Mickey Slips (Tyler Cunningham Shorts) (4 page)

Starlight Club, Syracuse, 1/22/2013, 5:47
a.m.

People who frequent or run or work in clubs that involve drinking and drugs and prostitutes tend to run out of steam around the time that farmers are heading out for morning chores, so that is when I headed over to the Starlight Club. I’m sure that it looked nicer with the lights on, and people lined up outside, and music thumping from inside … but with dawn whispering in the eastern sky, vomit drying in the gutter, and garbage ripening in the alley it didn’t look like anybody’s idea of fun (
or so I would imagine … I don’t drink, don’t like crowds, and don’t understand sex or sexuality beyond the biological basics, so I’m probably not the best person to review a nightclub and whorehouse
).

I had changed into dark pants and a fleece back at Mike’s warehouse, and only stopped for
a few seconds to offload a couple of duffels of gear behind one of the dumpsters in the alley behind the club before parking the Element a safe distance away. I kept my eyes and ears open as I walked back to the club, but didn’t see or hear a soul. When I ducked into the alley to grab the duffels, I slipped into a pair of thin gloves that I could work in (
while hopefully avoiding leaving any fingerprints or DNA
). I found an emergency exit right where I had hoped one would be, pounded a foot-long spike through the door at just the right height (
noisy, even with the wooden mallet, but it has been my experience that you tend to get one big noise for ‘free’ in these situations
), and stuck a bent coat hanger through to hook the push-bar and let myself in.

Once inside, I threw my gear into a pile in the middle of the room, stood still
, and listened for a few minutes. I could hear water dripping, and air being heated/pushed around, and the soda system behind the bar pressurizing (
twice, it must have a leak somewhere
), and a window rattling upstairs, and a big refrigerator compressor cycling in the kitchen through some double doors … but no human sounds, waking or sleeping. I had thought that it was possible that some prostitutes (
maybe even Lily
) might live upstairs, which would have changed, but not aborted, my mission parameters for this morning. The room smelled like old beer and locker-room and hot-wings and deodorant and various cleaning fluids … again, not as glamorous as I had anticipated for a ‘nightclub with girls upstairs’, but I was in Syracuse, not Paris or Berlin.

I was glad, but wondered momentarily, about the emergency door not being wired or alarmed, and looked around for other evidence of
security alarms … none. It made sense in a way … they wouldn’t want police response in most cases, and would likely prefer to handle most break-ins/emergencies on their own; this worked in my favor. They were too big for local criminals to mess with, and too small for bigger criminals to bother with … this left them perfectly exposed to my form of hijinks. I listened for a further minute, and then searched the entire club.

Being a student of the writings of Lawrence Block, and especially (
in this instance
) Bernie Rhodenbarr, I believed my ears, but wanted to verify that I was alone in the Starlight Club. I made my way slowly through the whole place, from basement to an attic crawlspace, making certain that nobody else was in the building. Going at a reasonable pace, it took me 17 minutes to check every last human-sized space. I could feel the seconds weighing heavily on me, but had to make sure; the time spent also served to find the best places to leave my surprises.

With C-clamps and hanging wires, I rigged a number of the shotguns that I’d picked up at a few of the entrances to look like booby-traps; I did the same with some of the basement windows and an attic hatch that lead to the roof. Last night
, in Mike’s warehouse, I had sawn all of the shotguns off to below legal length (
“sauce for the goose, Mr. Saavik” my inner trekkie reflected as I rigged up one after the other
), and now rigged them with C-clamps and hanging wire to doors and windows at critical access points around the club. I rigged all of them to miss their supposed target-spaces, but not by much … I wanted to scare (
and possibly piss off
) but certainly not injure anyone who got in the way of one of my traps. When I had rigged the most likely places with poorly executed booby-traps, I salted the rest of the club with the leftover sawed-off shotguns … behind the bar, in the kitchen, in the offices, at the top of the stairs where it appeared that there was a ‘reception desk’ presumably manned by a guard or pimp or some such. When my duffel bags were empty of guns, I took a final look around, and left the same way that I had come in, plugging the holes in the emergency door with matching disks of some dull metal that I crazy-glued in place over the holes I had punched to gain entrance to the club … not a perfect match, but if you didn’t know, they would look a part of the door.

Nobody screamed and pointed as I walked out of the alley and away towards my Element; the street and neighborhood seemed as dead as it had when I’d entered the club some
68 minutes ago. I drove slowly back towards the club and parked for a minute from a few blocks away. I watched for any signs of life and/or alarm, but saw none.

I dialed 911 and described for the operator who answered two men that I had just seen drag a screaming young girl down an alley and into a building at the address that Phil had written down for me for the Starlight Club. Two squad cars rolled up from opposite directions, with flashers, but no sirens, 193 seconds after I ended my call (
despite the ongoing questions from the 911 operator
). I heard a shotgun blast, and shortly thereafter, sirens from multiple sources as I rolled away from the scene, programming my GPS to find the nearest Dunkin Donuts for me.

Dunkin Donuts, 1/22/2013, 7:19 a.m.

As usually happens, my request for a dozen donuts (
in what I consider the perfect grouping: four each of regular glazed, sugared jellies, and chocolate glazed
) without coffee resulted in their checking (
twice
) to make sure that I didn’t want coffee (
as if I might have forgotten
). I took the box back out to the Element, and enjoyed one of each type with a pair of frosty cokes from my cooler as I dialed home. Dorothy answered on the third ring, which was quick for the Tri-Lakes Animal Shelter (
TLAS
), where she works.

“Hey Dot, how’s Hope behaving?”

“Tyler … are you OK?” She asked because on my last adventure I called to ask her for a rescue when my brilliant plan didn’t work brilliantly (
because people seldom act in the ways that I expect them to
); it hadn’t occurred to me that she would be worried about me.

“Dorothy, I’m fine
… just calling to check on my dog, and because I miss home.” I was surprised to find that this comfortable lie (
as I don’t generally miss things or people or places
) was to a surprising degree true. I would have liked to share some donuts with Hope, my rescue beagle, this morning. I also found that the cityscape of Syracuse was wearing on me … I wanted the woods and waters of the Adirondacks to fill my field of vision instead of strip malls and tall buildings and crowds of people. I needed to be here for Mickey, but I found that I wanted to get home, which gave me a pleasant feeling (
a glow?)
of humanity that I was unaccustomed to; Dorothy shook me out of my reverie in her usual straightforward way.

“Tyler, are you sure that you’re OK? You sound as though you’ve got an extra tongue in your mouth.”

“Nope, really fine.” I took a swig of coke to clear my mouth a bit. “I was administering a bit of donut therapy, and it made me think of you.” Nothing makes Dorothy happier than being surprised with a box of America’s favorite source of carbs and fat (
although she prefers those carnival ride donuts labeled ‘manager’s special’, or the holiday-themed ones
).

“Nice
… anyway, Hope’s fine, although I think that she misses you. She refused to come into work with me, so I had to drive her back home … pain in the ass dog! I think that Frank must have some kind of radar that tells him when you’re up to something. He was in yesterday to ask if I’d seen you. On general principle, since I knew you were heading South and West, I told him that you were heading to the Northeast Kingdom in Vermont for some camping with friends.” Frank Gibson is a cop that I know, who is somewhat aware of what I do, and how I get things done
(“sideways and seldom legal” is how he describes it
). I helped him with a delicate problem not long ago, and ever since he’s been grateful and a bit nervous about my living and working in his town (
not to mention being ‘friends’ with his wife, Meg, which makes him queasy
).

“Thanks, but unless I’ve seriously miscalculated, Frank will never hear about anything I’m involved with
… here in Vermont.” I tried for a joke, but it must not have worked, because Dorothy didn’t even slow down to snort or snigger.

“How’s your shoulder?” This was a cheap shot, referring to my last major miscalculation, which resulted in my getting shot.

“The shoulder’s fine Dot, there’s no heavy lifting involved in this job.” I answered, double-entendre-ing like the warden at a pun-itentiary.

“I hope you get back soon
… this year’s Ice Castle is looking fantastic, and you promised to take me winter camping in February.” I’d called to get a piece of home, and it had worked … I was missing the Adirondacks, which helped prepare me for the last part of my plan.

“I’ll be back before the fireworks, and we’ll go camping after the parade.” I would be helping her
, and TLAS, transport and walk dogs in the parade at the end of Saranac Lake’s Winter Carnival., An event that Dorothy both loved and hated, looked forward to and feared.

“OK, take care, and hurry home
… you’re dumb dog growled at me in my own bed last night.” She said, but ruined the effect with a tiny giggle at the end. I said my goodbye, hung up, and reached for a sixth donut.

After the
eighth donut, I called Mickey’s burner-phone, and he answered on the first ring, as though he’d been waiting … which he probably had been.

“Tyler
… What?!?” It made sense … I was the only one who had this number, so he knew it would be me calling.

“Hi Mickey. I’m just calling to check in, and make sure that you’re OK. Things are going well up here, and if the creek don’t rise, I should be tying things up in the next
six hours or so.”

“I’m glad to hear from you. What sort of text did you send Anne, she’s been email bombing me since last night. I replied that my phone’s not holding a charge, and that I’ve been in executive committee meetings and incommunicado to try and deal with some potentially embarrassing issues
.” (
That seemed
a little close to the bone I thought, but gave Mickey props for trying
).

“Sorry about that Mickey
… I sent a generic text, based on others you had saved in your phone, but it must have sounded off to her. I’ve never been able to fool Anne into believing that I was human.” It was a joke, but only just … Anne had always thought that I was damaged goods, and might hurt her husband or kids, despite Mickey’s instant and ongoing interest (
and eventually love
) for me.

“Never mind
… so can I go home now Tyler, or do I have to go on pretending? Every second is a lie, and a burden that I have to carry.” I don’t understand Mickey, but I certainly do enjoy studying him. I was tempted to push him, see how he would react to a proposal of even greater deceit, but I had no wish to be more cruel to him than was necessary.

“I’d feel better if you would wait until later in the day
before I answer that question if you don’t mind, but you should do what you think is best. How’s the hotel? How are you feeling and healing? Do you have enough to read?” Mickey, like me, was a reader … he could likely survive the end of the world, so long as he had adequate reading material.

“I moved to a Radisson near the first place
… this one has a pool, which feels good on all my sore joints. I’m almost past the need for the pain meds and my swelling is all coming down, although the bruising is spectacular. I’ll have to explain it to the girls for certain … it’ll be weeks before I’m back to anything like normal. I have a couple of hundred books on my iPad, so I’m fine for reading material unless I end up having to flee the country … which I won’t have to do, right Tyler? You’re not doing anything illegal are you?”

(
Now he asks!
)

“Mickey, if you want, when this is all over, I’ll answer any questions that you care to ask, but for now, I have to go, and you’ll have to be satisfied with my promise that
things are going well, and nobody is going to get hurt.”

“I guess that’ll have to do then. I’ll expect your call this afternoon or evening. Love you, boy!” It made me feel good
(
as though things could/would return to normal
) that he ended the call with his traditional closing.

“Love you too, Mickey.” I always said this, although we both knew that it wasn’t exactly true.

I finished the box of donuts, and instead of the expected sugar rush, I was overcome by a nap attack, and decided that I could afford to close my eyes for a few hours.