Santa Monica E-Book

Bo Dodge

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Santa Monica, 1976. As a bouncer, Jack Spark won't let troublesome customers in the club and in his life, until he makes a pact with locksmith Monica Gucci.

Monica installs the locks and gives him the spare key so he can break in later. Jack's ex-boss Fats Foley also wants a piece of the action and has his sights set on the fortune of Randy Wells, a Mormon and leader of three women he calls Randy's Angels.

Randy is rich as hell and is known as the Healer who drives out bad spirits. But the worst spirit is Randy himself, because everything is staged. Partners in crime, Jack and Monica make a golden duo... but have they opened one door too many?

Leseprobe

SANTA MONICA

LA SERIES

BOOK ONE

BO DODGE

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

About the Author

The press About Bo Dodge & his LA Series

Copyright (C) 2022 Bo Dodge

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Originally published by Houtekiet, VBK

Cover art by CoverMint

Translated by Josh Pachter

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

CHAPTER1

Jack Spark didn’t let nobody in. Not nobody, not no how. They didn’t have a pass, they didn’t get in. That’s why Fats had hired him, to guard the entrance to the club.

He was a Sphinx, Jack, which is what they came around to calling him.

Hey, check it out, man, there’s the fuckin’ Sphinx.

Jack didn’t care, as long as nobody kicked up a fuss when he turned them away.

He was a brick wall. Worst case scenario, he took half a step forward and stuck out his chest. Kind of like, yo, take a hike, friend, there’s nothin’ for you in there.

Jack didn’t dig the word “bouncer.” He never actually bounced anybody. He just didn’t let ‘em through the door in the first place.

First thing he’d asked Fats Foley — the owner of Studio 74, a superhip top-end nightclub on West Sunset — was, “So, I stand there three nights a week like a ton a bricks, and you slip me 200 bucks a night?”

“That’s the gig, Jackie: you get paid for bein’ a party pooper. You in?”

“I keep everybody out, who’s in here dancing to the Bee Gees?”

“We don’t play that Bee Gees shit, and obviously you don’t keep everybody out,” Foley said. “This joint’s exclusive, but you think I’m in here doin’ the hustle by myself? You’ll be amazed, Jackie: the more citizens you turn away, the more of ‘em’ll be lined up the next night waitin’ to get in. You know how word spreads in this town. People are gonna want to know how come so-and-so got in but some other son of a bitch didn’t. And the more schmucks line up outside, the more special the lucky bastards who make it through the door will feel. And you know what happens then, Jackie? When they’re in here feelin’ special?”

“No idea,” said Jack.

“The more special they feel, the more money they spend.”

“So which ones you want me to let in?” Jack asked. “I mean, what’s the norm?”

“Norm?” Foley laughed. “Jack, there’s no ‘norm.’”

“Then how do I know who gets in? There some kind of password?”

“Nah,” said Foley. “Passwords are like from the Middle Ages. This is a hip club, not fuckin’ Camelot.”

“What, then?”

“I had passes made up, VIP passes. They flash a pass, you let ‘em through. Simple.”

“Passes,” said Jack. “You mean like membership cards? Like at the gym?”

“Exactly. Some of ‘em are good for a month, some are one-time-only. You don’t have to worry about the passes, that’s my department. Your job’s just keep the losers without ‘em outside.”

“Do I get a pass?”

“What for? You’re not comin’ in. You stay outside, on guard.”

“Like in ‘Nam,” said Jack. “I’m the lookout.”

“Something like that.” Foley clapped Jack on the shoulder. All he had to remember was: they showed a pass, he swung the door open. No pass, he kept them out.

“You want the job,” said Foley, “and I can’t see why you wouldn’t, you can start tonight. You get a nice suit, a dress shirt, a tie and an ear.”

That one went over Jack’s head. He already had two ears.

“Like a walkie-talkie,” Fats explained. “So you can stay in touch with me.”

“Cool,” said Jack.

A walkie-talkie. Jesus, he should have known. By the time he’d come home from ‘Nam, a couple years back, the whole world had changed.

They were sitting in the club’s main room, a disco ball hanging from the middle of the ceiling. Foley — thin as a rail, the Invisible Man in a white silk suit — was drinking a rum punch. Jack had a Cuba Libre. The suit, shirt and tie were waiting for him on the bar. A pair of mirrored sunglasses sat on top of the clothes.

“Why the shades?” Jack asked.

“You don’t have to wear ‘em all the time, but they might come in handy. When they can’t see your eyes, it makes you mysterious, gives you more power.”

“But I’m working nights?” asked Jack. “After dark?” He couldn’t for the life of him imagine why he’d want to put on a pair of sunglasses to do this job.

“The last guy wore ‘em. He said they prevented misunderstandings. I mean, we get some weirdos, Jack. Say some joker shows up without a pass, you tell him to buzz off, but he thinks he sees you wink at him and figures you don’t really mean it, suddenly you got yourself a confrontation. The last guy said the shades were like a shield, a mask. You put ‘em on, nobody messes with you. You’re fuckin’ Batman.”

“What happened to him?” asked Jack.

“Who, Batman?”

“No, the last guy. How come he left?”

“He got fed up.”

“Fed up?”

“The confrontations, you know?” Foley slurped his rum punch. “He got sick of gettin’ beat on.”

Jack didn’t understand. A bouncer doesn’t get beat on. He beats on the other clown, when the other clown tries to slip past him.

“It only happened one time,” said Foley. “When the jerks are on their own, you can handle ‘em easy. But this one asshole got turned away and came back with like six of his buddies. I guess they messed the last guy up pretty bad, broke everything but the shades.”

“And then they came in the club?” asked Jack.

“You’re not gonna believe this. They were not the kind of customer I want, but here they were. And they weren’t here to dance, you know what I mean? The place was packed. The DJ was playing the Commodores. ‘Machine Gun.’ So the buddies head for the bar, and the first asshole squeezes onto the dance floor and taps one of my regulars on the shoulder like he wants to cut in and dance with his date.”

“Yeah?”

“Then all of a sudden there’s a gun in his hand, and he blows the fuckin’ guy’s brains out.”

“Jesus,” said Jack.

“Yeah. So the Commodores go right on playing, and the asshole and his buddies turn around and stroll on out. They step over Batman — who’s still lying out there on the sidewalk, pretty much unconscious — and head off into the night. I never saw any of them again.”

Jack was silent. Fats Foley wasn’t exactly making the job sound attractive.

“But the way I see it, Jackie, it was all Batman’s fault. If he’d a done his job, they wouldn’t a got through the door, and we’d all still be dancing to the Commodores, you know what I’m sayin’? The guy just didn’t do his job. So I went to see him in the hospital, brought him a bunch of flowers and two weeks’ severance pay. ‘Cause when it comes to my club, I got no room for people don’t do their job. I’m tellin’ you that up front.”

“Yeah, I get the picture.”

But Jack wasn’t sure he did get the picture, not all of it. Foley was looking for a scapegoat, someone to blame for what had happened. The way Jack saw it, the last guy was lucky to have survived his final night on the job. Maybe he ought to think twice about putting himself in the same position. Nah, he only had to remember ‘Nam, the rotting corpses, the stink of napalm, the Saigon whores. That was all three years in the past, but he still hadn’t got a handle on the next chapter of his life. Maybe this was finally it.

“That asshole with the gun came to cap my regular,” Fats went on, “but I think he was pissed off the last guy wouldn’t let him in, and that’s why he fetched his buddies. I mean, how come other schmucks were gettin’ through the door but not him?”

“Yeah, that’s what I keep asking myself,” said Jack. “How come some people get passes and others don’t? You got a dress code? You want more women than men?”

“There’s no code. Every night’s different. Some times I let ‘em in wearing sneakers, other times not. Some times I keep it funky and cool, other times I like to see the men in suits. It’s like life, Jackie: every day’s a new surprise, you never know what to expect.”

“So you’re playing God.”

“That’s right — and now God’s offering you a job.”

Jack let that sink in.

“The last guy’s not coming back?”

“Not an option. He can barely walk. I mean, they really did a number on him. He’s practically crippled.”

Jack had to let that sink in, too. “You got anything else for me?” he asked, glancing at the uniform laid out on the bar. “A piece?”

“A piece? What are you gonna do with a gun, stick it in their face they try to slip past you? You’re a bouncer, Jack, not Wyatt Earp. Jesus, how long were you in fuckin’ ‘Nam, man?”

“You make it sound like I’m puttin’ my life on the line here.”

“Maybe I’m exaggerating a little. I mean, look at you. You got nothing to worry about. You’re gonna keep the beard, right? It works. You look like some Roman centurion or something, you don’t even need the shades. What do you weigh? Two hundred pounds, 210?”

Jack nodded. He weighed in at a little over 200, height just under 6’2”. He was in excellent shape, sharp as a razor.

“You won’t have no trouble,” Foley said. “Trust me, you tell ‘em they can’t come in, they’ll turn around and walk away, meek as kittens. Christ, they’ll apologize for bothering you. I mean, you’re an imposing guy, Jack. You’re a fuckin’ Pharaoh.”

Jack knew Fats was buttering him up, but he didn’t really have much choice. He hadn’t had a decent gig since ‘Nam. He’d traveled around the States for a while after getting back, and what he hadn’t seen didn’t interest him.

Actually, the thing that attracted him about Fats Foley’s offer was how totally dumb it sounded. Stand in front of a door for a couple hours a night and get paid for it? That was a heck of a lot better than standing guard in the jungle, knowing every second might be your last. Compared to that, this was a fairy tale — with Jack as the prince.

Foley was saying something about the rules. What Jack could and couldn’t do if there was trouble. He couldn’t lay a hand on nobody unless they threw the first punch. After all, Jack’s side of the door wasn’t the club, it was the free world, which — according to Fats Foley the philosopher — was exactly what Jack had been fighting for in ‘Nam. He couldn’t let himself be distracted, Fats warned him, not by some hot girl strolling past, not by a fight breaking out in the street, not by his own mother. Anything that caught his attention could be a diversion, a trick.

Jack knew about diversionary tactics. After all, he was the one who’d been in ‘Nam. He’d been on his guard since the moment he busted out of the womb.

“All right, I’m in,” he said.

“Welcome aboard,” said Foley.

It didn’t strike Jack until later that he wasn’t actually coming aboard. His job was to remain ashore and keep the undesirables from coming aboard.

“You’re gonna need a nickname,” Foley told him. “But you don’t have to come up with it yourself. It won’t take long before somebody hands you one.”

Jack nodded.

And it hadn’t taken long before somebody’d come up with “the Sphinx.” In ‘Nam, he’d had a different nickname, but he hadn’t used it since his return. It called up too many bad memories.

“Some of these assholes will try to bribe you to let them in,” said Foley. “I don’t have to tell you that’s against the rules.” He stood up and held out a hand. Jack tossed back the last of his Cuba Libre and got to his feet and shook. “You’re blind, Jackie. You put on those sunglasses, man, you’re not just a bouncer, you’re fuckin’ Stevie Wonder. Hey, you hear the new double album? It’s amazing.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll take the shades, after all,” Jack said.

That was the first and only time Jack Spark ever saw the inside of Studio 74. From that moment on, his place was on the outside, listening to the disco beat that pulsed behind the club’s front door. He would let in the lucky souls who could show him their VIP passes, wave away the slobs who couldn’t, and whistle up a cab for the poor dopes who had too much to drink inside. If some steamy couple stood there French kissing right beneath his nose, he would pay them no never mind. He would just stand there manning the door.

In a very real way, he would be the door.

“Hey, you know we had Neil Diamond and Paul Simon in here last week?” said Foley, as he walked Jack out to his post. “And the week before last, Burt Reynolds. He shaved off his mustache, the last guy almost didn’t recognize him. Gunsmoke, man. Deliverance. God damn!” He came to a stop and grabbed Jack’s arm. “Listen, Jackie, celebs like that, you let them in, okay? Pass or no pass.”

“Pass or no pass,” Jack echoed.

CHAPTER2

It was one of those nights when West Sunset was practically deserted. No cars in the street, no trash in the gutters, not a taste of smog in the air. Jack, leaning back against the door in his suit and tie, his shades over his eyes, the ear in his ear, hands clasped as if he was praying they might let him in. The way Jack saw it, a bouncer was a creature of the night, like Travis Bickle in that new DeNiro flick.

He’d been on the job for a couple days now, felt less and less like a bouncer. He was a guard dog, Jack, that was his mission. He stood there, hours on end, a shadow, keeping Fats Foley’s club safe from the riffraff, the junkies, the homeless, the hookers, the lowlifes. Jack kept them all out. He didn’t judge them — but the simple act of denying them entry told them what he thought of them. Jack Spark, a soldier at his post, aloof from the street, where violence lay in wait. He stood there, rain or shine, parked beneath the Studio 74 marquis, in the mist, in the fog, in the exhaust spat out by passing cars.

Some nights the gutters ran with blood, with puke, with piss. He had no idea where it all came from, didn’t let it bug him. He just stood there, like Cerberus at the gate to the underworld, while the denizens of the LA night flowed by, fast and furious. He didn’t care who they were or what they looked like, just did his job, separated the wheat from the chaff. He was like a shepherd, bringing his little lambs in from the fields, protecting them from danger.

Things had to get better, now the war was over. What good had the hippies done? Let ‘em do their thing, whatever it was. Jesus, if Fats wasn’t paying him for this gig, he’d do it for free. Give society a helping hand.

It was after midnight when a woman in a tight tank top and cutoff jeans came around the corner. Jack raised his shades to get a better look at her. She reminded him of that chocolate goddess from Star Trek, Uhura. Small, sharp and sexy. There was something cheap about her, though. Probably just another hoe. Except no stiletto heels, so maybe not. A purse snatcher who’d ripped off some lady’s handbag? Nah, she wasn’t carrying a purse.

She came right up to Jack, her steps quick and certain. But he could see she was about to lose it. And she didn’t just happen to be hotfooting it along West Sunset, no. She wanted in. Her feet kept moving in place, like a jogger waiting to cross the street who doesn’t want to lose her rhythm.

“Open up,” she said.

Jack didn’t do nothing. If she was going to use that tone, she could just forget it.

“I said let me in, Chief.”

Jack snorted. “You could be polite about it. Probably wouldn’t hurt you none.”

“Would you open the door for me, please?”

“Why?”

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Go home, sister,” said Jack.

“Do you understand English, Chief? I said I want in.”

“You think treatin’ me like crap’s gonna work?”

The woman glanced back over her shoulder. She really did look like Uhura.

“I don’t think you belong here,” said Jack. “This is a private club.” He took his half-step forward and got a whiff of her. “You need to go home and freshen up your perfume.”

“I know it’s a private club, you lummox. Now let me in. I just ran five blocks. You think I like standing out here sweating like a pig?”

“Nobody gets in without a pass,” said Jack. If the Army’d taught him anything, it was how to follow orders.

“I got a pass, Holmes, I forgot it at home, that’s all. Let me in. It’s urgent.”

Again she looked behind her, like she was expecting a platoon of cops to come scurrying around the corner. Jack figured she was putting on an act, and he didn’t fall for it. She belonged out here on the street, not in the club.

“You want in, you better go back home and pick up your pass,” he said. “Otherwise, no dice.”

“They’re going to kill me,” she said. “Please, let me in.”

Jack had seen some pretty crazy acts in his brief time as the Studio 74 bouncer. You had your numbskulls who made like they had to take an urgent piss and threatened to whip it out right there on the doorstep. You had your jokers who swore they’d just now come out to get some fresh air and had accidentally left their pass back in the club. The chicks had their own little tricks: they’d skootch right up against Jack, their tits all soft and promising. Yeah, he’d just about seen it all.

But Jack was made of concrete, he never gave an inch. He had to laugh when he thought back to last night, when some dude in shades and a scarf draped around his neck scurried up and insisted he had to get in to see the boss. Jack did his thing, right, and sent the creep packing. Only it turned out it was Fats Foley himself, checking to make sure Jack was on the ball. How d’ya like them apples?

“I almost had you, right?” Fats laughed. “But you’re okay, Jackie. I can count on you. Listen, everybody in LA knows I run this place. Some schmuck tells you he knows me, it don’t mean a thing. Everybody knows Fats Foley.”

Jack nodded. And then, when Fats reached out a hand for the door, he said, “You got a pass, boss?”

Foley grinned at that one — but when he took another step, Jack gently held him back and said, “No, really, boss, where’s your pass?”

Foley blinked at him, until Jack’s concrete face cracked a smile.

“Kidding, boss,” he said.

Had to show the guy who was really in charge out here.

But now there was this lady, and there was no way she was Fats Foley in drag, not in a hundred years. She looked desperate. She didn’t look like she had a pass.

“Sorry, babe, but them’s the rules. You don’t like it, tell the boss. Except you can’t, because you don’t get in without a pass. That’s a, whaddacallit, a paradox.”

“Cut the shit, Chief. I’m serious. They’re after me. They’ll kill me if you don’t let me in.”

“What, a pretty girl like you?”

The cool thing about the shades was that Jack could check Uhura out without her knowing. She wasn’t just putting on an act, it was a crappy act. But he didn’t mind standing there shootin’ the breeze with her.

“You can’t come up with a better story than that?” he asked.

“Look, Fats is expecting me. Just let me in. I mean, what’s your problem?” Another look back. “You don’t let me in, I’ll be dead, it’ll be on your conscience. Is that what you want?”

“No,” said Jack.

Uhura stopped running in place, relieved now.

“I want you to hit the bricks,” he said. “You’re blocking my view.”

She was silent for a second, checked the street behind her yet again, then gave it one last try. “They’re going to murder me, man! Are you deaf? Why would I lie about this?”

Okay, that was a little better, but Jack still didn’t buy it. He sure wasn’t going to risk his job on it. He could barely afford the rent on his apartment.

He scoped out the street. Nobody there. Who did she think was out to get her? Problem was Fats Foley had already tried to mess with him once. This chick might be one of his regular punches. I mean, all he really had to do was sit up there in his office, counting the evening’s take and giving the staff a hard time. On top of that, Jack wasn’t in the Army no more, but he still knew how to follow orders. Back in ‘Nam, they told him to guard some pissant hooch, he damn well made sure nobody got in there.

“I don’t see nobody,” said Jack.

Soon as he said it, two black teenagers came strutting around the corner, deep in conversation. Drank in the sight of the Nubian princess with the long eyelashes and the luscious lips, but never stopped chattering for a second. They both wore ratty bell-bottomed jeans and leather jackets over untucked ugly orange shirts with long pointed collars. One had dreadlocks, the other’s hair was short and nappy. From the doorstep, Jack could smell the cloud of reefer.

“Those the guys after you?” asked Jack. “Bob Marley and his homie?”

“I’m serious.”

“What are those little brothers gonna do? Stick a knife in your ribs?”

The two gangbangers were about 10 feet off. One of them, with the dreads, reached around like he was fixing to yank a pistol from behind his back. Maybe something was up, after all. But it was none of Jack’s bidnis, not even if went down right in front of him. What happened in the street had nothing to do with the club. He settled his shades on the bridge of his nose. He was Stevie Wonder.

“Hurry!” Uhura begged him.

Bob Marley’s hand came back into view, but there was nothing in it. No pistol, no knife, no grenade. Nada. He tucked the front of his shirt into his jeans, and Jack drew a slow breath.

“That was a close one,” he said. “I thought you were history.”

The teenagers moved on past and out of sight.

“I was pretty scared,” he said.

Now she was looking at the door again.

“So who told you Tavares was throwing a party here tonight?” asked Jack.

Foley had let him know that a black stretch limo would be pulling up around midnight, delivering five ultrahip soul brothers — actual brothers, related by blood — who would be playing a live show on Studio 74’s small stage.

“You can hit ‘em up for autographs, Jackie,” Foley had said, “but you don’t need to ask ‘em for a pass.”

Uhura stood there goggling at him. “Tavares?”

“You know, ‘Heaven Must Be Missing an Angel’? You’re a fan, right? I don’t think you’re the angel.”

“You’re playing games with my life, Chief. I’m telling you, Fats and I go — ”

“Second verse, same as the first,” Jack cut her off. “A little bit louder and a whole lot worse.”

All things considered, it was a quiet night, so, when the limo pulled around the corner, Jack would have bet his shades it was the one Foley had told him to expect.

“Here they are,” he said, “right on time. Step aside, please.”

The stretch pulled to a stop before the club, its windows tinted dark so you couldn’t see in, its engine purring. Five slender black men stepped out of the back, decked out in identical vanilla three-piece suits and purple silk shirts, a couple of them carrying instruments in their hands. Jack swung open the door, and Tavares glided past him as if he was St. Peter ushering them through the Pearly Gates. Inside the club, the DJ was spinning the Meters’ “Hand Clapping Song.” Jack’s hand was clapped against Uhura’s shoulder, holding her back, her straining against the pressure, the door open, her goal in sight. Once all five fifths of Tavares were safely deposited, Jack eased the door shut behind them, never taking his eyes off Uhura.

“What d’ya think?” he said. “Are those guys cool, or what?”

Whatever cool Uhura might once have possessed was now completely gone. There was nothing left for her to do but give it up and take off. All that stuff about they’re gonna murder her was just a line. Now Tavares — that was reality.

“Whyn’t you just go home?” he said. “Take a cold shower, get your act together. Come back another time and try again.”

“You bastard,” she said.

She’d given up. Either that, or she just didn’t even believe it herself, any more. The dreads, the limo, Tavares, it was all too much. And then she raised a hand and slapped Jack’s face. A real slap, sharp, right on the cheek, like you see in the movies. It didn’t faze Jack, though. He barely felt it.

“I’ll get you an autograph, you want one,” he said. “Anything for a pal, that’s me. You hadn’t oughta handed me all that baloney, though. You told me the truth, who knows, I might’ve let you in.”

That brought her back to life. She came up close, grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket and pulled his ear down to her lips.

“They are going to kill me,” she whispered, pausing after each word for effect. “You have to help me. Fats is expecting me.”

“He didn’t say a word to me.”

“Ask him,” she whispered. “I know you got a walkie-talkie. Buzz him and tell him I’m out here, I forgot to bring the stupid pass he gave me. You can do that, can’t you?”

Was this another bluff? Could be. But Jack didn’t mind playing out the hand. What else did he have to do?

He thumbed a button on the walkie-talkie and said, “Boss, I got somebody out here says you’re expecting her.”

And then two things happened at once.

From behind the closed door to the club, Tavares kicked their first number into gear with the clash of a cymbal.

And a second limo swung around the corner, pulled up to the curb. This one disgorged no quintet of funksters. All that happened was the tinted back window slid noiselessly open.

For the second time that evening, Jack raised his shades. The black window went down, and the mirrored Ray-Bans went up.

“She got a name?” Fats’ voice growled in his ear.

Jack turned to ask her who she was, but he never got the chance.

CHAPTER3

Jack could tell right away the guy in the limo wasn’t Tavares’ manager. The way the back window slid down was a dead giveaway, as was the black-gloved hand that appeared in the opening … as was the gun the black-gloved hand held pointed at the back of Uhura’s head.

There was no time to tell her she’d been right all along, no time to apologize for doubting her, no time to protect her, to fling open the Studio 74 door and shove her through it. This was the real deal, not some scene out of Foxy Brown. And there was no time to do a thing about it.

Nobody stepped out of the limo, but when Uhura turned to see what was going on, she took three bullets right in the chest. Boom, boom, boom. No silencer, but you could hardly hear the shots over the throbbing beat from the club.

It just happened. The three slugs knocked Uhura into him, and all he had to do was catch her. But he was so surprised he never moved his hands. She bounced off him and collapsed to the sidewalk.

Jesus Christ, it was just like ‘Nam. Except in the jungle, if Charlie popped out of some hole in the ground and nailed one of his buddies, Jack’s M16A1 would be chattering return fire before the body hit the deck. Here, he had nothing, as in zero point zero. What was it Foley had said about giving him a piece? Don’t worry, buddy, the shades are all you’ll need.

And look at him now, with Uhura’s blood all over his beautiful suit and her body splayed motionless on the asphalt. There wasn’t much Jack could do. He could rip open the door to the club and — without a pass, but he figured the rules didn’t really apply in a situation like this one — dive for cover. Or he could hold his ground and make like this was a typical night at Studio 74, play the sphinx and act like he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary from behind his shades.

He chose Plan B.

He was almost shitting his pants, but he stood there like a rock, staring straight ahead, right at the limo’s open window, at the gun. In for a penny, he thought, and he stood there, just like in ‘Nam, eyeball to eyeball with the enemy in the dark. He didn’t move a muscle, like he was saying, see, this is what they get if they don’t have a pass.

The gloved hand disappeared back into the stretch, but then the door opened and Jack saw that the shooter was about to step out into the street. He wasn’t gonna check Uhura for a pulse. No, he probably meant to take Jack out from point-blank range. But why not just ice him from the safety of the car?

Jack was starting to get nervous. He had a good act and all, but it was just an act. The shades, the suit, the muscles had been working for him so far, but he didn’t think they’d stack up all that great against a gun. As the gloved hand started to move, though, two familiar figures came around the corner. The Bluejeans Brothers, strolling back from stocking up at the 7-Eleven, getting a load of what was going down, their eyes bugging out of their heads.

Jack heard a cough from the sidewalk, and he realized Uhura wasn’t dead. She lay there moaning, gasping for breath. Beam me up, Scotty. Jack’s gaze swiveled to Bob Marley and Nappy, then back to the limo. The shooter reversed course and slammed the door, and a second later the stretch was burning rubber down West Sunset.

Jack took a breath, something Uhura was having trouble with. For the rest of his life, he would wonder if it was the shades, his attitude, his cool, that had saved his sorry butt.

The limo screeched around the corner and gone, and the two black stoners took off in the opposite direction, putting distance between themselves and the gun, between themselves and Jack.

He crouched down beside the dying woman. He wanted to ask her why she hadn’t told him somebody really did want to kill her. He didn’t mean to criticize, but you’d think Jack Spark would be able to spot an actual murder in the offing. Come on, he’d been in Vietnam.

“Who are you?” he asked.

She shook her head. Wrong question.

“Should I get the boss?”

But what could Fats do? It was too late to change what had happened.

She fumbled for the pocket of her cutoff jeans.

“What is it?” he asked her. “What are you looking for?”

She tried to say something, or maybe it was just a sigh. Jack, still hidden behind the Ray-Bans, rolled her onto her side and worked his meaty paw into her pocket.

“Don’t tell me you actually got a pass,” he said.

She shook her head, and the plea in her eyes told him she wanted him to go on doing what he was doing. She touched her fingertips to the back of his hand and breathed her final breath, and there was Jack, one hand in the pocket of a dead goddess.

Now what?

He looked up and down the street. Any second, Bob and Nappy would be on the phone to the cops, and it wouldn’t take them long to get there.

He suddenly realized Tavares was still playing. In fact, they were tearing the place apart. Any other night, some drunk would have staggered out of the club by now to upchuck in the gutter, but tonight they were all glued to the stage. Just as well: the show out here wasn’t nearly as entertaining.

Jack was about to free his hand from Uhura’s pocket when he felt something. He worked it loose. A key, on a silver chain, unlike any key he’d ever seen before.

He got to his feet.

“It only takes a minute, girl,” the Tavares brothers sang, “to fall in love, to fall in love.”

Jack examined the key. In ‘Nam, he’d collected the dog tags of his fallen comrades and hung them around his neck with his own debossed metal ID. Now, to keep it safe, he pulled Uhura’s chain over his head and tucked the key inside his shirt.

Time to bring Fats up to speed. In all the excitement, his earbud had worked loose from its place, and he screwed it back where it belonged. But before he could say a word, he heard the boss shouting at him.

Fats Foley sat behind his desk in his office upstairs at Studio 74 and watched through the window overlooking the club as Tavares came in. He’d just finished counting the evening’s take, dividing the bills into piles by denomination. Later, he’d band each pile and stick it all in the safe. The safe was hidden behind the framed gold record which hung over Fats’ private wet bar. But he’d deal with that later. Right now, he couldn’t peel his eyes from the brothers Tavares.

“Jesus,” he sighed, “that hair. I can’t believe their mother lets ‘em leave the house like that.”

Yet here they were, in his club. Fats swung his chair around to the stereo that sat on the long sideboard behind his desk. He’d put the final Satan’s Suspenders album on the turntable, and for 15 minutes he’d been playing the last couple seconds of the disk’s last song backwards, over and over again, trying to hear the secret Satanic message that was supposed to be there. If it was there, it had to be in Swahili, because he sure couldn’t hear it in English.

He lifted the needle from the groove and set it on the pickup arm rest. Then he went to the window and looked down onto the dance floor. He had to smile. He didn’t even like Tavares. He didn’t like any disco. And what he liked least of all was the dickwads twitching around spastically on the floor with this new Puerto Rican breakdancing shit that had recently trickled west from New York. Whenever the B-boys started in, Fats wished they’d B-break their B-backs, the B-bastards.

He watched the five Afro’ed brothers set up on stage and launch into their act. Their white teeth glistened in the pinpoints of light that reflected off the disco ball.

“Where is that bitch?” he asked his empty office.

He looked over the crowd’s heads toward the club’s entrance. He’d told her to make it as quick as she could, hadn’t he? Jesus, he’d warned her to get here before Tavares, otherwise she’d have to crowdsurf across the dance floor to reach the flight of stairs that led up to Fats’ lair. He could just imagine the horny mob pawing her as they passed her along above their heads. And then of course Fats himself would finish what they’d started and bone her but good.

“Where the fuck is she?”

She wouldn’t have the stones to stand him up, would she?

Fats grabbed his walkie-talkie. Down below, Tavares was rocking the house. He pressed the talk button. “Hey, Jack, you there?”

All he heard was static.

“Hey, Jack! Jackie!”

Must be a bad connection.

“Jack Spark, where are you?” he shouted.

“Right here, Fats.”

He could hardly hear the guy, but at least he was there.

“Listen, Jackie, buddy, I — ”

“Fats, I — ”

Fats could hear the bouncer was out of breath. What was he up to out there? Running a couple laps around the block to stay in shape? God damn it, he wasn’t supposed to be exerting himself, he was supposed to plant his feet and put down roots. Was he slippin’ the tongue to some teenybopper trying to bribe her way in to get a close-up look at Tavares?

“Listen, Jackie, you let anybody in except the band, the last five minutes?”

Radio silence. Fats ran his fingers through his hair. Was that really such a hard question?

“Jack?”

“Fats, we got a situation out here, man.”

“Did you understand me, Jack? I wouldn’t axe you if it wasn’t important. You let anybody else in, or not?” This time, he didn’t wait for an answer. “A special lady, with a special pass. She turn up yet, Jackie?”

Fats heard a deep sigh, like Jack Spark was the Big Bad Wolf, fixin’ to huff and puff and blow the Studio 74 door down.

“What’s with the sigh, Jack?”

“Fats, this is a Mayday, man.”

“What do you mean, Mayday?”

“I mean Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. You better call the cops.”

“I’m not calling any cops. What the fuck are you talking about? Is there somebody out there with you?”

“I guess that depends how you look at it.”

“How I — how do you look at it, Jack?”

“Well….”

“What the fuck is going on?”

“I got somebody on the ground out here, Fats.”

“What? Who is he?”

“He’s a she, boss.”

“Who?”

This was ridiculous. Fats stared over the dancers at the inside of the front door. What he ought to do was go down there himself and take a look, but it would cost him half an hour to bull his way through the humanity. No, whatever it was, he’d have to handle it from here.

“Tell me what’s going on,” he said tightly. “Who’s on the ground? Somebody have too much to drink? She in the gutter? I hope that’s what you’re telling me.”

“No,” said Jack.

“What, then?”

“She — she’s dead, Fats.”

“What?”

Fats looked around the office. Up here, he was completely cut off from the world. On an island. In a spaceship.

“What are you telling me? Dead?”

“I think so.”