Knave of Broken Hearts (13 page)

“Shit, man.”

“Nothing to get worried about, the doc says. Just something to observe.”

“Did that fuck up your insurance?”

“No, the doc says I should get it anyway.”

“Sounds like a good guy.”

“Yeah, he is. So I’m gonna keep working for a while. Why don’t you guys go home and we’ll start again tomorrow at 6:30? We should have drawings for the other suite to take to the city too.”

Charlie clapped his shoulder. “You should quit too. Go home and rest the ticker.”

“I will. Soon. Thanks, you guys.” He walked over and stared down at the plans while Charlie and Raoul gathered their stuff behind him.

“Night, Jim.”

“Night.” His eyes wouldn’t focus. His heart hurt, and mitral valve prolapse didn’t figure into it at all.

K
EN
STARED
out the car window at the seedy-looking little club on the west side of Costa Mesa. He didn’t want to go over there.
So what do you want to do, asshole? Sit here and worry about Jim Carney’s heart and Jim Carney’s love life?
Shit! He stepped out of the car onto the dirt. He’d parked across the street in a pay lot. That might save his car from destruction, but who knew? Maybe the lot owner specialized in stealing Lexus parts.

As he approached, a few kids lined up to go in—some of them clearly experts in driver’s license art. Ken had worn his tightest black jeans, a rock band T-shirt, and his hair floppy. He’d even added some eyeliner and black fingernail polish, despite the fact that it was a pain to take off. Still, he felt like these kids’ father. Well, maybe older brother. The one telling them to grow up and get a job.

The bouncer at the door was having a loud altercation with two young girls who looked more like they should be viewing Mickey Mouse than Mickey Okuwa. Ken cut in front, nodded at the guy, and walked in. The place smelled bad. Like sweat and old smoke. Not big, it had a bunch of small tables and chairs crowded around a stage and torn linoleum on the floor. Some guys fiddled with electronic gear while the patrons who occupied about half the tables looked bored.

Ken spied a table a ways back from the stage. At least he might have eardrums by tomorrow if he chose wisely. He slipped into a chair and smiled at the waitress who hurried over. She must figure he could pay for a drink. She’d be disappointed. “Ginger ale, please.”

“Oh, okay.”

He handed her eight dollars. Even after the $5.00 charge for soda, it left her a tip. “Keep the change.”

That made her smile.

“Charming the natives already. Mickey warned me.” The voice came from over Ken’s shoulder. He glanced back at a young guy with a hawkish but still attractive face and a body so skinny he could pose for heroin chic ads.

“So Mickey’s been talking, has he?”

“Oh yes.” The guy walked in front of Ken. “I’m GG Shinoda. I have a table closer to the band I was holding for you.”

“Sorry. Self-preservation. I don’t know how bad the acoustics are.”

“What acoustics?” He laughed. “Mind if I sit down?”

“No. Please.”

GG folded himself into one of the uncomfortable chairs. “A couple other friends of Mickey’s are coming too. Can I save space for them?”

“Fine. I’m not sure how long I’ll stay.”

“Oh, I hope long enough to get to hear Mickey’s best tunes.”

“You let me know when those are coming, okay?” He grinned.

Two other guys, also in their early twenties, showed up. One was Anglo, with blond hair and pimples. GG identified him as Harry. The other was a burly Asian guy who would have been a contender for sumo competition if he’d been in Japan. Tommy. The chair protested under his bulk. It was a near thing, but the wood and plastic held.

Squawks and squeals came from the sound system, and the audience shrieked and clapped hands over their ears. Some girl shouted, “Come on. Get on with it.”

GG managed to stay beside Ken throughout the arrivals, moving a little closer each time.

GG clinked his glass against Ken’s. “To good music.” He smiled wolfishly. “What you drinking? Whiskey and soda? Want another?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.” No use disillusioning him as to Ken’s coolness. A band took the stage and started in on some cover of somebody Ken had never heard of and would have hated if he had. Ken stared around. “Where’s Mickey?

“This is an opening act. They’ll just do two numbers, then on with the big guns.”

Ken chose not to argue as to the size of the weaponry and tried hard not to grimace as the really bad band played.

GG leaned in but still had to raise his voice. “So you’re gay.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Nothing. Just want to get that out of the way.” He sipped his beer. “You bottom or top?”

Ken raised an eyebrow. “Who wants to know?”

“Me. ’Cause I’m a top, baby, and I like to know when I have a welcoming asshole.”

“Have you considered the possibility that you’re the asshole?”

GG laughed loud enough to be heard over the dreadful music. “You’re really cute.”

An announcer took over the microphone. “And now, the guys you’ve been waiting for. Here’s Mickey and the Madmen.”

Ken glanced at GG, but the guy’s eyes were riveted to the stage. Must be a fan of the “big guns.”

Mickey and the Madmen began to play. Compared to the opening act, they were Mozart, but that was saying very little. Mickey did have a charisma it was tough to deny. More charisma than voice, actually, but he waggled his tight butt and moaned into the microphone and the girls screamed.

GG leaned in and yelled, “You like them?”

“Yeah. They’re great.” No use explaining subtleties in this cacophony. Ken looked up at the stage and got a wink from Mickey. He grinned back.

The band segued into a second number that was slow and sexy—read moanier. Mickey practically swallowed the microphone. A glance at GG showed the guy was glassy-eyed and sported an erection the size of Utah in his tight jeans. He must really like Mickey.

Ken picked up his ginger ale and took a swig. A movement made him look to the side to find GG staring at him avidly.
What the fuck?
He turned back to the stage and started to take another drink.
Wait.
His mouth tasted strange. He looked at the glass. Small blue dots bubbled through the liquid, and icy fear shot up his spine.

No fucking way.
Carefully he set the glass down.
Did GG do it? He must have.
How fast would it act? Could he get to his car?
Shit!
He plastered on a smile. “Excuse me. Men’s room.”

GG’s eyes widened. “You’re not going to leave before Mickey’s done?”

“Sorry, man, when you gotta go, you gotta go.” He stood as assuredly as he could, but his feet felt cold and black flashes popped in front of his eyes. Not much time. He strode toward the front of the club, saw a sign for restrooms, and lurched toward them. The people in the seats freaked even though nobody looked glued to the music.

“Hey, man, out of the way.”

“Sit down.”

“Fucking move, asshole.”

He banged his back against the men’s room door and kind of fell so he wound up in the bathroom and managed to stagger into a stall and flop on a toilet seat. His whole body felt cold. Thank God he hadn’t consumed more or he’d be paralyzed by now.

Something big and solid hit the outside of the men’s room door. Instinctively, he pulled his feet up onto the seat.

The big guy, Tommy’s voice. “Nah, nobody here, man. He must have gone outside. Shit, if that dude drives, he’s toast.”

GG’s voice sounded farther away. “He can’t get too far. He’s probably out cold on the sidewalk.”

“Hell, I hope so. I never saw a prettier guy in my life. I want me some of that.”

“Then quit talking and let’s go find him.”

Ken shivered. The assholes planned to gang bang him. GG, the bastard, thought he’d mixed Rohypnol and alcohol, a combo that could be fatal. Had to get the fuck out of there. He dropped his feet down, tried to stand, collapsed back to the seat, and nearly landed on the floor.
Shit. Try again.
At least the paralysis wasn’t getting too much worse.

He moved more slowly and made it to standing. Cracking the door open, he peered out. Nobody, but the music still blared from beyond the door, so most people would wait for the break to pee. Like a prophecy, the music crashed to a conclusion, and the door flew open as guys rushed in to spill their leftover beer into the urinals. Ken slipped out as three people pushed in. He was taller than most of the crowd, so if GG and his accomplices were watching, they’d see him, but hopefully they were searching outside somewhere.

Staying close to the wall for support, Ken slid to the front door of the club. He looked out quickly, then pulled back. Didn’t see them. As a bunch of people crowded outside, cigarettes at the ready, Ken oozed behind them and got as far as a couple of cypress trees planted near the front door. His foot caught on a root, he stumbled, and fell face-first into the trunk of one tree just as he heard GG behind him. “I told you to look in that fucking men’s room, asshole.”

Ken raised his head, but GG and Tommy seemed to have gone back inside.
Weird and dark. No cabs in Costa Mesa. No fucking chance. Can’t drive. Need help.
He reached for his cell phone and scrolled.

S
WEET
J
ESUS
.
Jim cruised slowly down the Costa Mesa street, staring out the window. Shit, his heart beat so hard, he felt like he’d pass out. That’d be zero productive.

“Help me,” he’d said. The voice barely sounded like Ken. At first Jim had thought it was a joke, but when he realized it was for real, he’d practically wrecked the car screeching out of the parking lot. How could somebody as capable and self-assured as Ken Tanaka need Jim’s help? And why did he pick Jim? The doc had to have a million friends and family members.
Focus, idiot. Too many questions.
He’d thought about bringing Ian to help him, but those very unanswered questions made him stop. Maybe Ken was in some kind of trouble he didn’t want anyone else to know about. That would explain why he’d called Jim. Hell, Jim wasn’t anyone Ken cared about or whose opinion mattered.

Some neon lights spelled out Whiz Banger with the B blinking weirdly so every couple of flashes it read Whiz anger. That was the name Ken had mumbled. A beat-up Honda pulled away from the curb, and Jim slid his beat-up truck in its place. His feet hit the ground as fast as the engine stopped turning over, and Jim trotted toward the club. Ken had said something about outside, but he wasn’t waiting. At least not anywhere Jim could see.

Pausing in front of the double doors, Jim peered past the bouncer and the line of post-teenyboppers toward the inside of the club. No Ken. He stepped past the bouncer, and the guy shoved out an arm. Jim stopped and gave a friendly grin. “Just looking for a friend. I’m picking him up. Have you seen a tall Asian guy?”

“About a hundred. And you have to wait your turn like the others.”

“I’m not going inside.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“Look, buddy—”

“Jim—unnnh.”

Was that his name? The weird moaning sound came from the bushes beside the club entry. “Look out.” He charged past the bouncer toward the sound. Squatting, he peered under the low tree trunks and the prickly bushes.
Feet.
Shoes so damned fashionable they could only belong to one guy. “Ken!”

The bouncer called, “What’s going on?”

Jim ignored him and slipped around the foliage until he was pressed against the wall of the club, scooted about five feet, then knelt and found Ken’s face squashed against the dirt. Not a sight he would have ever thought he’d see. What the hell could have happened to the guy? Why was he even at a dive like this? “Ken, it’s Jim. I’m going to get you out of here.”

“Jim.”

“I’m coming.” Jim slid down lower, reached a hand, and took hold of Ken’s arm. Hard not to notice the lean muscle through the tight black T-shirt. Jim pulled and Ken seemed to try and help, because he kicked with his fashionable shoes. Between pulling and kicking, Jim managed to get that long, lean body out from under the tree until Ken could rest his head in Jim’s lap. He touched the dirt and a scratch on Ken’s perfect skin. “Oh man, what happened to you?”

“Roof.”

“You fell off the roof?”
Holy shit.

“Roofies.”

“Who the fuck did that?”

The bouncer’s voice came from a few feet away. “What the hell is going on?”

“Don’t just stand there. Help me get this guy up. He was drugged in your fucking club, and I’ll gladly tell the cops that fact right after I call them.”

“Okay, okay. Come on.” The bouncer sidestepped behind the tree, reached down, and took hold of Ken’s arm. “No drugs allowed in this club. He must have brought them in.”

Jim struggled to his feet and took Ken’s other arm. “Be careful, man. This guy’s a big-name doctor. You could be out of business before he’s done with you.”

“Shit. Get him out of here.”

They walked Ken out from the bushes. He looked like he’d been rolling in the dirt, which he actually had, but nothing more. No signs he’d been beaten or raped. “Doc, you okay? Did they hurt you?”

Ken shook his head and mumbled, “Got away. Didn’t take much.”

They maneuvered Ken out to the sidewalk and he was moving a little easier, like they’d gotten him into a groove and he just kept walking. The bouncer glanced back at the underagers trying to walk into the club. “You got this? I need to get back to the door.”

“Yeah, okay.”

One step at a time, they hobbled closer to Jim’s truck. Thank God he’d gotten a close parking space.

“Hey, you, let go of him. He’s with us.” The sharp voice came from behind him.

Jim looked over his shoulder. Three guys strode toward him, one the size of a house. Where the fuck was the bouncer when he needed him? But they’d made it just far enough from the entrance to not be visible. “Not a chance, asshole. You the guys who drugged him?”