Clink, clink, clink. Jack is beating his empty Michelob Ultra against the mahogany bar like he’s keeping time with the bass line pounding through hidden speakers. I hate that sound. This place? Sven’s is the rich people slumming it, club. Trying their best to feel normal. Whatever normal means to them.

“Take from him.” Jack nods toward the attorney in the corner booth. Guy’s nursing single malt, something top shelf, meaning at least fifty bucks a pour. His yellow pocket square? It’s screaming money louder than the DJ’s siren. “Make her look guilty.”

He’s pointing at Jessica. She’s sitting alone at the far end, black cigarette dress hugging every curve. Dim lights turn her dangerous. Wise men get stupid around women like that. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times. Well, a few hundred, at least.

“How?” The word tastes like the stale smoke hovering in the club.

I don’t care about his answer. I need him talking. Spilling details. He doesn’t know he won’t walk out of Sven’s with all his teeth.

“She doesn’t need it on her.” Jack grins, shows those bleached veneers. Cost more than my pension? Probably more than my mortgage.“Just needs to look like she does.”

Jessica Stanfield. Ten years as a Vice cop under Captain Morrison. Working undercover. Taking down pimps and johns who thought a woman with a badge was just another piece of jewelry. It wasn’t. She hated every minute. Told me so when I dated her friend Erica. We lost touch after Erica and I burned out.

“You can’t pull this off.” I crunch ice between my molars. Cold clears my head. Most of the time. Tonight, the beat of the music kept my head throbbing. Probably a hangover from working overtime the night before.

“Don’t have to. Just watch.”

Tate Hanady finds Jessica. The attorney slides through the crowd like he owns the place. Probably does. Owns this club, half the judges in the city. It’s not a wedding ring that catches the light, but a tan line, telling the truth about this philandering homewrecker. Marriage means nothing to him. Women here don’t care. Or they don’t notice. Either way, in my book? He’s slime.

“Now we wait.”

I watch Hanady work. That man draws women like gravity. Or bees to honey. Has to be the smell of money. From this side of the bar, I can smell his expensive cologne, cutting through the dense haze of cigarette smoke. He listens to every woman, like her every word matters. Sliding up onto the stool next to Jessica, he leans close, whispering in her ear. She stirs her martini with one finger, olive dancing in her gin. Smiles back.

Standard bar ballet. Older than the building. Each patron is dancing back and forth, no one making a move. Teasing movements. A wink. Smile. Or a nod. Each one is part of the fluid dance.  

Jessica catches my eye over Hanady’s shoulder. No reaction. No sign she recognizes the cop who used to let her pick my brain over coffee. Just a glance before she whispers into Hanady’s ear, stands, walking toward the restroom, grabbing the hand of a hot blonde woman wearing a satin red dress.

Her eyes find mine again. She rolls them left. Subtle as a pickpocket. Jack misses it. So does Hanady, watching another woman’s hips sway past.

I catch what they miss. Two ex-linebackers near the pool tables. Shoulders broad enough to block doors. Hands big enough to palm the skulls of anyone daring to oppose them. They’re not hiding. Just standing. Nursing beers. Eyes locked on Hanady.

Professional watchers. Like me. The kind who make problems disappear.

“When she comes out, we move.” Jack drains his Ultra. Of all the beer here to choose from. Craft brews. Imports. Real beer with actual flavor. And what does he pick? Carbonated amber colored water.

The music shifts. Slow ballad to ear-splitting dance beat. Then chaos.

Strobes fire from the ceiling. White. Blue. Purple. Turn everyone into freeze-frame ghosts. Foam machines erupt from walls, covering the floor in artificial foaming snow. Smells like coconut and fabric softening chemicals. The club transforms into a winter wonderland fever dream.

I lose Jack in the swirling lights. Then I lose Hanady, too. What happened to Jessica? She’s got to be somewhere in the crowd, slipping across slick floors. Music’s pounding harder. Bass vibrates through my chest like a second heartbeat.

I focus on the linebackers.

They move like they’ve rehearsed this. Step carefully around chaos edges. Boots find traction where dress shoes fail. He positions himself outside the restroom doors. The other stooge? By the main bar. They’re not here for foam parties. They’re here for Hanady. Soap and water won’t stop them from finishing their job.

People laughing, screaming, tumbling into each other. One woman in heels goes down by DJ booth, taking out two polo shirts with her. If the music wasn’t so loud? I’d bet I’d have heard the tearing of the expensive outerwear. Bartenders keep pouring drinks like nothing’s happening. Probably seen worse on Tuesday nights.

I finish my watered-down whiskey, chasing away the chill of understanding.

Jack thinks he’s running Hanady. But the real mark? I’m sitting right here, next to several empty beer bottles. Those linebackers? They ain’t a coincidence. Jessica’s eye roll? That wasn’t random. Someone set this whole thing up. Jack’s about to learn what it feels like to be a mouse.

Strobes flashing faster. Foam continues rising. Bodies writhe on the slick floors, some tripping on the shoes kicked off, most everyone now barefoot. Somewhere in this manufactured chaos, Jack’s setup becomes his funeral.

I slide off my barstool.

I’m waiting. In a minute, the screaming will start.