But in this overall perception about her husband, who was now brushing his teeth in their bathroom, came another one. Tom had made an error. A big human error. He had misjudged a human being. Maybe it was Martz, maybe it was someone else. The misjudgment was a serious one, full of huge personal and professional risk. This led her to another thought.
Tom was stalling because he didn't have an algorithm.
He'd never seen the problem before.
He didn't know what to do.
23
Big wad in the pocket. Victor fingered the flash roll of hundreds as he and Ears walked into the midtown place on Broadway, his favorite, better than the ones in Queens, Brooklyn, Jersey, Long Island, all skanky compared to the Manhattan clubs, which had to cater to an international crowd with bigger money. He nodded at the bouncers, wide men in suits with their hands crossed in front of them, feet spread, as they inspected every patron and made sure he felt inspected. They didn't scare Vic. He'd been a bouncer in a club when he was younger. Back in the eighties. Most of these guys were fucking one of the girls, maybe trading them some speed or crystal meth. Ears led the way, the music booming around them. In front was the live stage, where three girls were on the poles. The place had about a hundred tables, most of them full, and perhaps seventy-five girls either sitting next to customers, dancing for them, or walking around looking for the next job. Most were dressed in only a thong bottom and heels. Every one was beautiful, of course, this being New York City, girls from all over the world, black, white, Latino, Asian, tall, short, stacked, skinny, even a few fleshy ones for the guys who liked that.
He and Ears sat down. The waitress came over. She wasn't bad looking herself but nothing like the dancers.
"What you'll have?"
"Vodka on the rocks," said Ears.
"Make it two."
"So, listen, Vic, I had a little talk this afternoon," said Ears. "About you and your gas station problem. The guys, they understand, suggest, you know, we do a sit-down, talk it out."
Victor nodded. "Good, good, I appreciate that," he said. He didn't believe any of it. Best case, Ears had talked to nobody. Worst case, they knew there was a problem now and wanted to get Vic away somewhere, get rid of him. What was he, stupid? No. He was ahead of them, had a plan. And now he saw her, the one he needed, the kind Ears liked, and beckoned her over, a tiny blonde with big eyes and even bigger chest. Great nipples, too-small and firm, gumdrops. She looked about nineteen, under the makeup. She smiled at him, but he pointed at Ears. The timing was crucial here. She swung her hips as she advanced.
"Hi, fellas." She put her hand on Victor's neck, began a casual massage like she was his regular girlfriend and had done it a hundred times. He could smell her perfume.
Victor pulled out his roll, let her see it, let her think he was going to be stupid with it. "Miss," he said, "I'm buying my friend here a couple of dances." He pulled off two Benjamins and handed them to her. "Three dances, just to warm up the night."
"Well, that's a very nice thing to do for your friend."
The girl flipped back her blonde hair, sort of like a mental reset button, and took Ears by the hand and led him into the back, where the girls preferred to dance, with the guy sitting up against the wall. That way they could get down and dirty, work the guy for the big bills, get him into one of the private rooms and flip a couple of $900 bottles of champagne.
Victor watched. A good start, he thought. He knew Ears had the $20,000 in his pocket and, much as it pained Vic, he was going to have to let that go. Give it to the universe. A little life insurance policy. He saw the waitress bringing over the two vodkas on the rocks. "Hey, great. Thanks, babe." He gave her a twenty for her trouble. He sipped his drink, but not too much, and went over the plan. In a place like this there were security cameras all over, at least a dozen. Anything he did right there at the table on the dance floor was captured on tape. But he had that figured, too. Yessir. We're talking about the Big Vic here, folks, not some grab-nuts jerk from nowhere. He stood up with his drink, eased his way to the men's room, the bouncers not very interested. The men's room attendant, a tiny Indian man in a tuxedo so cheap it looked sewn out of rubber, smiled and arranged his display of candies, gum, breath mints, and the like. Victor went to the urinal. The rule was you didn't watch guys take a piss. Especially in a strip club. And it was the one place that the security cameras wouldn't be looking at, because if it ever came out that there was a camera looking at hundreds of guys unzipping their dicks, some big corporate guys, some famous sports stars, TV people, whatever, then people would get whacked, simple as that. As they should. As for the stalls, he assumed the cameras looked in there, too, in case of guys fucking each other, shooting up, drug deals, whatever.
But inside the urinals? That was good. He set his drink on top of the urinal and unzipped with his left hand. He slipped his right hand into his pants pocket and found the four-ounce glass vial he'd put there earlier. The mixture was perfect, he was sure, the recipe handed down and improved by certain practitioners of the art over the last twenty, thirty years. Ten of Violet's chloral hydrates, six Tylenol PM, two Xanax, all mixed with dimethylformamide, carbolic acid jelly, and methyl ethyl ketone. One ounce of this hot shot was enough to kill a horse. Dissolved in alcohol, virtually odorless. The Tylenol PM kept the pain down and the chloral hydrate knocked the guy out before he could tell anyone what he was feeling.
Concentrating on not spilling the vial, not spilling even the tiniest drop, Vic thumbed up the glass stopper. The Indian guy had his back turned, as was the protocol. Vic palmed the vial over the drink, emptying its contents into the glass, and set the drink on the top of the urinal. Now the glass looked like it had a full drink. He stoppered the vial and dropped it back into his pocket. Then he zipped and flushed, the sound of which triggered the Indian attendant to turn on the water in the basin.
"You got a mint?" Vic said to the attendant, who was now holding out a towel.
"Yezzuh."
Victor washed his hands, took the towel, dried, grabbed a mint, and said, "Oh, wait," and retrieved the glass from the top of the urinal. He handed the man a five.