Dietrich Kalteis is a writer living in West Vancouver, Canada. His short stories have appeared at The Short Humour Site UK, the Clockwise Cat, Cantaraville, the Cynic, Defenestration, Dew on the Kudzu, and One Cool Word. The screenplay 'Between Jobs', that he co- authored with his wife, Andrea, is a past finalist in the Screenplay Contest, and he is currently completing his first novel.

Preying at the Trafalgar Bar (November 20, 2009. Issue 11.)

It had just gone midnight; the migraine accented the palpable joylessness that always followed him like a fog. His gut told him they were on some epic collision course, Jeff following Vick through the lobby of the Crowne Plaza. The drowsy desk clerk lifted his head as their footsteps echoed, Vick beelining for the Trafalgar Bar, partially out of thirst, partially to celebrate the deal they put to bed.

The place reeked of floor polish, deserted except for the useless fans wobbling overhead. The naked bulbs lit the sweaty bartender and two ladies of the night perched on barstools, heavy on the make-up and skimpy on the clothing. Vick was drawn like a salmon up a stream past the upturned chairs on tables.

“I got to hand it to you, you did a hell of a job,” Jeff said, catching Vick’s sleeve, trying to steer him to a table closer to the window. The strata of cheap perfume smelled like trouble. “Cruz really holds you in high regard. Hanging tough like you did, you sure gained his trust.”

Vick wasn’t tuned in, and Jeff’s migraine kicked at the back of his eye sockets, him thinking about Randy and the quarter of million bucks they just handed to Cruz, all of the money cementing the deal being Randy’s. Business deals and ex-bikers were oil and water.

“Got a couple of cigars up in the room, good ones,” Jeff said. “Let’s nab a bottle of whatever and head up – keep a low profile, celebrate a bit.”

“I got a better idea.” Vick grinned broadly, wagging his eyebrows at the women.

“Special occasion, I mean these cigars – Cohibas, I’m talking the best,” Jeff said.

Vick wagged a finger at the bartender. “Por favor?”

The weary bartender nodded, wiping the rim of a glass with his apron – the sorry eyes of a man who could rhyme off a hundred places he’d sooner be than this hole.

“Dos cervezas for me and my amigo here,” Vick said, clapping Jeff on the back, the migraine pinging around like a thousand squash balls.

“Dos cerveza, si.” The bartender shuffled to the cooler that hadn’t worked right since Ugarte was in short pants.

“And whatever the ladies are drinkin’ – on us,” Vick called, scraping and turning his chair to face them. The bonanza grin stretched from one ear to the other. “Beunos noches, ladies.”

The women swiveled to face their prey – leering, hungry smiles. The height of the bar stools put them at chest-to-eye level, leaving little to Vick’s imagination; their dangling legs left little room for Jeff to escape. Breasts packed tight, flaunting rifts of pleasure, they displayed their wares like blue-ribbon winners, allowing the yankee eyes to trespass and explore. That part was free, and while Vick transgressed, Jeff turned to the window and looked out at the night, the sky full of stars.

“Turistas?” The chubby hooker asked, not caring for Jeff’s attitude. A strange lot, these Americanos; the little runt was either arrogant or impotent; she wasn’t sure yet which.

“You got it, babe,” Vick said, winking.

“Inglés?” Chubby smiled, glancing doubtfully at Jeff.

“Right again, doll. We’re from L.A,” Vick said.

“Ah si, L.A., USA.” Chubby pretended to be impressed. What assholes these Americans were.

“Righto,” Vick said.

Chubby considered Jeff’s posture, thinking he feared contraction of something dread and foul by mere conversation.

“Amigo tiene un problema?” Chubby asked Vick, furrowing her plucked brows. On second thought, she considered the little gringo’s pissy attitude to be one of moral superiority.

“He’s got a bit of a headache,” Vick said, indicating a little with his finger and thumb.

“Pequeño?” Chubby looked at Jeff, “A leetle eez okay.” Beeg, leetle, eet make no …” She wagged her hand to show it made no difference; he sure wasn’t doing her any favors either way. She pointed to her ample self, then to her hawkish friend. “Chicas de la fantasía.”

The bartender swung by with his tray, set two dripping Austral on the table, then slid two glasses of watered wine on the bar. Taking Vick’s money, nodding a thanks for the tip, he left, bored with this rehearsed prelude to debauchery he was forced to witness every night.

“Gracias,” Vick called after him. “Enjoy your drinks, ladies.”

“Si, gracias. We drink; you drink.” Hawkish ran her painted nails along her hourglass hip, saying to Jeff, “Then you like, si?”

Jeff looked blankly at her, then through the sliding doors at the dark courtyard beyond. He sipped his beer. It wasn’t anywhere close to cold, which brought up its skunky hoppiness. He tried not to think about Randy’s money. A solid deal, a sure thing, he had told Ann. She, of course, telling him he was nuts getting into bed with Vick and Randy. She parroted at him to get a regular job, having been stung by one get-rich-quick scheme after another, none of them amounting to much. Each time he promised would be the last.

“Ah, si baby, I like already. You’re, uh, caliente,” Vick said, trying to bridge the language gap with his bare-bones grasp of the lingo. He tapped a cigarette from a pack, flared a wooden match on his thumbnail and lit up, then he offered the pack around.

“Si, caliente,” Chubby encouraged him. “Fifty yankee bucks – make mucho caliente.” She pinched a cigarette from his pack, let him light her up, then licked her fingers, leaned far forward and pinched out the flame, her eyes locked on his.

“Our luck’s takin’ a total turn,” Vick said giddily to Jeff. “Fifty’s cheap for this ride.” Then he added in a low voice. “I’ll drill this hotty,” he breathed, enamored with Chubby’s exposed bounty.” You do her.” He nodded at Hawkish. “Then if you’re up for it, we can swap.”

“Si, do me, yankee baby.” Hawkish pursed her lips at Jeff, pressing her arms which squeezed her breasts together, straining the fabric of her dress.

Jeff wagged his fingers, showing her his wedding ring. “Mano et mano.”

“Si,” Hawkish said, flashing her gold band.

Vick pulled out his wallet and counted out bills.

“Put that away,” Jeff hissed at him. “You’re going to get us tossed in jail.”

“Calm down, you’re gonna blow this,” Vick warned. “Have a little consideration; I’ve been divorced longer than you.” He counted out five tens and held them out for Chubby, her leaning forward, allowing him to deposit the bills into the Bank of Cleavage.

“Feefty y feefty,” she said, pointing a fake nail at herself, then Hawkish.

Vick counted out fifty more and tucked the bills into Hawkish’s top. Still a steal, but between this and the airport tax, he was nearly tapped out.

“For the record, I’m not divorced,” Jeff said.

“Maybe not yet. Look, I don’t know if something’s wrong with you or if you’re just fucked up, but take this as friendly advice: you need to get laid; you’re all …” Vick made a spasmic gesture with his hand, then turned back to the ladies. “I’m Vick and that’s Jeff. What’re your names, my chiquitas?”

“Qué?” Hawkish asked.

“Ah nomo – nombre.”

“Ah.” Chubby brightened and squeezed Hawkish’s breast like it were a bicycle horn. “Meeze Right.” Then she pressed both her own. “Et Meeze Right Now.”

“Oh God, mamma.” That did it. Vick’s nerves were wrangled. “I’m ah … goin’ with ah … Miss Right Now, right now.”

“Get a grip,” Jeff hissed.

Trusting that the little tight-ass just needed a touch more encouragement, Hawkish gave it one last shot. She said in a breathy whisper, “Wife do deez?” Sliding a hand up Chubby’s thigh, she leaned in and planted a kiss on her mouth; Hawkish’s eyes slanted first to Vick, then to Jeff, gauging the effect.

Vick vibrated spasmodically. “Ho hah oh yah ummm.”

Jeff looked back out at the night, picking up the beer.

Hawkish drooped her forefinger at Jeff, then said to Vick, “Amigo no macho.”

“Forget him, baby. Plenty of me to go around.” Vick tapped his chest, his foot vibrating up and down. Tugging Jeff’s sleeve, he asked quietly, “I don’t ‘spose you packed any, you know, protection in your wallet?”

“Like what, a gun?”

“I packed light, now I got to pick up your slack.”

Jeff glanced at him with loathing.

“Yeah, shoot – gotta improvise.” Vick stood up and scratched his head. He’d figure out something.

The ladies slid off their stools and pasted themselves to their sugar daddy of the hour. Chubby unbuttoned his collar and slid a hand over his chest, then down, gripping his belt. Hawkish pressed herself against his other flank, clamping his trembling leg between hers. She lightly stroked the hair on his stomach while her other hand squashed his buttock. She eyed Jeff; a clear-cut case of erectile dysfunction; she supposed he should be pitied, not cursed, but she cursed him anyway.

“Here’s to too much bed and not enough sleep,” Vick toasted, slugged back his beer, then whacked the empty down on the bar. The three of them stumbled entwined in the direction of the elevator. “You know where to find us, case you change your mind,” he called to Jeff, then they were gone.

After a while, the sleepy-eyed bartender came around from behind the bar and set another beer in front of Jeff. This one was on the house. He didn’t usually care for them, but somehow he felt sorry for this yankee.

#

Dreading walking in on the tangle of limbs, Jeff pushed open the door to the darkened room. The smell was rank, but it was mothballs and stale air, not last night’s copulationfest. At least his migraine had lifted.

Like a spread-eagled remnant, Vick lay with his feet over the side, naked and as drawn as a virgin sacrifice across the second of the twin beds. His mouth hung open, wide enough to drop a baseball into, snoring sharply on the inhale and exhale. Thankfully, there was no sign of the carpet kneelers. They had plied their trade upon the poor dolt, given him a night to remember and gone home, probably to husbands sitting at the breakfast table, noses into the headlines, waiting for fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice and toast. A kiss, then the men would race off to their own jobs in the city; lunches would be made and kids would be tended and herded off to school. Then the ladies would get some shuteye before dark set in, then the hustle for fresh tourist meat would be on again. Jeff went to the window and peeled the drapes back, squinting at the vista partially obscured by the window’s condensation.

“Rise and shine, Romeo.”

Vick’s breath caught on a snore, then after a few seconds, he sputtered and stirred, then his body fell limp again.

“Come on, up and at ‘em.”

“Aw, go away. I feel like crap,” Vick croaked weakly, pulling a pillow over his head.

Drawing satisfaction from Vick’s earned discomfort, Jeff reached under the bed and tossed his suitcase onto the unruffled bed. “Come on, time to get a move on.” He unzipped it loudly. No quarter would be given.

“Ten more minutes,” Vick whined.

“Can’t be late.”

“Lots of time.”

“Supposed to be there two hours early.”

“I need sleep.”

“Hey, while you were screwing your brains out, I flipped and flopped on a plastic deck chair – pressed lines so deep into my ass, they may never come out; plus, I froze my nuts off.”

“Have a heart,” Vick begged.

“Nothing to cover myself with, plus they locked the back doors. I had to go past the pool, past the tennis courts just to take a leak. Rat this big ran by me – scared the hairy shit out of me.” Jeff folded his suit jacket.

Vick curled himself in the blanket. “What time you got?”

“Time to get a move on.” Jeff smoothed his suit pants. “You play, now you gotta pay.”

“Yeah, well, what can I say? They were all over me.”

“You had to pay them, remember?” Jeff folded the pants neatly into the suitcase.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s like my dick’s magnetic.” Vick laced his hands behind his head, forcing a weak grin.

“What I really don’t want is to hear the adventures of mighty Vick’s dick,” Jeff said, taking a pair of jeans from the closet.

Vick jiggled his head to clear it. “Think I blacked out.”

“Probably all that blood rushing to your magnet.”

Vick swung a leg over the side of the bed; hooking the hockey bag with his foot, he inched it towards himself.

“Put something on for Christ’s sake; you look like dried fruit.” Jeff looked around the room and he furrowed his brow. “Where’d you toss my laptop?”

“Oh, man,” Vick clutched his quivering stomach. “What?”

Agitation was instant; Jeff spun around. “My laptop.”

“How should I know?”

“It was right here.” Jeff tossed the jeans down and dropped to his hands and knees, checking under one bed, then the other. Scrambling up, he pressed against the wall, spied behind the dresser, then rushed into the bathroom; a migraine like alarm bells ringing in his head, escalating his hysteria. He ripped open each drawer.

“Do you have to do start?” Vick ran a palm over his forehead.

“Oh, fuck! Where, where?” Jeff panicked.

“Ah, man, check in the closet.” Vick rubbed his hands over his face and pushed himself up to a sitting position.

Jeff hurled open the closet doors. “For fuck sakes – the contract, the formula.”

“Got to be here.”

“In the case – everything’s in the case.” Jeff checked under the bed again, tore off the blanket, then the pillow, then crawled over and pulled the dresser off the wall. “Get off your ass. Help me look.” He jerked the drapes back and patted the wall like there might be a hidden compartment. He tore open the nightstand drawer, ran back to the closet, jumped up, looking at the empty shelf.

Vick tugged up his pants and cinched his belt. “Relax. It didn’t walk away.”

“Fucking stupid bastard falls asleep with two hookers in the room.”

“Calm down,” Vick said, then spoke to himself. “Let me think, I was playin’ with Miss Right …” He fondled invisible breasts in the air. “While the other one’s fixin’ Pisco on ice at the mini bar – needed more ice, so, playin’ the gent, but packin’ serious wood, I bent like Quasimoto with an ice bucket, ran down the hall. We had a drink and then I started to … uh … Jeez, can’t remember.” He leaned against the dresser, his stomach doing flip-flops.

“They mickied your drink, you idiot, then ran off with my laptop, the contract, the formula.”

“So, you think I …” Vick poked his index finger into the circled thumb and forefinger of his other hand.

“Who the fuck cares?”

“Who can you trust these days?”

Through the pounding pulse of his temples, Jeff gawked at him incredulously. “Not two Third World hookers. He pulled the nightstand drawer open and flung Gideon’s Bible at Vick. It missed and sailed across the room. “You’re too stupid to live.”

Vick flopped back on the bed. “Hundred bucks and nothin’.”

“All my cash – fucking hell.” Jeff ripped the nightstand drawer out and tossed it over by the window. Checking the inside sleeve of his suitcase, he yanked out their tickets and passports.

“Least we can get home,” Vick said, taking his wallet from on top of the dresser; it too, was empty. He tossed it in his hockey bag. “Man, we’re gonna have a bitch of a time explainin’ this one.”

“What do you mean, we?”

“Let’s just go back to Enrique, tell him we got robbed.”

“We can’t go back. What would he think? Besides, he’s on his way to Europe, remember?” And we sure as fuck can’t go crying to Randy.”

“Yeah, Randy.” Vick hadn’t thought of Randy.

Jeff sucked in a breath, his head feeling like a whistling pressure cooker. “Two hundred and fifty grand. What were you thinking?”

“Oh sure, yesterday it was ‘good work, Vick’. Today it’s, what were you thinkin’?’ How about takin’ some responsibility?”

“You idiot. That’s Randy’s money – gone – right there.”

Jeff ripped the tangled sheet out from under Vick, sending him tumbling to the floor. Jeff whirled the sheet into a ball, then flung it wildly into the air. He leaped onto the bed, snatched a pillow and pummeled it mercilessly and yelled, “Right! (punch) Fucking! (punch) There!”

The phone rang and they both froze. The springs rode Jeff to a slow stop. They looked at each other, then at the phone that insisted on being answered.

“Front desk because of your noise.” Vick nodded for Jeff to pick it up.

“No, you.”

“Maybe it’s them?” Vick asked. “Miss Right and the other one?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Took it by mistake maybe.” Vick stepped over and picked it up. “Hello?”

“Hey, Vick, it’s Randy. You have no idea how hard–”

Vick slammed it down and smiled at Jeff. “Wrong number.” He hurriedly tossed his belongings into the hockey bag. “Guy was jabberin’ some shit in Spanish.”

The phone rang again.

“Same guy lookin’ for Juan; just let it ring.”

It rang and rang. Finally, Jeff grabbed it. “Listen you moron, Juan’s not here. You got the–”

“Hey, fucknuts.”

Jeff froze, realizing it was Randy. The migraine siren was wailing inside the pressure cooker.

“What the hell, hangin’ up on me?”

“No, no, that was Vick. Phones are (pause) else down here. Sometimes they (pause) and sometimes (pause) don’t. Jeff covered the receiver and mouthed to Vick, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Well?” Randy demanded.

“Well …”

“The meeting?”

“The meeting went … well,” Jeff said sheepishly.

There was a moment of dead air. “Did you get the contract?”

“Yeah.”

“And the formula?”

“Yeah.”

Randy was quiet a moment. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No, nothing. Just woke up – late night, you know.” Jeff faked a bogus yawn. “Still early here.”

“Uh huh.”

“Yeah, everything’s good.”

“Then, I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

“Yeah, we’ll be–”

Click.

Jeff stared at the dead receiver.