Halfway to Hell

Halfway to Hell Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Any kid’ll tell you that bad things happen when the lights go out.

            As I left the bar, it felt like someone had jammed an ice pick between my eyes. I knew the signs. First the headache so bad that there were spots swimming before my eyes. Dizzyness, tingling in my arms and legs, my whole body shaking, the flop sweats, the grinding teeth and then nothing. Blackout.

            I don’t always remember what happens during those blackouts. Sometimes I can figure it out from where I am when I wake up. Those times, I pretty much want to forget. I made it as far as my car and fell into the driver’s seat. I watched in the rear mirror as Delores DiMarco left the bar, looked up and down the street and then hurried off to where she’d parked her car several streets away. I waited but the pain in my head wasn’t going anywhere. I got out of the car, not trusting myself to drive, and staggered the two blocks to the nearest pharmacy where I filled Stan’s prescription. I dry swallowed two of the tablets and the pain eased off a bit. Didn’t go away. Just hung around in the back of my head like a gathering storm. If I was smart, I’d go home and shut myself in a dark room until it was over. But who has the time to be smart? George Carter may have been a love-struck sap, but he didn’t deserve to die like that. His death had been a warning. It was sending a message to anyone else who might want to stick their noses where they don’t belong. What that said about Didi DiMarco and what might have happened to her I didn’t know. But something told me time was definitely not on her side.

            I got back to the car in one piece. I checked my watch. Still early, but I figured I’d be just in time for the afternoon show. I put the car in drive and made my way downtown.

            Rachel Montgomery worked a joint called Pretty Flamingo. The name’s the only pretty thing about it. It’s a dive on the lower east side stuck between a tattoo parlour and a used car lot. I crunched another tablet for luck crossed to the door. It was a slow day. The shill outside looked me up and down, opened his mouth to start his spiel, then thought better of it. He stood aside and nodded me through. Maybe he thought I was a regular. Maybe he didn’t care.

            Inside was a cramped, dark corridor that smelt of damp. At the end was a bead curtain. Tinny music came from behind the curtain. I pushed through it and found myself in a small, red lit room with a bar at one side and a small stage at the end. Maybe a half dozen guys sat at tables, nursing beers and smoking. The barman was polishing a glass with a dirty rag. He looked up hopefully, but I shook my head and he went back to polishing.

            Kitty La Flame, aka Rachel Montgomery was on the stage strutting her stuff. She wore black high heels, long black evening gloves and two big ostrich fans.  Near as I could tell, that was all she wore. That was the point I guess. She twirled and swayed to the music, moving the fans this way and that. Sometimes you caught a glimpse of leg, or thigh, the smooth length of her spine and maybe, sometimes, in the shadows, maybe you caught a glimpse of something else. She was good. She was wasted on this bunch of lugs. The music was building to what passed for a crescendo. She moved smoothly to the back of the stage. As the last note sounded, she swung the fans high above her head. The lights went out at that split instant and all you saw was a curvy silhouette. At least the lighting guy was awake. When the lights came back on, she was gone. Nobody applauded. A jazzier tune struck up and a bump and grind mechanic took the spotlight. I didn’t wait to see what she would do with her sequins and tat. I made my way to a door at the side of the stage.

            On the other side of the door was another narrow corridor with peeling paint and the smell of onions. This came mostly from the little fat guy with the bald head and the cheap cigar stuck in his mouth. His name was Lou. He owned the joint.