Page 22 of Iron Will

I guess it doesn’t matter that I hate myself for the way I did it.

And more than anything, I hope what I did back there won’t come back to bite me in the ass.

9

Rourke

Yoda comes with me on a ride down to Mazur’s place, the Lucky Strike. It’s early in the day, so there’s hardly anyone in the place when we get there, but there’s no windows, so once you’re inside it could be midnight or noon and you’d never know it.

I’ve been to the Strike a few times. It’s not really my scene — too depressing — but it serves a purpose, I guess. The interior’s like the inside of a fuckin’ vagina, all done up in pinks and satin. The place smells like booze and cigarettes. Usually, there’s music booming, and women workin’ the stage, but right now the sound system is on low, and it looks like the performers are taking a break.

Yoda and I belly up to the bar in the back. I signal to the bartender for a shot, and Yoda gets the same. A couple of girls come over, squeezed into tiny little outfits that put their tits and ass on full display. A chestnut-haired beauty immediately slides halfway onto Yoda’s lap — as far as she can as he sits on the bar stool, anyway.

“You came back for me!” she coos, nuzzling his ear. “I missed you.”

Yoda grins at me. “This is Amber.”

“I’m Daisy,” the blond with her announces. She’s less stacked than Amber, but her face is prettier. She sidles up to me, wraps one arm around my neck, and looks up at me with her painted doe eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

I can’t say I’m not tempted. More out of habit than anything, I realize. Daisy ain’t got nothin’ on display I haven’t seen before. I could take her into a back room and spend a little time with her, but it doesn’t really sound all that appealing, in the end. It’d be more like takin’ a handful of chips because the bag’s sitting there in front of you, not because you’re hungry.

“I hate to tell you darlin,’ but you’re gonna have to wait a little longer,” I tell her, peeling her arm off me. “I need to talk to your boss. He around?”

Daisy gives me a pout and looks like she wants to argue with me, but she must see in my eyes that I’m not buyin’ what she’s sellin’. Shooting her friend a look, she disappears into the back, swishing her tail feathers as she goes.

A minute later, Jimmy Mazur comes out, flanked by a big, lunking monstrosity of a man standing almost seven feet tall. Mazur introduces him as Dewey. There’s no mistaking him as anything other than Mazur’s bodyguard. Mazur himself is almost as wide as he is tall. He’s like a goddamn Polish meatball: beefy, completely round, and smelling like onions.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” he booms, raising his arms wide. He gives us a yellow-toothed grin, and claps Yoda on the back. “The girls tol’ me you stopped by yesterday, too.”

“Yeah. I came by to get a lap dance and some intel.” Yoda lifts his chin toward me. “Rourke wanted to come back and follow up on some shit.”

Jimmy eyes our empty shot glasses. “You want another drink? On the house! Then we go sit over there and talk,” he announces, pointing to a low, round table off to one side of the stage.

Yoda and I let the bartender grab us a couple of beers, and we go sit down with Mazur. Dewey lurches behind us, standing like Frankenstein’s fuckin’ monster off to one side.

“Does he talk?” I ask, jerking my thumb toward him.

“He talks when I want him to.” Jimmy raises his voice. “Say somethin,’ Dewey.”

“Hello,” glowers Dewey.

“So, whaddya wanna talk to me about?” Mazur asks. “Yoda said somethin’ about Mickey King?”

“Yeah. What’s the story with him? You’ve known him a while?”

“Yeah. He comes around here a lot. His girl, Bethany works here as a dancer.”

“How long as she worked here?”

“About… six months, maybe?” Mazur shrugs. “More or less. Mickey’s been comin’ here a lot longer than that, though.”

“He come here for the girls?” I press. “Or to gamble?”

“Both, I guess. But more for the gamblin’. And he don’t really go with the girls anymore.” Mazur lowers his voice. “Except when Bethany ain’t around, that is.”

Yoda’s nostrils flare. “He any good at gambling?”

Mazur barks out a laugh. “Mickey? Nah. He sucks at it. He wins just enough to keep him comin’ back. His M.O. is, he comes in with a wad of money, loses it, goes in the hole, borrows more money from me, and loses that. Then he disappears for a few days, or a few weeks, ’til he can scrape up the money and pay me back. Then the cycle starts all over again.” His expression turns sour. “Only lately he ain’t been payin’ me back.”