No Man's Land

21

PAUL ROGERS ADJUSTED his shirt cuffs and then the headset, placing the mic an inch or so from the right side of his mouth.

He had added tinted glasses and a fedora covering his shaved head to his appearance, keeping in mind that somewhere a bench warrant had been issued for his arrest and cops here could very well know what he looked like. He was also growing a goatee.

Into the mic he said, “Rogers, checking in.”

There was a squawk and then a voice came back to him. “Copy that, Paul. Loud and clear. Have a good shift.”

He settled his back against the brick wall next to the entrance door. In front of the door were two metal stands with a red velvet rope strung between them, like at a theater.

It was thirty minutes until opening, but there was already a line of people down the street and around the corner. They were mostly young, many clearly military with their shaved heads and toned physiques. The ladies were dressed to impress; the men looked ready to drink and score with the aforementioned ladies.

Rogers looked down at his phone where the VIP list was up on the screen. Ten names. Bigwigs in some way, he supposed. At least locally.

He studied the people in line. Most of them were on their phones, tapping keys and, he supposed, communicating with someone. Some were taking pictures of themselves. He had heard about Facebook and that Twitter thing, although he had no idea what the purpose for either was. He had seen a young waitress inside posting something on her Facebook account. To Rogers it looked like a picture of what she’d had for lunch. But then there had been a photo of her nearly naked and he had turned away before she caught him looking.

The world really had changed a lot in ten years.

There were a few guys in line watching him. He knew what they were doing, because he was doing the same thing: sizing them up.

He could tell these guys were going to test him. Maybe with a fake ID, or a sob story, or a plan of misdirection to get some buddies into the bar unseen.

Rogers popped his neck and then rubbed the back of his head. It had started to tingle there. That was never a good sign.

Do not screw this up. Do not overreact. Do nothing to let them come and get you.

Using tools he’d found in the van and some black spray paint and tape, he had methodically doctored the license plates on the van, changing one letter and one number. He felt he was good to go there. So now he had to focus on the job at hand.

Finally, the thirty minutes were up and Rogers rose and unhooked the red rope.

“Single file, IDs ready. No problems, no trouble,” he called out in a loud voice. “Any fake IDs are subject to confiscation at my sole discretion. If you don’t like that rule, head somewhere else.”

The line of people surged forward.

Rogers had been given a special light like the TSA used at airports. If the person looked anywhere close to the age limit, and most did, he pulled it out and hit the surface of the ID. Three times he held on to the ID because it was fake but good enough to fool almost anyone without the same equipment. The two girls and one guy affected by this did not want to go quietly, but Rogers gave them a look that made them turn and leave.

Then came a group of guys big enough to look like they played major-college football. Three blacks and three whites, and none looked over twenty.

He asked for IDs. The first two were obviously doctored so badly that Rogers didn’t even bother keeping them. He just tossed them back. When they tried to pass by him, he put out an arm.

“Just to be clear, that was a rejection, guys. Try somewhere else, maybe where the bouncer is blind.”

A black guy, the biggest of them, said, “Come on, man, we won’t drink. We just want to dance and score quality time with some fine ladies.”

“Sorry, no exceptions.”

Another of the group, a slightly smaller white guy, stepped up.

“I tell you what, Grandpa. You let us in and you get to keep your teeth.”

Rogers smelled the kid’s breath. “You look like you been six-packing already. You might want to head back to the dorm and keep your scholarship.”

“You must not have heard me, old man.”

He took a swing, but Rogers had already moved and the fist caught nothing but air.

“Stop running, Gramps, it’ll only hurt for a second,” said the man.

Rogers turned to the other men. “I’m telling you guys to take your buddy out of here before something unfortunate happens.”

The men all laughed. “You sound like a lawyer, dude,” said the black guy.

“I’m nothing like a lawyer.”

“How ’bout a doctor, then?” said the man who’d taken the swing.

Rogers turned to him. “I’m not following.”

“Then you can heal yourself, asshole!”

He swung again, only this time Rogers didn’t move. He stood his ground and, as he had done with Karl, clenched the man’s fist. But he didn’t just grip, he twisted and then jerked downward.

The man screamed and dropped to the pavement clutching his injured arm.

“You broke my fuckin’ wrist,” he wailed.

Rogers raised a fist to deliver a blow to the head that would have almost certainly killed the man. The spot on his head was burning like somebody had set it on fire with an acetylene torch.

No. Don’t do it. Don’t do it!

“Hey, man, come on, back off!”

Rogers stared up at the black guy.

“You proved your point, dude, okay?”

Rogers let go of the wrist and took a step back.

Instantly, on a sign from the black guy, two of the other men stepped up to take their shot.

Rogers didn’t wait for either of them to take a swing. He grabbed the shirt of the bigger one, lifted him off his feet, and threw him against the wall. The man hit the brick hard and slumped down. When the other launched himself low at Rogers’s belly, he brought a knee up and caught him right on the chin. The man fell to the pavement screaming with a mouthful of broken teeth.

Rogers stepped back and adjusted his hat.

“Come back when you’re old enough,” he said to the men who were still standing.

The other guys helped their injured friends up.

The black guy said, “Oh, we’ll be back all right. Count on it, you son of a bitch!”

The group stalked off, with several of them supporting their injured buddies. The man with the broken wrist looked back at Rogers and screamed obscenities.

The other people in line looked stunned by what they had just witnessed. Even the ones who were obviously in the military. Some left. Most stayed.

Within fifteen minutes Rogers had passed all those twenty-one and older into the bar. All the rest were sent on their way. After seeing what Rogers could do, no one else gave him any trouble.

“Dude’s a damn freak,” one man muttered to his friend as they were turned away.

A minute later a stretch limo drove up and the driver got out, came around, and opened the door. Ten people got out. They were all in their twenties and thirties, split equally between men and women, dressed in casual clothes that would break the bank of most people.

One of the men from the group came up to Rogers. He was tall, good-looking, with thick, curly brown hair, and he wore a carefree, arrogant expression.

“Name’s Josh Quentin. My party’s on the VIP list.”

Rogers looked down at his list and said, “I’ll need to see ID from everyone.”

“You’re new.”

“First night.”

“What’s your name?”

“Paul.”

“Okay, Paul, fair enough. But from now on, remember us. We’re regulars. And I don’t like to wait.”

He slipped a hundred-dollar bill into Rogers’s hand.

They all showed ID and Rogers checked the names off on the screen on his phone.

“Have a good time, Mr. Quentin.”

Quentin turned to look at him and smiled. “I always do.” He grabbed the gorgeous woman next to him, who returned the grope with a smile and a flirty hip bump.

Some guys seem to have the Midas touch, thought Rogers. And I wouldn’t mind bashing in the brains of every single one of the pricks.

He poked his head inside the door in time to see the group head up the stairs and into a room.

Rogers had not gone up there when he was inside the bar. It had been roped off. He did note that there was a security man posted at the bottom of the stairs who had let Quentin and his group pass.

Rogers wondered why people would come to a bar and then not go to the bar. Maybe they had their own personal one up there. Maybe they had something more than the peons below got.

As he was about to close the door he saw Helen Myers pass by the security man and head up the stairs. She went into the same room.

Rogers closed the door.

Four times that night he was called into the bar to handle a disturbance.

Four times he vise-gripped the arm of the offender just enough to get his drunken attention and led the person quietly out the door.

Twice he saw Myers watching him from the upper hallway. She seemed pleased with how he was handling things.

The place was packed until one a.m. with hundreds of drinkers, dancers, bad karaoke, and men grabbing ass and women sometimes letting them. Then people began leaving. At two he and another security man eased out the last few stragglers. Then the cleanup crew came in and started stacking chairs and mopping slickened floors. The bleach would probably come out in the morning, Rogers figured.

He didn’t know how many drinks had been poured over the course of six hours, but he felt the Grunt had just made a ton of money.

He was sitting at the bar drinking a glass of water when Myers came over and sat next to him. She pulled out an e-cigarette and put the end between her lips.

“How was your first night?”

“Pretty much what I expected,” he replied.

“I heard there was an altercation in line. With some big guys.”

“They didn’t understand the rules. So I gave a lesson. But I did it as nicely as I could. Like you said.”

“I saw you do a couple of ejections from in here. They were well done.”

“Thanks.” Rogers took a drink of water and set his glass down. “Josh Quentin?”

Myers pulled out the e-cig from her mouth. “What about him?”

“What does he do to qualify as a VIP?”

“He owns his own company. Super smart. He’s not a billionaire yet, but he will be. And he’s barely thirty. A real mover and shaker.”

“Good for him. Nice group of friends with him.”

“He has lots of friends.”

“Yeah, I saw him playing grab-ass with one of them. But she didn’t seem to mind.”

She shrugged. “He gets what he pays for.”

“Almost a billionaire, huh? Then you’d think they’d be going to some fancy-ass club for high rollers.”

She frowned at this comment. “This isn’t Vegas. And we’re not just a bar, Paul. We cater to lots of different interests and tastes. Some fancier than others. Good night.” She rose to leave.

“What about my money?”

She turned back to him. “Payday is every Friday.”

“The thing is I need some cash now.”

She eyed him closely. Then she walked around the bar, opened the cash register, counted out two fifties, ten twenties, ten tens, and the rest fives and ones. She wrapped a rubber band around the cash and tossed it to him.

He slipped it inside his pocket. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. But that’s a one-off. From now on payday is Friday.”

“Understood.”

“And even though you’re not officially on the payroll, we’ll be taking out something for FICA and income taxes. I’m not getting screwed by the IRS.”

“What does that leave me, then?”

“Enough. Unless you want to fill out the paperwork? Full name, Social Security number, all that.”

“No, I don’t want to do that.”

“Fine. Just so you know, I’ve never paid an employee under the table. I’m not a fan.”

“So why me?”

She leaned against the bar. “You looked like somebody who needed a break.”

“I appreciate that. So how’s Karl?”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine. And remember, he’s your boss.”

“Never forgot it. See you tomorrow. Boss.”

Rogers rose and left.

It was nearly three in the morning.

It was time for him to go to work.