For hours Zev
remained silent and still, reveling in the quiet time to think. His
phone buzzed. He frowned, eyes still closed, willing the noise to
stop. The device vibrated onto the floor, the thud making him
grimace. Unable to regain his concentration, he stood to stop the
incessant drone at last.
“What?” he
greeted, friendly as a poisoned martini.
“Jesus, Zev,
don't you ever answer your goddamned phone? I saw the news. I hope
you don't think you're getting paid for those cops you shot, too.”
“I didn't shoot
them. It was a different gun,” he pointed out, voice dripping with
distaste.
“Right. Well,
come collect your payment. It's down at the strip club with one of my
boys.”
“I'll be down
shortly.” He snapped his phone shut vehemently, glaring at the
sleek black plastic. So much for his good mood.
He emptied the
last few sips of cold tea into the sink, washed and dried the mug,
rinsed the sink, then washed his hands.
For once, he took
a direct route to the location, driving his own car through the
cluster of city streets. All while he drove,a ll he could think of
was that brief quiet in his living room, the comfortable silence in
his own mind. He wanted to fall back into that place.
Then there was the
strip club. He entered through the back, and as soon as the guard let
him through, the heavy throb of music assaulted him. Grimacing in
distaste, he passed a pair of girls in silk robes. They watched him,
whispering eagerly after he passed. Through another closed door he
heard the wet thumps and groans of sex, and just beyond that the
small office. Another bouncer opened that door for him as well.
“About damned
time,” a man with a crooked nose greeted. He hauled a briefcase
onto the desk. “Your pay. Compliments from the boss.”
“I heard his
compliments already,” Zev assured with a sneer. He opened the case,
checking the amount before he lifted it from the desk. “You can
tell him not to call me again.”
The stranger
frowned, but nodded. “Right. Well, you can have a drink on the
house before you go if you like,” he fumbled, gesturing vaguely
towards the source of the pulsing music.
Turning his back
on the cringing man, he surprised himself in turning towards the main
hall instead of the exit. When was the last time he allowed himself a
drink and a moment to relax in public? Not that this was his idea of
relaxation—the bright lights illuminating the curves of every
gyrating woman, the heavy music for them to grind to, the smell of
smoke and liquor and desperation. Nonetheless, he took a seat at the
bar, tucking the briefcase beneath the tall stool.
The bartender slid
over to him, a pretty young woman wearing normal dress instead of
merely lingerie. “Evening, sir,” she greeted pleasantly. “What
can I get you?”
“You can get me
your shirt! I want to see what's underneath!” another man jeered
from Zev's left, cutting him off.
The mercenary
grimaced, pressing two fingers to his temple. This was not worth a
free drink. “Just a shot of whiskey will suffice,” he said to her
quietly.
“I'll make that
a double for you,” she assured, and threw her cleaning rag at the
lewd man. “And you! I'm cuttin' you off. Pay your tab and tip your
dancer before I call the bouncer on you!”
“Come on, now,
sweet tits, that was a compliment!” the man insisted, pulling the
towel from his face and leaning over the bar. “How the fuck can you
work in a place like this with your shirt on?”
Zev waited until
the drink was set in front of him. He thanked the young woman,
sliding her a hefty tip, but didn't touch the glass. He stood
instead, and grabbed the stranger by the back of the head. He pulled
him back, then shoved him forward, cracking his head off the hard
wood of the long counter. He let the man drop, a few other people
scattering to get out of the way of the sudden brawl.
“What the fuck,
man?!” the drunkard slurred, clutching at his bleeding face, on his
back on the floor and not sure which way was up to even retaliate.
Zev had no such
problems. He brought his heel down on the man's chest until he heard
a satisfying crack of a rib and a yowl of pain. Though the
bouncers were hurrying to break it up, they weren't quick enough to
stop the calm mercenary from picking up the heavy briefcase and
bringing the corner down on the man's face. The corner punctured his
eye, sending a spray of blood and such a horrid scream of pain it
made one of the other patrons turn and vomit. He hit the man's face
again and again, with such force that the case broke open, money
scattering around the bleeding, thrashing, screaming man. Though it
was unintentional, it distracted the bouncers, who decided that
grabbing handfuls of the money was far more important than
restraining the madman. Nothing like blood-soaked hundred dollar
bills on the chest of a dying man to provide a smoke-screen. Turning
from the carnage, Zev nodded to the terrified bartender, and left out
the gaping front door. As he headed back to his car and examined his
bloodied hands, he frowned.
Now why had he
done that? It wasn't like him to give into such base impulses, not
over something as simple as a lewd act towards a woman who was
clearly handling herself just fine. Normally he had such good control
over his emotional outbursts, and now here he went tantruming like a
child again. The whole drive home he contemplated this, and it wasn't
until he washed his hands and arms for the third time to make sure
they were free of blood that he thought perhaps he should seek some
professional help. After all, he did know of a discreet facility that
may be able to stabilize him for a time. And if he checked himself
in, he would be free to leave as soon as he felt he was ready to do
so. That seemed the most productive solution. All he would really
need, he was sure, was a few pills to stabilize his
neurotransmitters, and after two weeks or so, he could be back into
his usual routine. He dried his hands, hearing the voice of a local
reporter from the other room.
“—so soon
after the shootings downtown, the city was rocked this evening with a
brutal murder in a strip club. An unidentified man was beaten to
death at the bar. Police think this may be a gang-related incident,
as a large amount of stolen money was also found on the scene. They
ask any witnesses to please come forward and call the hotline on the
screen below—”
Zev paused from
rinsing out the sink, twisting to one side so that he could see the
glowing screen. He opened one of the kitchen drawers, pulled a
revolver from where it rested beside his silverware, and shot a neat
hole in the center of the reporter's brow, splintering the glass
screen and sending sparks out the back. He twisted back around,
turned off the water, and frowned at the smoking gun.
“Yes,” he
murmured to himself, flipping open the gun to empty the rest of the
rounds into his palm, “I think it is time to seek that
rehabilitation clinic.”
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