By the end of Hatch's makeover, she was a drunken party girl. Hatch stepped out from the shadows and began her wobbly stagger toward the back of the line. She kept her head down, avoiding the surveillance camera at the corner of the building as she came up behind two men, each reeking heavily of aftershave and marijuana.
Hatch maintained a light sway. Even with her head down, she could feel their eyes rolling over her body like she was a piece of meat. They said something in Spanish she did not understand. She hoped they didn't try to start up a conversation and was grateful when a loud group of party goers up ahead drew their attention.
Five or six American college kids were belting out the lyrics to a song Hatch had never heard. Based on what she was hearing, both in content and delivery, Hatch hoped she never heard it again. The men nearest Hatch laughed at the impromptu show and lost interest in her.
A stretch limousine rolled to a stop in front of the doors. The driver who exited, wearing a full suit, immediately hustled around the trunk and around to the back passenger door facing the club. He opened the door and stepped aside, allowing the occupants to exit. Two well-dressed men left the vehicle, one a dark-haired Hispanic male in his mid to late thirties, and the other an American of similar age with sun-bleached blonde hair. The American wore sunglasses. At night. His choice of accessory making the Cory Hart classic hit seem all that more ridiculous when observed in real life. They entered through the boxed off area marked for VIPs. The special treatment earned boos from the rowdy college kids who, in turn, garnered a nasty look from one of the oversized doormen.
The limo drove off. Hatch watched as the smaller of the two doormen waved a black and yellow metal detecting wand over each entrant. The cold steel of the Glock pressed into the small of her back dictated a different entrance point.
The line had continued to grow and now a young couple stood behind Hatch. She needed to get out of the line and find another way in. Then she saw it. The staff entrance opened and the dishrag man from earlier appeared still with the same rag as before, though this time slung over his opposite shoulder.
"Whoa," Hatch lurched forward, hopping out of line and covering her mouth. "Here comes dinner." She said this for anybody paying attention. The couple gave her wide berth and the aftershave-wearing weed smokers just shook disapproving faces as she hustled away in an overexaggerated stagger.
Techno music masked her footsteps as she closed in on her entrance point and the overweight chain smoker standing between her and Angela. Hatch fell against the wall. A small piece of broken plastic acted as a doorstop, keeping it ajar. The electronic repetitive four beat pulsed, assulting Hatch's ears. The ragman turned in surprise. He spoke, but the club washed out any chance of deciphering its meaning.
Hatch let her head droop. It swung loosely as if dangling by a thread. His hand touched her shoulder and he worked to stabilize her against the wall. He continued to speak in Spanish. He was close enough for her to hear. And the words weren't kind and compassionate. Drunk bitch was thrown in somewhere. It didn't matter what he said or wanted. The minute he'd opened the door, he became another obstacle in a long list that stood in the way of Hatch and the girl she’d vowed to bring home.
If there'd been one lesson she'd learned from her father about obstacles, it was to overcome them by all means possible. He told her once, no matter how remote, explore all avenues until you find a way around. A young Hatch had asked, "what if you can't?" Her father's answer was, then you kick it in.
The smoke emptied from the ragman's mouth filling her nostrils as he put his other hand on her and shoved her hard. Two mistakes he made. First, pushing Hatch without blading his stance, leaving him completely off-balance. The second was putting a hand on Hatch in the first place.
Hatch capitalized on both mistakes in the seconds that followed. She spun her body redirecting the ragman's energy to the wall where Hatch had been leaning. With both hands on Hatch, his momentum sent him headfirst into the hard concrete. She assisted the wall's efforts in rendering him unconscious by slamming her left elbow into the back of his skull. The ragman collapsed in a heap at her feet. Hatch used her body to temporarily block the crumpled man from view as she broke the lightbulb above the door.
Shattered bits of the popped bulb dusted the sleeping man. The only light now filtered out through the smoke-filled air of the club inside. The music pulsed on as Hatch cast a glance in the direction of the line. Nobody noticed the brief but intense moment with the ragman.
Nobody noticed as Hatch entered the club through the steel employee access either.
Fifteen
Hatch choked on the air. One of the cooks looked at her, conveying confusion and annoyance at her surprise arrival in the kitchen. Hatch threw her hands in the air and gyrated her hips with the music. She let out a loud, "Woohoo! Let's party!" In her best drunk-girl impression. Surprising even herself, she nailed the performance because the pout on the man's face instantly shifted into a gapped-tooth smile.
The cook ordered a busser to escort Hatch back to the main dance floor, but not before blowing Hatch a kiss which she playfully caught and stuffed into her pocket, staying in character until she was taken into the bar area. The busboy released his not so friendly grip and cast her back into the crowd of drunken clubbers.
Laser lights and smoke machines added their insanity to incessant vibrations echoing into the three-thousand square foot converted warehouse space. Nude girls danced in cages suspended at random intervals throughout the crowded space. The girls moved to the music's command, the drugs in their system undoubtedly contributing to their trancelike state. No Angela.