The dancing crowd parted for him and his guide, eyeing them as they passed. The building had been kludged together from debris but was accented with opulent flourishes. A Ferrari that looked like it had never been driven was parked on a platform in the middle. A marble fountain sprayed water from Italian-looking sculptures. A well-stocked bar that would have been at home in a Monaco casino dominated the far wall. Things people bought when their criminal enterprise generated a lot of cash, but not many opportunities to spend it.
They finally arrived in an area that had booths reminiscent of a high-end nightclub. Rapp was led to a corner seating area that contained a number of men in their thirties along with the youngest, prettiest, and most scantily dressed of the women in the room. On the table was a silver tray filled with shots and lines of what might or might not have been cocaine. His escort peeled off, but it was clear that Rapp was to continue forward and present himself for inspection.
When he got within a few feet, a man approached from the right. He was wearing a silk shirt completely unbuttoned to reveal an impressive set of pecs and an even more impressive set of tattoos. He started screaming in Spanish and then shoved Rapp with enough force to make him stumble backward into the dancing mass of humanity behind. The man at the back of the booth—clearly the one in charge—made no move to interfere.
Not an ideal situation. In total, there were at least fifty intoxicated gang members in the room, he had no backup, and, worse, he needed their help. Beating this asshole to a bloody pulp wasn’t going to go anywhere good. But neither was bowing down to him. In the end, it was a situation that needed to be handled diplomatically.
Not exactly his forte, but it was never too late to learn.
The man reached out to shove him again and Rapp grabbed his thumb. A hard jerk combined with a foot sweep put him down on the back of his shaved head. He was dazed, but instead of taking advantage of that to finish him off, Rapp adjusted his grip and pulled him back to his feet. Laughing, Rapp grabbed a couple of shots from the tray, handed one to the confused man in front of him, and slammed back the other. It went down like battery acid.
The man stood frozen with the glass in his hand as Rapp became aware that the dancing had stopped and everyone in the room was watching. All this prick had to do was drink the shot. If he did that, everyone would save face and they’d both survive. If not, things were going to get interesting.
The seconds seemed to tick by at a comically slow pace. One… Two… Three…
The man laughed and swallowed his drink, slapping Rapp on the shoulder and pointing to the booth. Two girls slid out to give him space and the people on the dance floor went back to grinding, drinking, and whatever the hell else it was they were doing.
“I’m told you’re someone who backs his mouth up with action,” the man at the back said with a perfect American accent. Probably one of the many MS-13 members who had grown up in Los Angeles and then been deported.
Rapp just nodded.
That seemed to satisfy him and he pointed toward the lines of powder on the tray in front of them. Close up, they had a grayish color and strange granular quality.
“What is it?” Rapp asked.
“A proprietary blend.”
If there was one thing Rapp had learned over the years, it was to run from anything described as a proprietary blend or a delicacy. That wasn’t an option, though. It was clearly another test.
He leaned forward, closed off one nostril with an index finger, and discovered that, whatever it was, it kicked like a fucking mule. He temporarily lost his sense of up and down, tilting to the left far enough that the girl next to him had to push him back upright. A hard shake of his head left hair pasted across his sweat-soaked face. When he tried to speak, he discovered his tongue was numb enough to give his words a thick drawl.
“That’s good shit.”
Rapp was sliding along the wall, staying as far away from the dancing mass as he could. His fifth beer was in hand and the alcohol was just now starting to calm the jitters he’d gotten from whatever it was that he’d put up his nose. The edges of the building were dotted with various seating options, and he zeroed in on one that looked like a cushion-strewn queen-sized bed. There were already two girls lounging on it, but they were small enough to leave plenty of room. Neither protested when he collapsed in the space between them. The chances of him sleeping that night were precisely zero, so he just stared up into the spotlights playing over the crowd.
He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Two minutes? Two hours? Enough time that the girls had fallen asleep and were now curled up to the sides of him. He moved one of their legs and fished out the phone, inserting a set of wired earbuds in an attempt to deaden the music.