The Painted Man - by Dan Watters

Chapter 2

Carrying a woman's handbag into the back entrance of a nightclub, a handbag given to me by a stranger wasn't the smartest thing I'd done all night, and I'd done some pretty dumb stuff. In the space of an hour, I'd entered the home of a stranger, gone along with everything they'd told me and got into his car and let him take me off into the night.

So far it'd worked out alright. I'd reached my destination - the Romanoff club where Angie worked, but I'd been directed to go in the back door. It was all very unusual. And, I had a feeling about the handbag. It wasn't intuition. It was the weight of the thing pulling on my fingers. For such a small object it weighed more than it should.

Halfway down the narrow passage, I stopped at a keep clear, emergency exit sign with doors on opposite sides. There were no cameras on the walls or ceilings and I hunched over, phone light in hand, flipping open the latch of the handbag. Crammed inside were hundreds of tiny, shiny Ziploc bags. I pinched one out and held it under the torchlight. Suspended in the clear plastic pocket was a white crystalline substance; drugs. Included in the tiny bag was a shred of paper recording the weight of the contents in grams.

The handbag was a hot potato with enough contraband to put this dumb donkey ass, drug mule in jail. But, if I dumped the drugs and ran, someone would miss them and there was every chance they'd come after me. My best chance was passing them off to the buyer and to the best of my knowledge, that buyer was Angie.

Staring at the single-serve of crystal, I couldn't believe I'd been put in this position. Anger boiled and I wanted to know why the girl of my high school dreams had set me up.

A loud bang came from the emergency exit to my left and a door flung open, slamming into my body, sending me to the floor, my head exploding with pain. My cell phone tumbled, torch down and darkness sucked out the light. Pops of colour burst around my head and I noticed a soft blue light coming from the open door. A shadow came over me and with a short, tug the leather strap of the handbag was gone from my fingers. A second later the emergency door slammed closed and I was left in total darkness.

I'd been mugged.

There was no blood coming from the pain on my head and I found that I was still clutching the small bag of crystals in my fist - proof of my stupidity. The handbag and the drugs were gone and I was left to crawl around in the dark, searching the floor for my phone. The screen was still intact - small blessings - and that was probably the sum total of my luck.

It was time to get out of here.

Still shaken and feeling under threat I cautiously opened the door opposite to the one used by my mugger and found myself bathed in a similar blue light coming from twin fluoro tubs on the ceiling of a room with multiple passages and doors. The thumping bass of a dance beat rattled the walls and I followed the sound expecting to find safety in a crowd. Through a maze of rooms, I crossed paths with the drunk drinking, people yelling in conversation, groups hanging out in booths and couples making out in dark corners. The music grew louder and I emerged into a large room filled with a heaving mass of bodies moving in unison under the false twilight of the Romanoff club. Scanning the crowd for danger, there didn't appear to be anyone interested in my being there. As a stranger among strangers, I felt safe and took a moment to gather myself.

Never, in my lifetime, would I think that a girl I'd been dating for two weeks, a girl I'd known since high school, could use me like I'd been used tonight. But, that's what had happened. Angie had turned me into a drug mule. Anger burned in my gut. She was here somewhere. I was sure of it.

Combing my hair with my fingers, tucking the loose tail of my shirt under the back strap of by belt, I searched the crowd with gritted teeth for a crown of long, blond hair. There were beautiful women everywhere and half of them were blond. The heat and humidity, the sweet smell of perfume, the bite of alcohol and the haze of smoke, the show of skin and the rhythmic motion of bodies stirred primal urges.

After my first lap of the room, I took out my phone and messaged Angie. There was no reply. I did a second lap and checked my phone. Still no reply. I was being ghosted and it occurred to me that even if I did find her that I'd probably never find out why she'd treated me like shit and used me in a drug deal.

A warm sorrow blossomed in my chest and a familiar bitterness filled the back of my mouth. I wasn't stupid, but this wasn't the first time someone I liked, loved, had dissolved into absence without explanation, and I wondered if it was something about me, some kind of signal I was broadcasting that told people I could take it. And maybe I could, but it didn't mean I liked it. I didn't like it. It'd take days, maybe weeks of self-pity to get over this one.

With a heavy heart, I put away my phone. If I couldn't answers, I could still get a drink and headed for the bar. It was in the slow-moving line, pressed in on all sides, my feet sticking to the floor when I saw her.

Angie Philips in a shoestring back strapped dress of shimmering gold with emerald green eyes was at the end of the bar, drink in hand, straw between her teeth smiling playfully over the shoulder of a man leaning in, shouting in her ear.

I wanted the bodies around me to combust, to give me the space to be seen in all my anger, to give me the space to walk away. But the crowded bar held me in place, pressing me forward. The bartender called for my order. The need for revenge was strong and I ordered three drinks, sending two of them to the end of the bar where the bartender interrupted Angie and her male friend. I watched her confused reaction to the drinks before the bartender's finger found me in the crowd.

Hate and hurt shot like arrows across the room and I held up my drink, saluting my lover.

She came back with a look of wide-eyed shock and surprise and I knew my arrows had hit their mark. At that moment I knew that she knew this, whatever this had been, was never happening again.

Downing my drink in one punishing pull, I turned my back on the bar, taking my sick, self-loathing in search of the exit. I could feel the air temperature outside and I was almost outside when a hand grabbed me by the wrist, pulling me around.

It was Angie, her beautiful face full of desperation.

'Wait, Will. Don't leave.'

'What about the other guy?' I blurted.

'He's one of my staff. We were talking shop.'

My mind replayed that hurt filled moment at the bar and I saw that the guy was wearing a black shirt with a white logo on the chest. The Romanoff club logo.

'If we're going to be together, you can't be jealous every time a guy talks to me.'

'Yeah, well I thought you were with him.'

Angie put a hand out and touched me and as if by magic, the jealousy I was feeling dissipated. It was irrational, but then beauty explained in mathematics makes an irrational number.

'I'm with you. I've been waiting for you all night. Where have you been?'

I was surprised she had to ask.

'I went to...You were going to meet me in Harlem.'

Angie's brow frowned, puzzled.

'Harlem? Why would I meet you there?'

'You sent me there. Did you set me up?'

Her puzzled look deepened.

'Set you up for what? I didn't send you to Harlem.'

I couldn't believe her. I wanted to. She seemed believable, but I had the text messages from her that proved otherwise. Taking my cell phone from my pocket and unlocking the screen I was about to show her the text messages when a strong hand grabbed me by the shoulder.

I jumped with fright and heard a voice behind me.

'William Blake, come with me.'