Free City of the Lost by Stephen Blackmoore Page A

block. From the crowd I’d say it’s bondage night. The name changes based on the theme. Tonight it’s Bête Noir.
    The crowd is mostly tourists looking for a thrill and a few in the scene. The club is legit, but that’s not where it makes its money.
    Lots of leather. Corsets, thigh-highs, the latest in latex evening wear. A floor show to keep things interesting. Pretty boys and girls tied to crosses, bent over racks.
    As long as there aren’t any nipples or bush, and nobody’s actually fucking on stage, the vice squad leaves them pretty much alone. It helps that half the officers who come in are on the take.
    I cut to the front of the line, flag down Bruno, one of the bouncers. Built like a Russian wrestler with a nose flatter than a tire on a bed of nails. I’ve worked with him when we needed a little more firepower than Julio and I could pack. Good in a fight, but I’ve never been entirely clear on who paid him—Simon or Danny.
    Bruno nods, pulls back the black velvet rope for me. A group of girls, push-up bras and overdone makeup screaming jailbait, are all bitched off until Bruno picks a couple to come on in. A woman in purple leather and thigh-high boots escorts them to the back like they’re VIPs.
    Smart money says they’ll be somebody’s private floor show before morning.
    The club is a converted warehouse. Three main rooms, each with its own bar. Cement floors, exposed ducts. Wired glass in the louvered windows, all painted over black.
    I see the floor show the minute I walk through the curtains in the foyer. Muted spotlights make the stage glow in the center of the main room. A redhead with a back tat of wings and black tape over her tiny breasts lies blindfolded over a padded sawhorse, ass in the air.
    The dom’s a guy in a tux and a carnivale mask, teasing her with a riding crop. Plays it across her ass, flicks it against her crotch, then brings it down with a crack I can hear over the music hammering through the speakers.
    The scent of the place is overwhelming. Alcohol, sex, the sharp sting of X and coke in the air. I can smell the fucking in the private rooms upstairs, the bathroom stalls in the back.
    All that humanity. Meat and sweat. Easy to get overwhelmed. Dizzying. It makes me think of barbeque.
    I shake it off. It doesn’t take long to find Danny. He’s tending bar in the back, chatting up the two girls Bruno let in, making them feel special, important. At heart he’s a salesman. They don’t realize they’re the product.
    His eyes flick to me as I step up behind them. He continues as though I’m not there. All smiles and free drinks. He says something to them, points at the woman who brought them over. They nod, excited, go off with her.
    He looks at me, face changing. “About fucking time.”
    “I said I’d be here before you shut down. I’m here. You’re not shut down. The fuck is the problem?”
    To hell with him. I’m not here to dick around with Danny’s little empire building scheme.
    He leads me up a flight of metal stairs to the office. It’s an impressive room. It should be. Simon shelled out a lot of cash for it. Enormous picture windows take in the whole club. Leather, wood, a billiard table, and walk-in humidor. Simon always had good taste. The place goes almost silent the moment the door closes, nothing but distant bass through the floor. The soundproofing alone must have cost a fortune.
    Danny throws himself into a chair, sinks into it. Looks beat.
    “You know how it happened?” he asks.
    “Only what I heard on the news,” I say. “Some cult thing. I don’t buy it for a minute.”
    “Me either. That fucking Italian was there, right? Giavetti? I thought you were supposed to kill him.”
    “Would have, but he wasn’t at his hotel. Spent all night trying to track him down. Must have tailed Simon from the house.”
    “I wish he’d had a bodyguard,” Danny says in a tone that says exactly the opposite. “Well, there’s fallout and shit’s happening