Frank Kellerman – part II

The foam is hitting my knees. I’m slipping and sliding through this waddle of drunken penguins. Laughing, a bony woman’s elbow slams into my ribs, knocking me off-balance, stumbling into three of her girlfriends. I see a woman wearing a forest green mini-skirt, still wearing her spiked heels on the slick dance floor, grabbing my arm to keep her balance. Her nails dig through my jacket. Grabbing her wrist, I throw her arm away from me, and she loses her balance. Me? I keep mine doing my best to duck, weave, and maneuver through the throng of people.

Where’s Jack? I lost him somewhere. Maybe on the dance floor. In the middle of the damn foam party.

Squinting, I scan the strobing chaos. White. Purple. Flash. Flash. Flash. Everyone is a ghost for three seconds. Flash. Flash. Flash. Then gone. Some Goth or Punk dance music is pounding so hard I can feel it in my fillings. Flash. Flash. Flash. And that bass? It’s making my chest vibrate. I feel like one of those lowered trucks in the 80s, the ones my kids grew up with, trying to blow out their windows from the bass. Flash. Flash. Flash.

There. I can see Jack now, his yellow shirt reflecting the canary yellow color off the slick black paint containing the DJ booth. Jack’s racing toward the restrooms, straight toward Jessica. The screams of the rich folks enjoying the bubbles drown out Jack’s shouting at me, pointing and gesturing wildly at the linebackers. Both of them are lining up in position, like they’re running a play they’ve practiced for weeks!

The math sucks. Two big dudes. One con-man. And a retired cop. Plus an undercover Vice cop? Yeah. Against those two jacked-up amateur wrestlers? Someone’s going down hard tonight. And it ain’t gonna be me.

Jack. Plus Jessica. Plus two hired muscles equals Frank getting buried in foam and blood. Someone’s setting me up. The bigger question is who? And why? And why tonight?

My boots get traction on the wooden surface of the dance floor. Thirty years of chasing perps through alleys? That’s how you learn how to move when the ground’s trying to kill you. I shoulder past dancing idiots, duck under flailing arms, morons who think this foam party is the best thing since sliced bread. Give me any dance club in the ’80s over this crap. Even Jamie’s, a dive bar in North Portland, was better than this place. At least they made super stiff drinks without charging you a fortune for them. Then again, it could be that it was a gay bar, and the guys were doing their best to get you drunk. And if you were uncomfortable? That’s when you’d get hit on the most. Not me. I played back into it. That, and my ex-girlfriend was friends with several of the dancers in the club.  

Whomp! A guy in a polo shirt goes down hard, feet flailing into the air. His date? She’s screaming her head off, throwing more bubbles and foam at him, laughing. He’s rubbing his head. Is he having a good time? Not likely. But that’s not the kind of screaming I’m waiting to hear.

The bigger of the two linebackers is still guarding the restroom door. His partner Tweedle-Dumber? He’s moving through the crowd like a shark. Zig-zagging, pushing people out of the way. A complete professional. Calm. Zeroed in on his prey. His eyes find his target.

Then I spot what he’s hunting.

Hanady. The attorney’s trapped near the bar. Foam up to his waist. Dress shoes failing him on the slick tiles, doing his best to keep his balance against a table and barstool. He’s reaching inside his blazer for his phone. Trying to call for help?

Too late for that, counselor.

The linebacker’s closing the distance. I’m twenty feet away. Maybe fifteen. I’ve never been very good at judging distances. The foam’s making it even harder to judge it. Everything’s white and slippery, strobing, and flashing, burning images into my retinas.

That’s when I realize what the real con is.

This isn’t about robbing Hanady.

This isn’t about making Jessica look guilty.

This is about ensuring Hanady never speaks again.

But where’s Jessica?

Goon number one is almost at Hanady’s side. Goon number two? Still watching the bathroom door. A gaggle of drunk women, one of them the same woman in the green dress, is stumbling back out into the foam party, laughing and dancing, sliding on the dampened floor. All barefoot. Still no Jessica. Nor has the blonde woman come out either.

Is there another way out of that bathroom? Sven’s is an industrial building, located in a part of Northwest Portland most people wouldn’t travel to, much less hang out in. Is it close to Burnside Bridge and downtown? Depends on your definition of close. Not me. Twelve blocks is a long walk in Portland. And sneaking out a window? Out of this kind of building? No thanks. Only if you thought you might get killed. Time to find out which goon goes down first.