The shout from the entrance drew the attention from my party crowd, but only barely. When I get the Monster Squad together for a dinner date, the only matter even a little entertaining would be a frontal assault on The Warehouse. The families enjoyed an earlier dinner and an extended enjoyable time of jokes, sporting talk, and no mention of Monster business. Claude Chardin and his wife seemed to love every moment with our very strange group of deadly killers, and our earlier meeting hour before dinner proved informative. I knew a handful of the most dangerous people alive stood near me at the end of the bar away from the entrance. I had two stretch limos bring us all here. One took our families home after the more jovial part of the night. We Monsters sipped drinks together now: Lucas, Casey, Denny, Laredo, Clint, Lynn, Tommy, Jess, Dev, Jafar, Samira and Lynn’s minions – Silvio Ruelas, Gus Denova, and Quays Tannous. Our guests, Alexi Fiialkov and Claude Chardin, listened to everything in play concerning Nick’s new information on Saran Al-Kadi’s compound at Pilot Hill.
The Warehouse, an Oakland PD cop bar, was our informal and sometimes formal hangout. Because I became predictable in also meeting some famous names in the UFC fight circuit, we kept getting interrupted at annoying times like these. Everyone had been waiting for me to finish my description of the black op we’d have to do on Al-Kadi’s compound, and a new wrinkle Nick introduced about confiscating the place. I could tell Claude knew the names I mentioned but waited until I finished to add his knowledge of the subject. There were a few police officers working the gaming section while sipping beers on the house at Alexi’s treat. We had reserved the bar but no police officer was turned away, with or without family. My Monsters chuckled and snorted in amusement at the people interrupting our evening. Our wonderful waitress Marla began walking over to confront them but Alexi took her arm, shaking his head.
“It’s about time the entertainment arrived, Cheese.” Lynn smiled at her deadly mate, Clint. She lived for my annoying interruptions.
“Damn… what is this a ‘Black Lives Matters’ protest,” Tommy muttered for our group to hear. “Did you shoot one of my people in public, DL?”
That of course provoked hilarity which did nothing for calming our visitors’ attitudes. Jess and Dev bumped fists with Tommy.
“Good one, T,” Jess said. He turned to me with massive black hands on hips. “What have you done, DL?”
Lucas Blake waved my personal jokesters off. “Don’t start that ‘Black Lives Matter’ shit in front of me. I can’t even read the news without getting violent images of a rooftop, my sniper rifle, and the next BLM human roadblock in my sights.”
“Lucas! I’m surprised at you - a black man, not wanting to embrace those race baiting thugs claiming to speak for all us po’ black folks,” Devon said in fake outrage.
Then it was on. Lucas went for Dev with Casey conveniently holding Lucas back. Jess grabbed Dev in the same hold me back posture as Lucas and Dev danced around, motioning at each other in ‘come on and get some’ type gestures. It was very funny and their playacting distracted our annoying visitors so much they simply stood at the entrance watching. They pulled all the clichés out for their fake verbal duel.
“You ain’t black. You white in your head,” Dev said.
“I’m bad, black, and got a job so I don’t have time to go out pissing off other blue collar working stiffs trying to make a living!”
“Uncle Tom! You nothin’ but a ‘House Negro’ eatin’ with Jim Crow!” Dev stabbed an accusing finger at Lucas.
“Listen, Topsy. Get out of my face before I show you what happens when Snow Whites need Marine attitude adjustments!”
That was too much for Dev. I think the ‘Topsy’ tag got him. His infectious laughter broke Lucas out of his role, and soon he was braying with Dev and the rest of us. When I saw the group at the door begin moving toward us, I straightened to move forward and meet them with my hands out in a placating posture. We had real business. The leader of half a dozen relatively well dressed black men in their twenties all in dark suits, bowties, and sun glasses stood in a triangle as if they were swallows flying home for the winter to Capistrano.
“I’m John Harding,” I told the leader, who was a bit larger than me in every way.
“We did not appreciate that minstrel show your houseboys put on for our amusement.”
Uh oh. I spun only just in time to catch a flying Lucas with murder in his eyes and on his brain. Tommy, Jess and Dev joined me. “Easy Gunny. These aren’t BLM’s. Let me find out what they are.”
Lucas pointed at the leader, his features a sudden mask of dead calm. “You call me houseboy or minstrel again, Farrakhan’s turd, and I’ll snap my fingers like this.”
Lucas snapped his fingers.
The leader grinned in the usual condescending manner most of us were familiar with when looked on as ignorant jerks by the more enlightened amongst us. “What happens then, old man?”
In the next instant Lynn materialized at his side as if beamed there with razor sharp knife at his throat. “When Pappy snaps his fingers again, I slice your throat, and we kill everyone you walked in with. What we joke around about with each other in a private party has nothing to do with you, ass-wipe. Speak every word from now on as if your life depends on the content because it does. Say you understand.”
The man looked at death. Luckily, he recognized it. I didn’t plan on any more interventions. I was hoping Alexi was placating our Oakland PD friends in the gaming section. His companions I could tell were less than enthused with the situation. “I…I understand.”
Lynn patted his face. “Good. Don’t forget. My reminders won’t go well for you.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay then. You wanted to see me. How may I help you?”