Brazil was indifferent. West shot Minx a cool look, and thought the stripper’s fried egg tattoo on her left breast was rather clever, not to mention apropos. Lord, this one even had stretch marks, cellulite, her clients not interested in anything that wasn’t in a glass. Colt, the bouncer, was the exception. He was heading at the cops like a freight train on a mission. He was big and scary in a shiny black suit, thick gold chains, and a red leather tie. He looked like he might hurt them, starting with Brazil.
“We got a complaint of loud music,” West said to Colt.
“You hear it?” Colt lifted his heavy jaw, veins like ropes in his powerful neck.
He was full of hate toward these white cops, especially the bitch. Who did she think she was, anyway, strutting into Fat Man’s, in her fancy uniform with all its shiny shit meant to hurt hardworking people like him? He glanced at Minx, making sure she wasn’t letting up. It seemed not a night went by when he didn’t have to smack a little more energy into her, give her pain some place where it wouldn’t show, encouraging her to do her job. She was slinging away. Nobody cared. Nobody tipped. Two of the regulars were getting up and leaving, the night still young. Colt knew the cops were to blame.
Colt jerked open the side door leading out into an alleyway. He grabbed Brazil by the front of his uniform shirt with such force, it ripped.
“Heyyyy!” Brazil yelled.
Colt lifted the punk off his feet and threw him outside in the trash, where he belonged. Garbage cans clattered against pavement, bottles clanging. It was just a good thing Brazil was dirty, anyway. He got to his feet in time to see West whipping out her handcuffs. Colt had her by her uniform shirt, intending to pitch her, too, as the little shit yelled “Mayday! Mayday!” into his police radio.
Colt gagged, and for a blinding shard of insight thought someone had shoved a pool cue into the hollow of his massive neck. It seeped into his fading consciousness that the bitch was drilling her index finger into that soft hollow over his windpipe. He couldn’t breathe. His tongue protruded as she drilled and he gagged, gasping for air, his eyes bugging as he dropped to his knees, a gun barrel now staring at his nose. Colt’s ears were ringing, blood roaring as the bitch screamed like she was going to eat him tartare.
“You move I’ll blow your brains out motherfucker’ Minx gyrated.
Patrons drank. Backup cops burst through the front door, far away across the dark, smoky room. West had a knee on Colt’s beefy back, and was busy snapping cuffs on his wrists, tight behind him. Brazil looked on in awe. Cops hauled Colt and the drunk dudes to jail. Minx saw her chance and walked off her runway, plucking lousy folded dollar bills out of her garter, wrapping up in a sweatshirt, and lighting a cigarette, out of here for good this time.
“Why did I let you get me into this?” West was saying as she unlocked their car.
“I don’t do this any more for a reason.”
She climbed in, yanking the seatbelt across her chest, cranking the engine.
Both of them were excited and trying not to show it. Brazil held together his ruined uniform shirt, which was missing half its buttons.
West noted that he had a very well-developed chest to go with those shoulders and arms and legs. She instantly stopped transmitting any and all signals,
such as body language or glances or words or heat.
Where was all this coming from, anyway? Outer space. Not from her. No sir. She opened the glove box, and rummaged until she found the tiny stapler she was sure was in there somewhere.
“Hold still,” she said to him, as if it were an order.
She leaned close because there was no other way to correct the situation, and gathered his shirt together, and began stapling.
Brazil’s heart picked up speed. He could smell her hair, his own seeming to stand on end. He did not move. He was terrified to even breathe as her fingers brushed against him. He knew she could tell what he was feeling, and if he as much as twitched and inadvertently touched her somewhere, she would never believe it was an accident.