Intellectual Property: A Novel

By Joseph Metzen

If only he’d never met Sue, Steve Bergdorf never would have gotten mixed up in murder and the case of the fusion documents. Steve was an ordinary, married father and factory worker. He was a regular guy with regular guy problems, and he was getting bored with life. Then one day Steve met Sue, a rich lady with a sweet car. That encounter changed his life in a big way.

Steve’s encounter with Sue gets him involved in something far bigger than his boring life – something that could get him killed. Because of that chance encounter, Steve becomes an unwilling player in a deadly game involving an enormously important scientific secret – a secret with the highest implications for the future of humankind.

Steve’s survival depends on the secret getting to the right people before the wrong people find Steve. Dangerous people are looking for the secret, and they believe that Steve has it. Further chance encounters throw Steve together with other people whose lives have been shaken by their connection to the secret. Steve and those people find themselves in a deadly game of intrigue with only two possible outcomes – success or death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532057038

Joseph Metzen

Joe Metzen lives with his wife and daughter in St. Peter, Minnesota. Joe has a bachelor’s degree in history and German from the University of Minnesota at Morris and a law degree from the University of Minnesota Law School. Joe is currently employed in his state’s court system

Book preview

Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

Frank pressed the up button on the elevator. The stainless steel doors slid shut smoothly. With the tiniest jolt, the elevator began its ascent to the top floor. It was 10:00 p.m., and Frank had come back to the Regnier Plaza Building to finish up the cleaning for the evening. Normally, he would have been done and gone before 9:00 p.m., but he had been interrupted that evening. His son, Arthur, had been showing off on his skateboard for a bunch of his skater buddies. He had tried to do a jump and twist off the big ramp at the skater park. Arthur had apparently done the jump and the twist just fine, but hadn’t been so successful at landing. A trip to the emergency room was necessary, and Frank had to drive him there. Arthur’s mom couldn’t do it. She and Frank were divorced, and she lived in another city. The doctor at the emergency room had explained that Arthur had a wrist fracture. According to the doctor, Arthur would need to wear a cast for a while, but the wrist would be fine so long as he didn’t try to use it too much before it could heal. Telling a teenage boy to be patient is not the world’s easiest job, and Frank had some anxiety about the situation. He was also supposed to make sure that Arthur took some pain and anti-swelling medication for a few days. Frank hoped his ex-wife wouldn’t make a big deal out of the accident. The injury was an accident, just boys being boys.

In addition to being an attentive father, Frank also cared for the buildings he cleaned. He almost had affection for them. Frank looked at the art deco paneling in the elevator. It was a nice touch, very classy. Americans took pride in building things back in the first half of the 1900s. They didn’t settle for importing rinky-dink junk from Third World countries.

The elevator reached the top floor, and the doors slid open. Frank pushed the bucket and his cart of cleaning supplies out into the hall. The hall was dark, lit only by a few art deco style fixtures at the sides of office doors. Everything was silent and dark, except for one office at the end of the hall. A faint light was coming from that office, like the light from a flashlight.

Frank frowned. Who could be up on the top floor at that late hour? The top floor was occupied by a law firm that did intellectual property work. The lawyers and staff had worked late at times in the past, but there had recently been some big, lucrative deal that the firm had landed. Wyatt Longworth, one of the partners, had announced that everyone, lawyers and staff alike, were to work 9-5 and have time to themselves, rather than staying at their desks into the evening. That’s what the firm’s secretaries had told Frank.

However, there were people in the office at the end of the hall. That office belonged to Wyatt Longworth. Frank crept closer to the end of the hall, leaving his cleaning stuff behind. He realized he was tip-toeing and trying to hug the shadows. Instinct told him that was the right thing to do. If whoever was in that office belonged in there, they would just turn on the light and not sneak around with a flashlight. Frank could hear voices in the office. He crept a bit closer and was able to observe two men in the office. The men were rummaging through filing cabinets. They wore gloves.

It’s not in any of these filing cabinets, John.

It’s not in these filing cabinets either, Scott. John sounded pissed off. God damn it. Where the hell could those damn papers be? He wouldn’t have taken top-secret, super-sensitive stuff like that home with him, would he have?

I dunno. I just know we’ve taken this place apart and found zilch.

True enough. We’re going to have to consult the Interests for instructions. Hey, you’re sure you disabled the cameras on this floor, right?

Yeah, of course. I did that while we were downstairs. Scott sounded somewhat offended by the question.

O.K., just checking. You’re the technical expert.

Outside in the hallway, Frank was getting mad. Those guys had a lot of nerve, rifling through offices in his building. Frank walked into the office and flipped on the light.

What the hell do you guys think you’re doing? Sit your asses down in those chairs while I call the cops on this phone. You can’t raid other people’s offices and tear through their stuff.

The men were startled by the light and the appearance of Frank. A tall, Nordic-looking type who was apparently John recovered quickly and spoke. Well, this is a surprise. The maintenance man, I presume? You weren’t supposed to be here. The other guy, Scott, was shorter and swarthy. He regarded Frank coolly.

Frank was really mad now. I ain’t supposed to be here? You guys are the ones ripping through somebody else’s office in the dark way after hours. I know you two don’t work in this building. I may be just ‘the maintenance man,’ but I got eyes and ears. I know who belongs in this building and who doesn’t. You assholes don’t belong here. Now sit down and shut up and just wait for the cops to come give you a lift. Frank reached for the phone on the desk.

John nodded with an understanding, sympathetic nod, much as a parent might give to a young child. I meant you’re not supposed to be here now. It would have been much better for you if you weren’t here. John pulled a short, black rod out of his coat pocket. Before Frank could react, stars exploded in front of his eyes. His body jerked around. He passed out shortly before hitting the floor.

Scott looked at Frank on the floor. That was cool, man. I didn’t know you had that.

This thing’s a neural disrupter. It stuns the cerebral cortex and drops even the biggest oaf. It’s almost like a light switch being flicked off in the brain. It comes in handy for those situations where you can’t use a gun. O.K., this is gonna take some muscle, but it can’t be helped. The guy saw us rummaging in this building where we don’t belong. That’s a no-no. We’ve got to clean up the maintenance man.

Scott and John got on both sides of Frank and heaved him to his feet. They began lugging him between them. As they left the office, John flicked off the light switch.

Out on the side street, Scott and John were maneuvering Frank toward their car. Some revelers passed by them. They looked at Frank, propped between Scott and John.

Whoa, I’d say your buddy’s had over his limit. I hope you’re not about to load him into the driver’s seat. The guy who said this chuckled. He was pretty far in his cups himself.

John gave a jocular grin. Yeah, he doesn’t know when to slow down. The revelers kept going.

Scott and John placed Frank in the back seat. They got in front. Scott was the wheel man. He started the car, and the duo drove off with their unconscious passenger.

It was a completely deserted stone quarry about twelve miles outside of the city. In former times, it had provided stone for a number of the public buildings in the city. John mused that there just wasn’t much building done in stone anymore. Stone construction was a real lost art. The quarry had been abandoned years earlier and had flooded when a nearby river broke out of its banks following torrential rains. That was convenient for John and Scott, because it meant that the location was deserted.

John finished tying a thick rope around a heavy rock. He had tied the other end of the rope to Frank’s leg. Scott was taking a smoke break by the car and was watching John’s work with idle curiosity. John finished tying the knot. He admired it. He had actually learned some useful things while in Boy Scouts. John wondered if his scoutmaster would be proud of this particular knot. He suspected not. John stepped back and took in the sight of Frank tied to the rock. Then he looked down at the dark, still water in the bottom of the quarry. The water was deep. He knew that for a fact. He’d used the quarry before.

Frank began stirring. He groaned and tried to sit up. He opened and closed his eyes. Spots were swimming in front of them. He focused. The blond guy was standing in front of him. It was that smug prick from the building. The prick spoke.

You woke up. Wonderful. Now you can be conscious and aware of your last seconds on earth.

My what? What the hell are you talking about? Frank glanced around. Hey, what the hell is this place?

John made no reply. He pulled a 9mm semiautomatic pistol from the inside of his coat. Frank’s eyes opened wide, until John put a bullet between them. John fired a few more times into Frank’s face and head. In the off chance the body was discovered, it was always good if identification were more difficult. The pistol shots reverberated around the quarry walls, then died away.

The next sound was that of a rock hitting the water of the pool, followed immediately by the splash of the body. After the echoes faded, the quarry was again still. John walked back to the car. Scott flicked his cigarette butt in the weeds, where it glowed weakly for an instant and then blinked out. Scott got behind the wheel, and the partners drove off back to the city. It was time to report back to their bosses. Hopefully the bosses wouldn’t be too disappointed that the partners hadn’t secured the documents on the first try.

Chapter 2

I admit it. I got a hard-on just thinking about her. And when I saw her, well, that was another story entirely. My pecker would get so hard so fast, it was like a steel clothes rod growing out of my belly and poking into the crotch of my pants. I’d adjust quickly, glancing around to make sure nobody was looking of course, to tuck the thing against my body with the waistband of my undies. I swear I’d feel giddy from all that blood leaving my head and going to my other head. I mean, you gotta understand, Sue was a perfect ‘10’.

That’s how Steve would later explain how he became mixed up in the murder of Wyatt Longworth and the case of the fusion documents.

It started one late afternoon in the summer, when Steve went to the grocery store after work to pick up some items his wife had requested. Steve stepped into the air-conditioned store from the warm, humid outdoors. The air in the store felt good. Steve grabbed the nearest shopping cart and reached into his pocket to pull out the grocery list composed for him by his wife. He looked at it and frowned. His wife’s handwriting was challenging to read. If a guy is willing to go to the grocery store, couldn’t his wife at least write the list legibly?

Despite the deficiencies of Deb’s handwriting, Steve was able to find all of the items on the list without too much trouble. He made his way to the checkout lanes. While waiting for the checker to finish with the person ahead of him, Steve turned to peruse the covers of the entertainment magazines. Steve looked hard at the photos of young stars and singers on the covers, next to headlines about their latest romances, projects, or problems. Problems? Shit, how could those bimbos and pretty boys think they had any problems? They were young, hot, loaded with money and famous. And famous for what? Most of the people in those magazines were probably total airheads who thought that the Civil War was last month. The people that American society decided to reward with the good life made no damn sense at all.

The checker was now ringing up Steve. Steve grabbed some gum from the impulse rack and gave it to the girl. She was a mousy-looking thing with straight hair, braces and a few freckles. There was probably no T.V. contract in her future. Steve paid her after she’d totaled up his bill and put his grocery sacks in the cart. Steve started pushing the cart to the cart rack in the parking lot. He was going to head straight home - except that he saw her.

Actually, he saw her vehicle first. It was a brand-new Mercedes - one of the models with the six-figure price tag. That machine was more money than Steve’s annual salary as a maintenance technician at the local tire factory. Even when the car was in neutral with the engine idling, Steve’s ear knew that it had serious muscle. He wondered how many horses were underneath the hood. The car wasn’t noisy though. It purred as it sat there. But it was a powerful purr, like a Bengal tiger might make lying in the jungle after gorging on a kill. The body of the Mercedes was shined and waxed and it gleamed and glinted in the sun. The paint job was flawless, not a scuff or scratch anywhere. The interior was sweet too. Rich, supple leather that was glossy and shiny. In Steve’s opinion, that was an excellent use for cow’s hide. Yes, he was in love with the Mercedes. If it weren’t an offense against nature, and maybe God too, he would marry that car. He could see himself leaving Deb for that sweet machine.

Then Steve noticed the driver, who had just gotten out of the car after turning it off. Steve’s opinion of her was also high. She was dynamite on heels. She wore a silk blouse and a tight skirt that was too long to be slutty but not long enough to keep Steve’s mind from considering various possibilities. The skirt molded itself perfectly to the driver’s butt, revealing a round, firm pair of buns. Steve’s own lower parts started stirring. The driver’s blouse was open enough to give a guy’s eyes a hint of what was inside, but not so much as to be out of bounds in polite society. The driver’s face had great bone structure. Her mouth was a pair of succulent lips painted with hot pink lipstick. Her hair was blond, shoulder-length, with kind of a flowing wave to it. It was perfectly coiffed, of course. From the driver’s ears dangled gold hoop earrings. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured and painted. Steve took all this in, and found himself looking at the driver’s eyes to check what color they were. His guess was blue, but he couldn’t tell because the driver’s eyes were covered by obviously expensive sunglasses. How the other half must live. It obviously agreed with them.

The driver took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were blue, and they were looking straight at Steve. He was taken back a bit, not because he cared about seeming rude, but he really hadn’t been expecting her to stare back at him.

Could you get me a cart, please? The rich, hot babe (so Steve had dubbed her in his mind) had a great voice too on top of all else. It had kind of a smoky, sultry quality. Very cool. Some women’s voices either sounded like breathy little girls’ voices or like the voices of the telephone operators on old movies. This woman’s voice was nice; it had timbre. Steve wondered what else she could do with that mouth. His imagination was now free-ranging.

Excuse me, I was asking about the carts? Rich Hot Babe stared at Steve expectantly. She wanted assistance and wanted it now. Steve wasn’t one to kow-tow, however, not even to a fantasy.

O.K., you want a cart. So go get one. That’s how it’s done here. You enter the store, get a cart, push it around the store, fill it with items, then give a teenage kid money and leave with the groceries.

No need to get wise. Rich Hot Babe seemed genuinely embarrassed and annoyed. I just thought that because you’re standing there with that cart and staring at me that you work here as the cart guy. Excuse the mistake. I haven’t ever been to this store before. When I go shopping, it’s to the Edibles Emporium. It’s a full-service supermarket.

That’s swell, Little Miss Fauntleroy. But this here is a plain vanilla grocery store. They don’t even bag for you here, even if you’re a 90-year-old great-gramma with a cane. No big deal, though. Some slack-jawed teenager with a pimply face would probably just drop a 12-pack of soda right on top of your eggs anyway. My kids probably would. Steve was impressed by wealth, but he wasn’t intimidated by it or envious of it. Hell, he’d like to be rich himself. He didn’t feel any misgivings talking frankly to Rich Hot Babe. Steve didn’t have many misgivings about anything. If something made sense, a guy should just say it. If other people get offended, that’s their problem.

Rich Hot Babe didn’t get offended. Instead, she looked at Steve with interest, like a zoologist might look at a new creature that she’s discovered.

You’re an outspoken guy, Mr. Whatever-your-name is.

Steve Bergdorf. What’s your name, since we’re getting familiar?

Susan Longworth is my name, but we’re not familiar.

I’m glad to make your acquaintance in this fine parking lot, Sue.

I wouldn’t say we’re all that acquainted yet either, Steve. Sue checked her lady’s Rolex watch. You’re outspoken and forward, but it takes a little more than brashness to get to know a woman. Sue leveled her gaze at him, as if to meet willpower with willpower. Then she smiled. Steve knew he liked her.

I wish that were true, Sue. I might still be single then. Steve was finding the exchange to be kind of fun. Sue was bantering with him. It was a pleasant change from Deb’s nagging.

Sue’s smile took on a trace of irony. Well, there’s one lucky lady in town, and her name is Mrs. Bergdorf. Sue looked at her watch again. Look, Mr. Bergdorf. How about you just tell me where those carts are and I’ll go get one and push it myself. I’ll manage just fine, believe me.

I’ll tell you if you call me Steve and say please.

I’ll find them myself. Have a nice day, Mr. Steve. Sue turned and walked into the store. Steve thought he could detect just a hint of a sashay in her walk. It was a nice little show, intentional or not.

Steve remembered his grocery care and put it in the cart rack. He turned to look at his Chevy Lumina. It did not have leather seats or a shiny finish. It had a dent from when his son threw a baseball at a rabbit and struck the car instead. Steve got inside and started the engine. The Lumina’s engine had distinctly less power than that of the Mercedes. Steve put the car in gear and drove out of the parking lot.

The drive home was hot. The sun beat down on the tar and heated it up like a skillet on a high flame. Steve began to feel like an egg frying on a skillet. The damn air conditioning was out in the car, and Steve hadn’t had time to fix it yet. He rolled down all of the windows. Steve flipped on the radio. At least that still worked well. The rock station was playing Ballistic Strawberries. Steve left the dial there. Steve liked Ballistic Strawberries. The band members had stupid tattoos and piercings, but their music was solid. Steve drove past a bus stop where a bunch of old ladies were waiting. They appeared to look at him with disapproval. They were probably wondering what a guy his age was doing listening to music like that. Steve couldn’t care less. If music did something for a person, what difference should age make? If a person should only listen to the music that belonged to his or her generation, then everybody in the world was way too young for Beethoven or Mozart. Steve didn’t ponder the comparison of Mozart to Ballistic Strawberries for very long or in any depth. He was pulling into his driveway.

Chapter 3

It was unbelievable. That was the only way to describe the scene that greeted Steve’s eyes when he pulled into the driveway. The lawn still looked like a damn jungle. It was obvious not a single bit of yard work had been done all day. The rollerblades and skateboard were in the same place in the lawn where Steve had almost tripped over them on his way to work that morning. Someone was gonna get his or her ass chewed for the condition of the lawn. That was a given. But first Steve had to get the groceries out of the car and into the house. That took some time because, of course, nobody came out of the house to help him.

Steve lugged the grocery sacks into the house and dumped them on the table in the kitchen. Hey, kids! Could I get a little help here? I’m back with the groceries that I bought and paid for and that you’re going to eat most of in a short period of time. If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind putting them away at least? Hey, Deb, are you home?

Chuck and Brianna, Steve’s son and daughter, respectively, slouched their way into the kitchen.

Steve had his speech ready. "I told you kids before I went out the door this morning to mow the lawn and pick up your stuff. It’s six o’clock in the evening and is the lawn mowed? No. It still looks like the African savannah.

The kids looked blankly at Steve. He realized he needed to be blunt and cut to the chase. So why ain’t the lawn mowed, kids?

Brianna spoke first. I told Chuck he should take care of it. I’m in high school now. I got a lot of things going on. We had to sign up for tryouts for next year’s cheerleading today and….

Like you’ve got a chance at making the cheerleading squad. Chuck deployed his always useful sarcasm. Have you looked at cheerleaders? They’re good-looking and not clumsy.

Shut up! You’re not a superstar in basketball. What position was it you played last year? I think it was the bench! You’re probably still digging slivers out of your butt.

Steve sometimes found his kids’ arguments amusing, but they were not productive. Kids, this discussion ain’t getting the groceries put away, is it? I’ve had a long day, and it’s hotter than hell outside. Don’t make my temper rise like the mercury in the thermometer. Steve spoke in a slow, measured tone. He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to yell. His voice contained enough menace without being loud. I’m all in favor of you guys being in activities. It gets you out of the house. You can each sign up for as much extracurricular stuff as you want, provided you get yourselves to the practices and games. But I’m also cool with grounding you and having you do chores around home. So if you want to be in fun school activities, you should make with putting away the groceries. We’ll revisit the lawn issue tomorrow.

The kids gave their father sullen looks, but they set to unpacking the groceries and putting them away. Steve didn’t mind the looks. He cared about obedience, not enthusiasm. Chuck put on some headphones and turned up the music while he worked. Steve didn’t care about that either. He’d already said all that he wanted the kids to hear. The kids finished up with their task while Steve looked through the newspaper. The kids left the kitchen.

Steve continued perusing the paper until he became aware that someone was watching him. He looked up from the paper and saw Deb, his wife of seventeen years, looking at him with disapproval. Deb inhaled and then spoke.

Steve, we’ve got to talk.

Can it wait until after I’ve finished the crossword? I feel literate this evening.

No, you can mess around with puzzles later. You can do crosswords the rest of the night, after you sit down and have supper with your family and behave like a husband, father, and head of the household. Right now, we need to talk. I have things to say to you now.

There was no avoiding it or postponing it. Steve was going to have to suck it up and endure a conversation with his wife. O.K., Deb, what’s up?

What’s up is that I’m fed up. I’m fed up with you barging out the door in the morning without saying goodbye and then coming home in the evening in a sullen mood. I’m fed up with you grunting your way through dinner. I’m fed up with you just rolling over when you flop into bed at night and going right to sleep. We never talk in the evenings anymore. But you’re more than just indifferent. You are hostile, Steven. You’ve been getting worse. The way you were treating the kids a few minutes ago isn’t right. It isn’t normal. It isn’t fatherly. It certainly isn’t how a Christian father handles his children.

Steve looked thoughtfully at Deb. She seemed genuinely peeved. But Steve also detected a hint of pleading in her tone and in her expressions. She wanted him to acknowledge stuff was wrong and that they needed to start rebuilding bridges. It was kind of touching. Steve wished that he were a tactful guy. Then he could maneuver gracefully through the situation by saying the right things. But Steve was himself and was also tired. He would just have to wing it, come what may.

Deb, I know I’m not always the most communicative guy? We men aren’t communicators. Honestly, I just get tired. I work hard in that boring factory to provide for this family. As for the kids, all I’m trying to do is put some discipline into them. They’ve got to learn that they need to pull some of their own weight, including doing chores. Otherwise they’ll grow up to be spoiled brats who can’t care for themselves. I talk to them a little firmly sometimes, but that’s to help keep them from turning into helpless crybabies. It’s called guidance.

What you do isn’t guidance, it’s bullying. You act less like a husband and father and more like a grouch. I wish my mother, or somebody, had given me better advice about marriage and what kind of men to look for and what kind of men to avoid. Maybe….

Maybe then you wouldn’t have married me, is that what you’re saying? Which woulda been fine. Steve threw down the crossword puzzle. I’ve bought and paid for the food. That’s all you guys really need. You don’t need me for anything else today. Heaven forbid I eat in peace the food I bought and paid for. I don’t have any appetite anymore anyway. Who can have an appetite around this place? I’m going out to eat. Strangers are better company.

Steve got up and barged out the door. By the time it slammed shut, he was halfway down the driveway. It was time to visit Larry’s place.

Chapter 4

Larry’s club was in a part of the city that was, to put it kindly, off the beaten path. The club was near the railroad tracks downtown and also near a big factory that had closed years ago. The factory was still standing empty because the city’s Economic Development Authority hadn’t yet figured out a use for the building or the land under it. All the PCBs and asbestos in the place made finding a willing buyer complicated. The better part of downtown - the part with the stadium, hotels, boutiques, restaurants, and the like - was at least a mile away. However, guys didn’t come to Larry’s place because of the neighborhood. They came there because it was the best strip club in the city. The DJs spun good music. The girls were smoking hot and knew how to dance. They were flexible females who used their God-given gifts. Steve loved watching them gyrate on stage and work the pole. Fuck the circus. The real acrobats worked at Larry’s club. Additionally, Larry’s club didn’t water down the drinks and it had a kick ass complimentary taco bar. The club was indeed a home away from home for more than one working schmuck.

Larry was undoubtedly the biggest reason for the quality of his club. Larry took good care of his dancers. He paid them well and made sure none of the customers got too obnoxious with them. If some drunk jerk messed with Larry’s girls, he messed with Larry. Larry’s bouncers then messed with the guy, which meant a trip to the curb outside. Larry was good to his customers as well. He remembered a guy’s name and his situation and talked to him like a friend. Taking care of employees and taking care of customers has always been a good business model, and Larry practiced it faithfully.

Steve parked in the lot next to Larry’s place, by the fence separating the club’s property from the old factory’s parking lot. He got out of his car and looked around. The asphalt of the parking lot had big cracks running through it. Weeds poked up through the cracks. The old factory stood silently, a mute, hulking relic from a bygone era, its broken out windows making black portals to nowhere. The nearby street light was flickering, providing only intermittent illumination. The neighborhood was definitely not the most inviting locale. But the marquee sign above the door to the club was brightly lit and inviting. Larry pushed open the door and entered the club.

After the door closed behind him, Steve stopped to soak up the ambience. The entryway to Larry’s club had just the right feel for a strip club. The walls were covered in plush, red velvet, and little light bulbs like the ones along the aisles of movie theaters provided dim lighting. Old posters for long-ago concerts decorated the walls. The muffled thump of dance music reverberated dully. Up a short flight of stairs and down a narrow hall sat the guy who took money and admitted the patrons. Steve went up the stairs and walked up to the guy.

Hey, Vic, so you’ve got this job tonight. How are you doing?

Victor Marchetti looked up from a newspaper. Vic was Larry’s manager and boss of the bouncers.

Can’t complain, Steve. Everything’s in order tonight. Nobody’s being too stupid. What brings you to our establishment this evening? Shouldn’t you be home with the family?

Well, Vic, my family is fine. It’s me that’s bent out of shape. So here I am, and here’s my cover charge. Steve laid down a $10 bill.

Vic took the bill and put it in the till. He grabbed a hand stamp. Steve stuck out his hand. Vic stamped it with the logo of Larry’s club – a big pair of red lips. Enjoy your visit, sir.

Will do, Vic, I always do. Steve entered the club and walked straight to the bar. He ordered a whiskey coke. Steve didn’t drink fruity drinks with weird names. Hard liquor mixed into some Coca-Cola was Steve’s idea of good drinking. He tipped the hot black bartender chick. Why wasn’t that girl on a magazine cover? She at least had skills. She could mix a damn fine drink and looked damn fine while doing it.

Steve took the drink to a table near the stage. He sat down, took a gulp of his drink and started scoping out the place. Sniffers’ Row, which was the nickname for the chairs arranged around the stage, was occupied by the usual suspects. There were a