How is everybody's week progressing? Nice and comfy I hope. We're tying a few things together this week. Preparing for a crossing of the ways, in a matter of speaking. I encourage you to enjoy and review.
Disclaimer: Balkoth does not own the Teen Titans. Balkoth does not own Big Moe's nor does Balkoth know if Big Moe's actually exists. If any of you live in California, tell me if there is a nightclub called Big Moe's. Balkoth does own Of Gumshoes and Moonlighters however.
The Club Part II
"Dick, don't be so uppity. We aren't cops; we just work for them every now and then." Garfield tried to get Richard into a less black and white mindset as they approached a large brick building with a flashing blue light display that read Big Moe's. Richard hadn't been keen on the idea that this club housed illegal card games and prostitution. He became even less thrilled when he realized that Big Moe, the person, was currently under house arrest and that his nephew was running the club.
"Gar, the place is owned by the mob."
"Well, duh, it is. Like I said – Big Moe's. If the name has big or fat tacked to the front, odds are, they're mobsters." Garfield obviously didn't share Richard's discomfort about getting chummy in a mob facility.
"How long you been coming here?" Richard asked as the door swung open. A blast of sound shot out, nearly taking off Richard's head and doing it's best to blow his eardrums.
The music was mind numbing. A repetitive beat with little or no lyrics that lulled the listeners into a trance. Seconds after entering, Richard and Garfield melted into the crowd. Richard caught himself walking in beat with the music and made a conscious effort from that moment forth to move in opposition of the drums and electric instruments issuing from the speakers installed in the walls.
"Four days." It was barely a whisper; just on the edge of hearing but Richard knew that his partner had just yelled the answer.
As Richard followed Garfield toward the back, he darted his eyes around the club. The mirrored blue lenses covered his wandering eyes and, to an onlooker, Richard was just turning his head a little every now and then.
The music wasn't controlled by anything on this level and the only other level was accessed by a door clearly labeled "EMPLOYEES ONLY". There was a platform about seven meters from the bar that could be used by a DJ on the weekend. The bar itself seemed almost as popular as the dance-floor. Men and woman of all ages, though most were in their late teens or early to mid twenties, clustered around the polished wood. The counter had been dyed purple but that was probably just to hide the multiple liquor stains.
At a first glance, the dance-floor didn't look like a dance-floor so much as something out of a porn video. The movements were liquid-like in quality as couples or strangers that just met slid up, down and around each other. Quite a few were more suggestive then others. All of their faces were flushed a healthy shade of red and most of them looked like they weren't going to remember any of this in the morning.
Richard felt a tug on his elbow and instantly grabbed the hand of whoever touched him in a vice-like grip. "Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!" A voice shouted rapidly. Garfield's voice.
"Sorry," Richard said while letting go of Garfield's hand. It may have only been the flashing lights but Garfield's already tan skin seemed red after Richard released him.
"When I need something amputated I'll tell you Dick." Garfield sounded annoyed, or as annoyed as one can sound when they have to compete with one hundred decibels. "What's with you?"
"Just a little jumpy. You know I don't like being snuck up on." Garfield probably knew better than anybody alive that surprising Richard Grayson was stupid. Richard was naturally jumpy. If he felt threatened he'd act first and maybe ask later. Only maybe though.
"What did you need anyway?" Richard asked, remembering that this whole conversation had started when Garfield tried to get his attention.
"What?" Obviously, Garfield hadn't been able to remain as focused as his partner. "Oh," Garfield jabbed his thumb behind him, "through that door there are a few contacts I've been developing." Richard just gave Garfield a non-plused look as if to say So what did you need?
"I thought I'd introduce you. If you've got your gun, you won't be allowed in the back." Richard didn't see the point in Garfield bothering to check if he was carrying his gun. He always was.
Garfield reached out his hand and knocked five times on an unmarked wood door. Almost immediately, the door opened and a large black man with a classic heart tattoo with the word 'Mom' printed in it ushered them inside.
"Hey Taylor, it's good to see you again," Garfield called jovially to the mountain of muscle.
"Oy, how's it going G?" The mass of steroid-enhanced flesh responded while shaking Garfield's shoulder in what was supposed to be a friendly manner but was actually rather rough.
"Same ol' same ol', man. You got Bobby in there?" It was only then that Richard realized that they weren't in a separate room. This was just an enclosed little hallway of six feet without windows and only two doors. A death trap.
"Yeah, B came in just an hour ago nursing some Irish whisky and throwing hundreds 'round like they grew on trees." Richard thought about pointing out that money did grow on trees but then, he re-thought.
"Sounds like a good night for me to cash in on my loosing streak. All my luck had to go somewhere, right?" Garfield laughed as he lightly punched Taylor in the arm. Taylor acted like he hadn't felt it. Maybe he hadn't.
"If you're gonna start winning, now'd be the night to do it all right." Taylor looked past Garfield and finally noticed Richard. "Who's the dick?"
Who's the dick? Richard thought about the question and decided it made no sense. Most people called him Dick, so at first he'd thought Taylor was talking to him. If Taylor was talking to him why did he ask who he was talking to?
"Taylor," Garfield's voice cut through Richard's thoughts and prevented him from saying anything, "this is the twenty-first century, man. What was that? Slang out of the seventies?" Taylor shrugged lightly. Richard, for his part, felt like hitting himself on the head. Dick had been slang to refer to police. Usually crooked police at that.
"Taylor," Garfield said while gesturing toward Richard, "I'd like you to meet my friend, Dick Grayson."
"Didn't know you'd bring any under-cover cops here, Gar. The boss won't like that." Garfield and Richard exchanged nonchalant glances; surprised by the conclusion that the large black man was drawing. It was wrong but close enough to the truth that seeing a person stereotyped as all brawn and no brains was alarming. "Guy's got a standard issue nine millimeter holstered at his hip, covered by his coat. To be honest, the sunglasses are the biggest give-away. Its night and we're inside." Taylor elaborated, catching the glance the two shared. He was smiling though; not offended at all by what the investigators had thought of his mental capacities. In his job, being underestimated was probably a good thing.
"Oh, no." Garfield shook his head once. "Taylor, this is my partner."
"Oh? From Logan and Grayson? Nice to meet you, Dick." Taylor extended a spade-sized hand to Richard, which was shaken hesitantly. "Can't let you in there armed though."
Richard was ready to start a fight over the matter. He always carried his gun and nobody disarmed him. Ever. Garfield cut in before this got out of hand. "You know what, I just wanted to show Dick around a little. I'll go in alone, check for weapons if you want to. Dick, you should wait outside until I'm done in here." Richard nodded slowly.
Garfield could make contacts without help: he always had before. Still, if Garfield knew Richard wouldn't be allowed, why had he dragged him here? The answer was simple, Garfield had meant to strand him at a club for an hour or two. His partner was trying to hook Richard up without being too obvious. Too bad he overlooked Richard's common sense and analytical abilities.
Richard exited back into the club and was once again assaulted by sound. Garfield went through to the other room. Now, what was he going to do for the next few hours? One thing was certain: drinking, dancing, or picking up a girl was not an option.
Next Update: Wednesday, July 26, 2006