  “I’m an old man,” he says.

  “You said that.”

  “See? Old people repeat themselves.” He laughs. “Anyway, what I was gonna say, this thing that’s got her angry, whatever it is, maybe you can work it out between you. What I’m sayin’, you got a little time here. Maybe you can figure it out. I don’t know. Buy her flowers, a mink coat, you know?”

  “Women don’t wear mink these days.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He slaps his hand against his forehead. “No wonder I can’t get any pussy!”

  We laugh. Then I say, “You really think if I bring her flowers she won’t try to have me killed?”

  “How the fuck do I know? What I do know is, you give a woman a gift, it forces her to speak to you.”

  “She spoke to me today. Many times.”

  “Was she mad?”

  “Quite the opposite.”

  “She catch you cheating?”

  “Nope.”

  He shrugs. “Women, right?”

  “Women,” I say.

  We’re quiet a while, two guys in the office of a strip club, wondering how we could possibly know so little about women.

  “Don’t tell her I said anything,” Carmine says.

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  He nods. We both know it’s important for Gwen to believe she has his confidence.

  I say, “She offer you money?”

  “For the hit? Nah. We didn’t get that far.”

  “Because?”

  He looks at me. “I told you.”

  “Yeah. We’re friends. I know. But why didn’t you take the hit? You know she’ll inherit money from the estate. Eventually.”

  “Don’t dismiss the friendship part so easily.”

  I wait.

  He says, “The other part is, I got no one good enough. I can’t afford to lose any more shooters.”

  Finally. An honest answer.

  Carmine says, “Did you know Tony was gonna be here tonight?”

  “He’s the one that called when I was on the phone with you. He wants to talk.”

  “Do me a favor?”

  “Name it.”

  “You decide to tear off his other ear, do it outside, okay? Customers see that sort of thing, it??
?s bad for business.”

  “Got it. No tearing off ears inside the club.”

  He stares at me a moment. Then says, “How do you do it?”

  “What, tear a guy’s ear off?”

  “Yeah. What I’m askin’, does it come off clean?”

  “With practice.”

  He looks at me like a proud father looks at his son after watching him hit a game-winning home run. Then chuckles. “You kids these days. Jeez.”

  I smile. Truth is, it only requires seven pounds of pressure to rip a guy’s ear off his head. Take a dozen sheets of typing paper, hold them together with one hand, tear them with the other. That’s an equivalent effort. The trick is to hook your fingers as far behind the ear as possible, grabbing as much tissue as you can. Don’t try to pull the ear off. There’s too much connective tissue. You want to tear from the top of the ear downward. At first you might have problems shearing the entire ear off in one motion. Like I say, it takes practice.

  24.

  “LET’S TAKE IT outside,” Tony says.

  We’re standing at the end of the bar. He’s looking past me, watching a young pole dancer. His eyes widen slightly. I turn to follow his gaze. She’s upside down on the pole, doing a split.

  “Talented girl,” he says.

  I wonder if he’s got some thugs in the parking lot, waiting to ambush me.

  “We can talk here,” I say.

  “It’s too public. What I want to say requires privacy.”

  “Follow me,” I say.

  We go down the hall. When we get to the bathroom, I open the door.

  “After you,” I say.

  “What? We can’t meet in the friggin’ bathroom,” he says.

  “Why not? I can keep people out.”

  He looks at me like I’m insane. Doesn’t bother me. I probably am insane. He enters the room, I follow close behind. When the door’s closed he says, “Creed.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Should I call you Donovan?”

  I shake my head. Poor, pitiful Tony.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Let’s take it outside.”

  When we get outside, I motion him to join me in my rental car. He looks around a minute, then climbs in. Before he can speak, I punch his temple and he goes out like a light. I start the car and drive to the edge of the parking lot and wait till traffic is moving at a good clip. Then I floor the gas pedal, squeal the tires, and force my way into the line of fast-moving cars. While I’m doing this I reach over and rip Tony’s shirt open, pull the microphone off his chest, and throw it in the street. Then I cross lanes, reverse direction, and roar past the detectives as they’re leaving the parking lot, heading the wrong way.