Opening Moves pbf-6

  Opening Moves

  ( Patrick Bowers Files - 6 )

  Steven James

  Steven James

  Opening Moves

  “And if ye will not for all this hearken unto me, but walk contrary unto me; Then I will walk contrary unto you also in fury; and I, even I, will chastise you seven times for your sins. And ye shall eat the flesh of your sons, and the flesh of your daughters shall ye eat.”

  — Leviticus 26:27-29

  1997

  Day 1

  Sunday, November 16

  The Alley

  1

  New Territories Pub

  804 South Second Street

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  11:07 p.m.

  Vincent Hayes stepped cautiously into the bar, trying unsuccessfully to still his heart, to quiet his apprehension.

  He’d never done this before, never tried to pick up a man.

  As he entered, two patrons who were seated at the bar-a Mexican in his mid-twenties and an older Caucasian who looked maybe a few years older than Vincent, around forty-five or so-turned to face him. The younger man had his hand resting gently on the middle-aged gentleman’s knee.

  Vincent gave the men a somewhat forced nod, they smiled a bit, then turned to gaze into each other’s eyes again and went back to their conversation-perhaps a joke that the Mexican was telling, because Vincent heard the other man chuckle as he passed by and then took in the rest of the bar.

  Country music played. Nondescript. Some singer he didn’t recognize. The neon beer signs and dim overheads did little to illuminate the nook and crannied pub. Vincent scanned the tables looking for the right kind of man-young, athletic, but not too muscular. The drugs he was carrying were potent, but muscle mass might diminish their effect. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. He’d never used the drugs before, but tonight he couldn’t risk taking the chance that the man would awaken before he was done with him.

  He was looking for a black man.

  All around him in the dim light, men stood talking. Most were gathered in groups of two or three. Very few single guys. Vincent was brawny and cut an impressive figure that turned a few heads, but none that looked promising.

  Even though he wanted to be alert so he wouldn’t make a mistake, he also needed something strong to take the edge off, to help anesthetize his inhibitions. Vincent took a seat at the bar and ordered a vodka.

  Yes, yes, of course he was nervous. But there was also adrenaline there. Anxiety churning around violently beneath the surge of apprehension.

  Keep your cool. This is not a time to make some kind of stupid mistake.

  So far he hadn’t seen anyone who fit the bill. Some were too old. A few younger couples were moving in time to the music on the dance floor on the far side of the bar. No single African-American like he was looking for.

  He felt the brush of movement against his arm. A slim white guy who didn’t look old enough to be here legally drew up a barstool. “Waiting for someone?” His voice was melodic and inviting. Charming might be a better word for it.

  Yes, he was the right age, but he was the wrong race. Vincent gave him only a momentary glance. He didn’t want to be rude or draw attention, but he didn’t want to lead him on either.

  “Um. Yes.”

  “Shame.”

  Vincent downed half of his vodka.

  “Lucky guy,” the man said under his breath, but, almost certainly on purpose, loud enough for Vincent to hear.

  Get out of here. Try another bar. Already too many people have seen you in here.

  Although it was supposed to happen at this bar, Vincent realized it was more important for it to happen than where it did.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. He laid some cash beside his unfinished drink, then stood to leave. He’d taken two steps toward the door when he saw the type of man he was looking for: an athletic African-American, sitting alone in the booth near the narrow hallway to the restrooms.

  Just like the young man who’d taken a seat beside Vincent a moment ago, this guy looked on the shy side of twenty-one, but Vincent guessed that carding people wasn’t exactly at the top of the management’s priority list.

  He had a beer bottle in front of him, a Lienenkugel’s. Almost empty. Vincent ordered two more from the bartender, excused himself from the guy who’d been coming on to him, and carried the two beers toward the booth.

  Just get him to the minivan. You’re bigger. You can easily overpower him in there.

  As Vincent crossed the room, he surreptitiously dropped the two pills into one of the bottles and gently swirled them to the bottom.

  When he was halfway to the booth, the young black man looked his way.

  Vincent smiled, then, nervous, dropped his gaze.

  You can do this; come on, you can do this.

  He’d already decided he would cuff him as soon as he got him into the van. Hopefully, he’d be too drugged to fight much or call for help, but Vincent had a gag and duct tape waiting just in case. If he wasn’t able to get him to take off his clothes before he cuffed him, he would strip the guy, cutting off his shirt and jeans with the fabric shears when he was done.

  And then move forward with things from there.

  Almost to the booth now, he waited for the man to say something, but when he didn’t, Vincent spoke, trying out the same line the guy had used on him a few moments earlier. “Waiting for someone?”

  The black man-kid, really-looked his way, wide-eyed. Wet his lips slightly. “I saw Mark with you. That what he asked you?”

  Vincent set down the drinks. “Busted.”

  “He needs to expand his repertoire.”

  “I guess I do too.”

  The young man eyed the beers, and said demurely, “One of those for me?”

  Vincent slid the drugged beer toward him, smiled again, and took a seat.

  The guy offered Vincent a soft nod, accepted the drink, and held out his hand palm down, a diminutive handshake. “I’m Lionel.”

  “Vincent.” He shook Lionel’s hand.

  “Mmm. Vincent.” It almost sounded like Lionel was purring. “Very European.” His eyes gleamed. “A shade mysterious.” He took a sip of his beer. “I haven’t seen you here before, Vincent.”

  “I’m…” Vincent couldn’t think of anything clever or witty to say. “Well, I…This is my first time.”

  “Your first time, what? Here?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Or your first time. Period?”

  “Yes. My first time. Period.”

  Lionel looked at him as if he’d just said something humorous. “You haven’t done this before. Ever?”

  “No.” Vincent took a drink as a way of hiding, but also of, hopefully, encouraging the young man to drink his beer as well.

  It worked.

  When Lionel had finished the swig, his eyes drifted toward Vincent’s left hand. Toward his wedding ring.

  “You’re married.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why tonight? Why did you come tonight? Is she out of town?”

  The last thing Vincent wanted to do right now was talk about Colleen. “Yes,” he said, lying. “Visiting her parents.”

  “And you decided to try something a little different? For a change?”

  “To step out on a limb. Yes.” His heart was beating. Thinking about Colleen made all of this harder.

  Vincent took another sip from his drink. So did Lionel.

  “I don’t live far from here,” Vincent offered, and then immediately realized that it was much too forward. On the other hand, if his suspicions were right, Lionel was working the place, looking for payment for his companionship, and wasting a lot of time on formalities wouldn’t serve either of their interests.

 
“Really? Where?”

  “Not far.”

  A wink. “Staying mysterious, are we?”

  Vincent had no idea how to respond. “I really…I’m not sure how to say this. Um, are you, well, are you-”

  Lionel laid his hand gently on Vincent’s forearm. “I can be whatever you want me to be, Vincent.”

  It was a long moment before he removed his hand.

  “Okay.” Vincent said.

  Lionel smiled softly. “Okay.”

  Another swig.

  And another.

  And although Vincent was anxious to get going, he realized he needed a little time for the drugs to work, so he answered Lionel’s questions about where he’d gone to college, UW-La Crosse, and what he did for a living, managed a PR firm. In response, Lionel mentioned that he had a theater degree from DePaul and was an actor “between jobs.”

  As the minutes passed, the drugs and alcohol started to have the desired effect.

  “Lionel?”

  “Um-hmm.” His voice was wavering, unfocused.

  “Do you want to leave?”

  “Your place is close?” he mumbled.

  “Yes. Let’s get you to the car.”

  No response, just a bleary nod.

  So Vincent helped Lionel to his feet and supported him on the way to the door.

  2

  Apparently, two men leaving this bar-with one of them evidently drunk-was not too out of the ordinary. Nobody paid much attention to them as they left the building.

  Vincent could see his breath as he crossed the sidewalk, but the November night felt brisk rather than icy cold and that would be good for Lionel, for what Vincent had in mind for him.

  Earlier, Vincent had taken the backseats out of his minivan and it wasn’t difficult to help Lionel into the vehicle. Once they were inside, he closed the door and retrieved the handcuffs.

  He hoped Lionel wouldn’t struggle, but Vincent had been a linebacker in college, still worked out four or five days a week, and was willing to get physical, if that’s what it took.

  Vincent began to unzip Lionel’s jacket.

  “What are you…?” Lionel’s words were blurred, confused.

  “We need to get you out of these clothes.”

  “I thought we…were going…to your place.”

  “Plans have changed.” He tugged off Lionel’s coat.

  Lionel eyed the handcuffs. A look that went past confusion and dipped into fear crossed his face and he tried to wrestle free. He was squirrelly and hard to hold on to, and Vincent was forced to do something he hadn’t intended to do-punch him in the face. Lionel crumpled to the floor. “What the-?”

  Vincent cuffed his left wrist and when Lionel tried to get up again, Vincent grabbed his head and smacked it hard against the floor of the van. “Don’t fight. It’ll make it worse.”

  “No-”

  This wasn’t going well, not well at all.

  Vincent bent over him. “Be quiet, Lionel, or I’ll have to do that again. I don’t want to, but if I-”

  “Help!” Lionel rolled to his side, tried to scramble toward the door, but Vincent snagged his left arm, twisted it behind his back, brought the right arm around as well and cuffed the wrists together. Once he was assured that Lionel wasn’t going anywhere, he stuffed a cloth into his mouth and wrapped a few rounds of duct tape around his head to hold it in place. Lionel tried to shake free, to cry out for help, but could hardly make any sound at all.

  Vincent hurried to the driver’s seat and started the engine.

  Get away from the bar. You need to get away from here. Right now.

  Sweating, shaking, Vincent turned the key and the engine came to life. He scanned the street, the sidewalks. A couple of men had just left the bar but were headed in the opposite direction and weren’t looking at the van. Vincent heard the muffled sound of Lionel trying to call for help, but it wasn’t nearly loud enough for the men outside to hear.

  The drugs, they should have knocked him out by now.

  Vincent lurched the van onto the street too fast, his heart racing, his mouth dry.

  Easy, don’t get pulled over. Do not get pulled over.

  Eight blocks away he paused in a deserted parking lot, turned off the headlights, and let the engine idle; then he returned to the back of the minivan. The drugs were taking their toll on Lionel. He lay on the floor, barely conscious.

  Quickly, Vincent removed Lionel’s shoes, then his socks, then his pants and underwear. The fight had gone out of him and he didn’t resist, just stared vacantly at the roof of the minivan.

  Using fabric shears, Vincent cut a long slit up each sleeve of Lionel’s sweater. He removed it and then went to work on his undershirt.

  A few moments later Lionel lay naked and cuffed in the van.

  “I didn’t want things to go like this,” Vincent told him.

  Lionel rolled weakly onto his side, curling himself into a fetal position.

  Vincent returned to the driver’s seat and guided the van to North Twenty-fifth Street, to the alley that ran between a ramshackle two-story house and an empty lot that was surrounded by a rusted six-foot-high chain-link fence. Two stout, brick apartment buildings lay just to the left of the fenced-in lot. The alley was empty. No one on the sidewalk that led past it. No traffic.

  However, half a dozen cars were parked along the alley’s side of the street, leaving room for snowplows to drive along the other side if the weather took a turn for the worse. Vincent realized it was good that there was a string of cars already there by the curb. It would make his van less conspicuous.

  He parked and crawled into the back. “Okay, I’m taking off the gag. But don’t cry out or I’ll have to hit you again, and I really don’t want to do that.”

  Lionel, if he understood, did not respond. Just lay still and submissive.

  Using the shears again, Vincent cut off the tape, tugged it free, and removed the gag. Then he opened the door to the van. “Go,” he commanded Lionel. “Get out.”

  At last Lionel looked at him.

  “Go on.” He swung Lionel’s feet around so they were sticking out the door. “Get out of the van.”

  Lionel tried to leave on his own, but collapsed onto the sidewalk with a low moan.

  Get away, Vincent. You have to get away. This is close enough.

  But then the reality: No! They need to find him in the alley. Or else-

  He hadn’t wanted to do this, but now he got out and, supporting Lionel, led him fifty feet into the alley, left him standing unsteadily, but on his own, then hustled back to the vehicle.

  But he didn’t leave yet.

  Once inside the van, he tried to calm himself. He looked around. Saw nothing suspicious. No pedestrians. No movement on the street. Because of the vacant lot beside the alley, Lionel was still clearly visible from the road.

  Nervously gripping the keys that he’d left in the ignition, Vincent took a few seconds to catch his breath.

  The brisk air seemed to be bringing Lionel out of the drug-induced stupor. He stumbled across the alley, eventually leaning for support against a telephone pole by the fence encircling the lot.

  Vincent was about to pull into the street when he saw a police cruiser round the corner and come prowling toward him. Heart hammering, he glanced toward Lionel one last time and saw him drop heavily to the ground beside the telephone pole.

  From there he would be visible to the cops if they looked down the alley.

  Vincent ducked his head down and leaned across the front seat so he’d be out of sight. An anonymous, empty minivan on a quiet, anonymous street. Well, maybe not an anonymous street, but-

  He didn’t think the cops had seen him, but it was possible-

  No, no, no. You cannot get caught!

  The squad’s headlights swept across the road, through the windshield of Vincent’s van, then toward the alley, toward Lionel.

  They see him. They have to see him by now!

  The movement of the headlights stopped an
d Vincent heard one of the police car doors slam shut. Then the other.

  Get out of here. If you’re caught, everything will fall apart. You can’t let that happen. There’s too much-

  “Hey!” one of the cops yelled to Lionel. “Are you alright?”

  Vincent’s heart slammed, hammered in his chest.

  There was no indication yet that they’d taken note of his van.

  They’re going to check on him. You can get out of here when they do. You need to go.

  Drive.

  No, they would follow him. He knew they would. At least one of them would.

  Run. You need to run.

  Maybe. Yes, leave the van here.

  His head was still low, but he heard more shouting from the cops and pictured them hurrying toward Lionel. If they hadn’t already started to, in a few seconds they would scan the area. Then they would search the nearest vehicles one at a time. They would catch him if he stayed where he was and follow him if he tried to drive away.

  Now. It has to be now. On foot.

  Slowly, Vincent edged his head up, gazed toward the alley, and saw both cops leaning over Lionel.

  This was it. In a moment they would start looking for anything suspicious. Vincent silently opened his door and slipped onto the street, keeping the minivan between him and the cops. Afraid the door might alert them, he didn’t click it shut all the way. No noise.

  A dog barked in a yard a few houses away, on the other side of the alley. The cops turned their attention to the sound: “Check it out,” one of them said to his partner. While the officers were momentarily distracted, Vincent scurried fifteen feet farther down the road and crouched behind another car.

  It would be easier from here. The angle was wrong for the cops to see him. The one who knelt beside Lionel was talking into his radio now, calling for backup.

  Go.

  Swiftly and without a sound, Vincent went for the next car.

  Beyond that there weren’t any more vehicles close enough to hide behind, and just as he was wondering if he should try waiting it out here for a few minutes, he heard the sirens. More cops were already on the way.