We got in the car and drove away from Lincoln Green.
“The others are meeting us there,” Michael said as we accelerated onto the highway. “Dwight, too. We need him. And he was only too happy to be loved again.” He glanced at me like he thought I’d act surprised or argue or make some pointless threat.
When I didn’t speak he kept talking.
“Cesare says the safe and security computer will be in the same room. He says if we can get in and get into that room right at four thirty—that’s when the video server backs up—if we can get in there on time, we can get the money and destroy the video footage.”
“That’s a load of bullshit. There’s no way we’re disrupting the video feed. Unless we go in with masks on, we’re getting ID’d.”
Michael shifted lanes. He shook his head. “Let me worry about that. The cameras might get us going in, but so what? Cesare says there’s a blind spot to the left of the bar—there’s a little recess there. That’s where we do it. We go in as customers—we come out as victims. Scared kids who took off running when the rival gang came to call. That’s the story. Simple.”
“You’re taking a lot on faith.”
Michael smiled. “No, I’m taking a lot on greed. Cesare wants this, which means I do, too. And to get out from under his thumb, I have to get out clean. It’s all good.”
“You can believe any story you want. You still have to deal with witnesses.”
“Kid. You ever hear of a good lawyer?” Michael wove between cars. “These witnesses you’re worried about. Drunks. Strippers. Gang members. Unreliable in the extreme. We’ll be fine.”
It didn’t matter if he was right or not. And it didn’t matter if we got away with it in the long term. I had short-term worries.
Janie. My dad. The security at the club.
We drove onto the bridge.
“This’ll be fun,” Michael said.
The Mustang wove through an alley lined with gasoline stations and convenience stores. Took off down a twisting county road into the darkness of a country night for miles. Until we arrived at the roadhouse, a clapboard, squat building. Red neon curled on the gray-painted exterior: Raunch.
A different crappy van was parked by a Dumpster beside the building. Other beater cars parked on the edge of the lot or near the door. Thumping music blared from inside the club.
Michael parked near the van. We got out and walked over. T-Man slid the door open and we climbed in.
Cyndra sat in the driver’s seat, Dwight in passenger seat. He gave me a self-satisfied grin.
Even though I knew he would be there, I had to stop myself from grabbing his head with one hand and driving the other into his nose.
Cyndra wore the sparkly dress from the party. Next to her, Dwight wore a collared shirt and khaki pants, like a frat guy. In the back of the van were the others. LaShonda had on a shirt thin as a whisper. T-Man and Beast wore crisp shirts and tailored jeans.
They looked like a bunch of rich kids. An inviting combination for the doorman.
Michael passed around a flask. “Dwight explained it all, right? We’re just kids out to have fun. Follow my lead. You know what to do when it starts.”
Nods and some grins.
Dwight gave LaShonda an empty backpack. She rolled it up and shoved it in her bulky purse.
We climbed out. Cyndra came beside me.
My hands itched to grab her. To ask what she knew about any of it. About Dwight telling my father.
Michael looped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her under his chin.
“Showtime.” He stumbled suddenly, leaning on her for support. A loud, drunken laugh cawed out of his mouth.
On cue, the others took it up. Babbling, stumbling, slapping shoulders and hands. A weaving pack of drunk high school kids, out for a good time.
Dwight smiled at me and took a pull from the flask. He fell in behind Michael and Cyndra. Bending over, he waggled his fingers along the bottom edge of her dress. An obscene gesture just for me.
I ignored him. Choked off the molten rage with a promise.
We walked to the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A rope-muscled bouncer stopped us. He was bald and tall, and stupid, because he wore gauges in his ears that were big enough to be easily grasped in a fight. Which told me that for all the out-of-town-rough-element atmosphere, there really wasn’t much trouble calling if he controlled the door.
“Hold up,” the bouncer said. He squinted at T-Man and Dwight standing behind Michael. Eyes tracked up to Beast, hulking behind us all. “Go home, kids. You can’t come in here.”
“It’s my birthday.” Michael slurred his words.
“Happy birthday. Now go.”
Michael let go of Cyndra, held up a hand. “Hang on. I think we can come to an orangemet. Uh—arrangement.” He dug in a pocket, spilling twenties on the ground. He teetered as he collected the money. Didn’t count, just shoved it at the bouncer.
“That’s for me and my friends.” He swayed, smiling. Swiveling owl eyes to the rest of us.
The bouncer flicked the bills into a neat stack and pocketed it in one slick move.
“That buys you one hour. If the cops come, you go out the kitchen.” He stepped back, holding the door open.
“Thank you, my good man.” Michael sloppily swept through. I let Beast go in before me. I glanced back at the cars in the lot, did a quick count. Noted their placement relative to the doors and the road.
Inside the club, music punched my ears.
On the stage, a girl twirled around a pole as red lights pulsed. A bar curved around the stage, where five men sat and watched her with the empty gazes of habitual drunks. Almost like they weren’t looking at anything at all.
Beast was already at the stage, pulling up a chair, eyes transfixed on the girl.
Music throbbed in time with the lights. To the left was a bar. I walked around it and found the others already sprawled in the recessed space Cesare had described.
“Ice!” Michael yelled over the thumping music. He whapped a hand on the seat beside him.