Steez

by Raymond Embrack

RAYMOND EMBRACK. Paperback writer, USA.

STEEZ

That week I was guest bouncer at City of Models.

The leading export of Blonde City is hotness. The hottest clubs lined the hottest end of the Blonde Strip...City of Models...Rome...Black Sex. The hottest clubs have guest bouncers. Guest bouncers are dangerous celebrities who need the gig. Think tattooed steroid freaks way past their prime, violence-prone gangsta rappers, former child stars. Look for jail time, drugs, impulse control issues. I’m not a celebrity but I still got the gig; I know a few hot people who almost became cold people.

I brought the Kims. Kim Collette and Collette Kim, two blondes modeling black dresses, black boots with spike heels. They were impossible to look at without your pulse slowing for a closer look, both as cool as Sargent’s painting Madame X, one a British Madame X, the other a Chinese Madame X. Both were from Hong Kong.

The Kims were wealthy enough to have a lot of free time. They were collectors of martial arts systems. They were experts in kickboxing, Capoiera, Muay Thai, were acquiring Russian martial arts, Jun Fan, Jeet Kune Do. Either one of them could take me out in maybe four minutes. So I get them to train me. In return, I train them in Blue Level. That’s a whole different kind of system.

The regular staff covered three floors of hotness while the guest bouncer and his people covered the VIP floor. That meant putting in face time among the ultra-hot in Technicolor darkness, hearing a lot of club remixes, and keeping the martinis to a minimum. The night before, two rival hip-hop crews hit the club. Tonight was going to be more laid-back.

As if.

A cluster of male voices went up. Two Asian guys in the face of a white guy, the three yelling. The two Asians were dressed like Ali G, the white dude in a black leather jacket. He had blonde highlights, a wolfish face with a ‘70s mustache. He looked like a pro. He looked like he could take the other two.

I went over to them.

"Do me a favor," I said. "Cool it."

The Pro in a booming, sandpapery voice: "Stay out of it, bro."

"‘Bro ‘?"

The Pro turned to me. "What are you–the guest bouncer?"

I nodded.

He said, "Nobody told you, dude, but you’re a nobody."

"I’m big in Japan."

The closer of the two Ali Gs turned to me. "Why don’t you fuck off, Special Guest Bouncer?"

The other Ali G flipped me the finger with both hands, said, "Yo."

"Yo," I said. "You three are bounced. That means you have ten seconds to leave the building."

"Fuck this shit," Ali G said. "We ain’t going nowhere, motherfucka."

I looked at the Kims, nodded.

The Kims moved in. People started dropping. Bones started snapping. The Pro went to a shoulder holster, pulled a nine-millimeter Taurus. He’d need it.

Sometimes there’s more to shit than just shit. This much shit would put up a distraction from worse shit. For instance, The Pro had come into the club with the entourage of Lindy Wheaton.

When you’re a guest bouncer at City of Models, even more than scoring models, you keep one thing in mind: model snatching. The latest trend in kidnapping was the targeting of high-profile women who were high on the hotness scale. Next question: who was the highest-profile hot chick there that night?

Lindy Wheaton.

I ran to Lindy Wheaton’s table. Saw her entourage. Saw the Suits in her entourage. No Lindy Wheaton.

A quick look at the VIP floor turned up zero Lindy Wheaton.

I ruled out the elevators. In the rear corridor there was a fire door to a rear stairwell. I hung my head over the railing, spotted two people two floors down moving fast. Blonde hair. A guy behind her.

I bolted down the flights four steps at a time.

Reached ground floor. Running feet ahead. Made the next corner, caught a flash of them going out the next fire door. The door opened to the alley behind the club, beer bottle-tinted lighting, a line of tan dumpsters. There was a parked Hummer. Toward it, an Asian male moving Lindy Wheaton ahead of an Uzi.

Once he got her in the Hummer it was over. I pulled the Beretta, went after them.

The driver was a second Asian male. He spotted me, said something to the snatcher. I slipped into the line of dumpsters between the first two. The snatcher spun with the Uzi, cut loose at me.

I returned fire. We had a firefight. In a firefight, in the time it takes for something to happen, it’s already happened. The Uzi rattled the dumpsters until I was breathing the sting of scorched steel. I kept metal between us and tried not to hit Lindy.

I nailed the snatcher with a burst of red spray, took him off his feet. Lindy took off running. She got the first down, tumbled behind the far end of the dumpsters. The snatcher didn’t stay dropped, got back to his feet.

As I was taking aim, the Hummer bolted, swerved into my line of fire, cut it off. The snatcher dove in. The Hummer nailed dumpster, slammed cold dumpster steel into me. I got out before I got pinned worse, stepped into the Hummer’s path.

I ran backwards, put a stream of fire at the driver’s face, hitting bulletproof glass. Made it around the first dumpster just before the Hummer blew past me. It blew past like a building on wheels.

"Shit." That wasn’t a bright red sledgehammer inside my chest, that was my heart. The dumpsters were a festival of Uzi holes.

I found Lindy crouched behind the last dumpster. Lindy Wheaton had reached the hype saturation level where she was inescapable. She was at that buzz level where the English language orbited her name. Lindy Wheaton was the first female quarterback in pro football. Lindy Wheaton played maybe fifteen minutes of each game.

"Who are you?" she said.

"Surf. I’m the guest bouncer this week."

"You are a really good guest bouncer," she said.

Others were arriving, regular staff, the Kims. Collette Kim had The Pro by the back of the neck, his hair mussed, nose bleeding.

She said, "He says he’s with Lindy Wheaton."

I nodded. She let him go. Kim Collette gave him back his gun.

He got in my face. "I’m Lindy’s security. What the fuck went down?"

I turned to the Kims. "Where are the other two?"

Kim shook her head. The other two: the recycling bin had been emptied. Gone.

"What the fuck went down?" The Pro repeated.

"The two Asian dudes pulled you off Lindy," I told him. "They were the distraction while the other crew took her. Got it now?"

He stared at me like his hatred could burn through cement.

Now the Suits were running up to the scene, looking confused.

Lindy turned to the next Suit, pointed to me, said, "Hire him."

The Suit turned to me. I gave him a card.

"Talk to Miss Black," I told him.

#

My office was a defunct 1960s Surf gasoline station on Jetstream Highway at the coast. The Surf on the sign now meant me.

Lindy Wheaton was in New York, doing press. Lindy Wheaton played for the 1FL. The 1FL was a new football league with a spring/summer season. Its second season had just concluded with the Gold Bowl. In the 1FL, cities didn’t have the franchises; they went to brand names, so there were teams named for auto companies and software companies and beer brands. A 1FL game was like watching TV commercials playing football. Lindy Wheaton quarterbacked for the Idols, the franchise team of Idol Airlines.

Two days after the City of Models gig ended, Foxy Black handled the contract with Idol Airlines. When I was going through the mail, she phoned.

"How many zeros?" I asked.

"Lotta zeros."

She told me the figure. After Foxy’s cut and a cut for the Kims...the next year opened up.

"The next year just opened up," I said. "No salary cap."

"No salary," she said. "Flat fee. But it’s play or pay. In case you get fired again."

"Good thinking."

"I want to meet her."

"You will."

"Tell her I’m hot."

"Tell her yourself."

"Sent you something today."

I logged on, got an illegal podcast sent by Foxy. Lindy Wheaton on a shock jock’s satellite radio show that morning.

"You are really hot for a female quarterback."

"Thanks."

"Small boobs."

"Thanks."

"Can female quarterbacks have big boobs? Is it hard to play with boobs?"

"No."

"Why play football when you’re a chick?"

"I’m a chick who’s into football."

"Why not play women’s football?"

"You don’t make history that way."

"So you’re into making history."

"I have nothing else to do, why not?"

"You must have a lot of lesbian fans."

"Yes."

"I hear you have a real lesbian following. Do they come onto you?"

"Yes."

"Next question: are you a lesbo?"

"No."

"Have you ever done it with a chick?"

"No."

"Would you do it with a chick?"

"Maybe."

"Ahhh...so you’re open to it."

"I have an active imagination. Would you do it with a guy?"

"Me?"

"Yeah."

"No. But guys aren’t chicks."

"No, they’re not."

"Name a chick you would do it with."

"Name a chick?"

"Like a famous chick."

"None comes to mind."

"Would you do it with Angelina Jolie?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Maybe I have bad taste in women."

"Ever sleep with a guy on the Idols?"

"No."

"Anyone on the team you want to do?"

"Of course."

"Reeeellyy..."

"They’re hot guys."

"You like the big football jock type?"

"I like many types."

"Ever do a black guy?"

"Yes."

"Reeellly...ever do a dwarf?"

"No."

"Would you?"

"A sexy dwarf would have his way with me."

"Do you like big-nosed Jews with small penises?"

"Like you?"

"Right. Would you do me?"

"Sorry, but I wouldn’t do you with three bags and a dildo."

"Whoa...you’re turning out to be a real bitch, Lindy."

"You are talking to a pro bitch, my friend."

"Do you get turned on during a game?"

"No."

"All those guys...?"

"Playing football is so not sexy. Mostly it’s dirty and it hurts."

"Do you shower with the guys?"

"Yes."

"Same locker room?"

"Yes."

"They ever get wood around you?"

"Never seen it."

"Playboy offered you a deal, right?"

"Yes. Love Hef but I turned it down."

"You won’t pose nude for Playboy?"

"No."

"Is that a feminist thing, or what?"

"No. I get enough attention already. Plus I’m not hot enough."

"You’re hot enough for Playboy. Drop maybe ten pounds."

"I’m a football player. I don’t need to lose weight."

"Yeah, but are you really a football player?"

"I’m paid to play football. That’s close enough."

"Okay. Good answer. But let’s keep it real. You’re a publicity stunt more than an athlete, aren’t you?"

"Maybe fifty-fifty."

"You play maybe fifteen minutes of a game, if that. Is that an athlete?"

"I play against challenging odds and the risk of serious injury. That’s what athletes do."

"They’re not really playing against you out there."

"You should see my X-rays."

"I still think they cut you a lot of slack on the field."

"No jock is going to cut anyone slack out there. When I play it’s for real. They go after me like they would go after a man. And they try to take me out. I may only play fifteen minutes but those fifteen minutes are the real thing. A lot of people watch just to see me get killed."

"Do you get a lot of hate?"

"Yes."

"Guys hating you because you’re cutting into a man’s game?"

"Yes."

"I’d think guys would be looking at your boobs."

"Half do, the other half wants to see my legs broken."

"What can I tell you? It’s a man’s game. You don’t see me ice skating do you?"

"I don’t ice skate either."

"Want to take some calls?"

"Sure."

"You’re on the air, Scott."

"Yeah, who is this dyke, anyway? You’re a dyke bitch."

"Not into the boobs, huh Scott?"

"You’re on the air, Jess."

"Lindy, I think you’re hot."

"Thanks, Jess."

"Ever do a Nasty Sanchez?"

"Never have, Jess."

###

Copyright © 2006 Raymond Embrack

Read The Bullet-Riddled Bullet: Blind Man With A Pistol by Chester Himes reviewed by Raymond Embrack