The Hard Core

Jacob French pulled into the Zanzibar Club parking lot with the three “advisors” sent by Gorko. The lot had three cars parked in the area designated for “employees”, whores or heavies, Jacob knew. But there was one other car, a small rental from Budget with three men sitting within, eyes on them.

As Jacob and his visitors stepped out and began walking to the door, Yusef lifted a hand in sublime hello to the car. The one on the driver side returned the wave but remained seated. Lenin and Ule still had not said a word, and acknowledged no one.

“Hello Jacob!” Big Sal was excessively ebullient, engaging… cordial. ‘Man was she in trouble if this is how she is treating their visit’… That was Jacob’s conclusion.

“Hello, Sal. I’d like you to meet our visitors, this is Yusef,” then leaning to acknowledge the others, “This is Lenin, and the blonde fella is Ule. They don’t talk much.” Jacob was all smiles in the fraternal conspiracy. The advisors weren’t impressed.

“Well, talk a little or a lot or not at all, you are welcome to The Zanzibar Club.”

Yusef just bulled through the bullshit, “Just show us the buildings, the operation. We want to know how it all works.”

“How what all works?” Big Sal was leery about why Gorko needed a tour for his people. Who would give a shit about the buildings if it were turning a huge profit – both licit and illicit?

“Your business, the buildings. I want to see. So I can report.” It was the first smile Jacob had seen from the man.

Argument was pointless, so she toured the men with some pride, for she built it from the ground up; except for the original investor’s money, likely unlawfully gained, Big Sal never cared. She opened the doors and didn’t look back. It was her creation. All of it. They were exiting the rear of the main building, having passed through the social centers of billiards, big screen TV in a relaxing room, a small operating barroom, darts, a small dining room for casual meals.

“And here is our pool and jacuzzi. This is where our guests chill out and swim and suntan… no tan lines!” She winked at the visitors without a response. ‘Fuckin’ mutts… what arrogant fucks.’ Her thoughts rarely matched her words.

Yusef spoke to Ule and Lenin in their language, whatever it was, as he pointed to the suites building, pointing from corner to corner. Then he turned to Big Sal, “This building. Tell me.”

“Well, this is our suites hotel. This is where our gentlemen will take their dates and enjoy their stay and the wiles of our ladies…”

“Sal, they’re not going to know what ‘wiles’ means, maybe…”

“We’re not stupid!” Yusef was abrupt, and had his finger in Jacob’s face. “We know what she is saying. So, your turn to stay quiet, okay? You only talk. Now you don’t.” Jacob put his hand over his mouth in feeble reaction, nodding his head, frightened at the brazenness of insult... Maybe a Turkish thing… or maybe they were in trouble.

“Well, good. You understand, then.” Big Sal uncomfortably resumed, feeling a different sort of pressure now. “It’s all suites, from a small room for overnight, single night stay, or budget clients… to, well, grand. Big, themed rooms. Entertainment, each grand suite has some exciting features about it. Jungle, Roman, you name it. And all of them come with a woman!” Her lustful declaration had no impact.

Yusef nodded absently, “What is on other side?”

“Well, there’s nothing on the other side. Desert. Nothing at all.”

“So, one drive into your car park, and two buildings?” He made her kingdom sound so trivial… but that was all there was.

“Yes, while we offer everything. And I mean everything.” She was grinning as persuasion, thinking she was selling a horndog accountant from Iowa.

“Good. Now get all your staff to your view room, you call?”

“You want all my girls in the viewing room? You want to indulge? It will be my gift to you and your friends.” He would not answer her question, just clarified his demand.

“You bring all to the view room. All your workers. We talk den.”

***********************

The veterans received Sheriff Coyle’s permission to gather what they needed. After she understood just what Carson and Babs had stored, suspecting a firm-minded man of the land, she hadn’t suspected Carson would have a small armory. But that’s what it was.

“Take it. Take what you need. Leave the rest. God almighty. It saved Babs’ life, but holy God, what people won’t do… tunnels… bunkers… gun portals… These were church people…” She shook her head.

“Doing the work of God in their own way, Sheriff.” It was all Donnie could offer her in consolation.

“Well, I’m outta here. I have to talk with the Staties in Carson City. I don’t want to know anymore what you boys are doing, you understand! But I still got sheriff work to do. Just reminding you.” It was a curious forewarning after she had walked their skirmish to the doorstep. Donnie wasn’t quite sure what she meant. And he wouldn’t dare ask… because Sheriff Coyle might change her lawful yet lenient mind.

By mid-afternoon, they found themselves with a trunk full of goodies, pretty well loaded for bear, dinosaurs, whatever the fuck they might meet. They had situated in a little cleft between two larger planes of a small butte, directly adjacent to The Zanzibar Club, nearly a half-mile distant. They couldn’t look like anything more than a knob of rock from that distance if anyone ever decided to scan the surrounds. They were flavorfully colored in sand and rust-red fatigues, a convenient attire found at the Walmart, so they were only noticeable by the smells they emitted after the McDonalds lunch.

“Fuck, Johnny! You can’t eat that shit anymore…” Cliff’s face was darkening, scrunching into one of great pain. “We don’t need no guns on these motherfuckers… just send Johnny’s fat ass in there and shit on ‘em.”

Amazing how they still turned laughter; the mark of a well-trained soldier. When you had to learn to walk away from friends in flag-covered coffins, far too frequently than young men ever should, you learned to greet the next day with grit in your teeth and a little more shell around your heart. But the humor was therapy. It was the only real safety they knew.

They were laughing at the thought of Johnny shitting their enemy into submission… “Better yet! Just bring a fucking Bic lighter, and fart a carful and run that baby into the building at 30 miles per, and light the Bic on contact and you light that candle, go fuckin’ boom, baby!”

All the while laughing, Donnie was reconnoitering the building and the lot through a telescopic lens from a borrowed .30-06 sniper rifle. When they arrived, there were only five cars in the lot, but one peculiarly sat apart from the others, three men were sitting in it, completely idle. They hadn’t seen any other activity. Just a wisping breeze pushing a couple tumbleweeds along, the only movement he could see through the scope of the Savage.

Art was full of apologies, while Johnny cracked another unseemly, rancid bomb, holding nothing back from its delivery system. “I’m sorry, guys. McDonalds was my idea… but never again with this sludge wedgie… never again Decencies!” How did they do it? They would even ask themselves on occasion.

“I have movement!” Donnie stopped all laughter with those three words. “Someone out the front door, male… wait… the car too. They’re stepping out of the car… Art… Art, is this your guy? The one coming from the building.” Donnie asked in deep suspicion they just solved the mystery of the Middle Easterners who just didn’t belong at the Pahrump McDonalds. He passed the rifle to Art, and he leaned into the scope.

“That’s him! That’s fuckin’ him! I knew it! I fuckin’ knew it!”

It was too far to eyeball, so Cliff, born a senior plied for info. “Report.”

“Those three at the car are moving to the trunk… duffels… one, two… three duffels. And they ain’t overnight bags!” Then it hit Art before any others… “This is an Ops team, guys. This is a special Ops team… they have the look of it… the discipline… the numbers. Sure the other two I saw gotta be inside. They’re settin’ up.” He lay the scoped rifle on the rocks, looked up, “I don’t know why, but this is big, whatever’s goin’ down. But that’s a kill team. I’d bet your left nut on it Sarge.”

************************

There were only six girls on duty, and Big Sal felt it would be an impotent show, but if these pigs wanted to taste their business, they had a freebie coming their way.

“What do you think, Yusef?” No answer, just further directions.

“Not all your people. I want all your people.”

“These are all the girls we have in today. We can call in a couple others if you want.”

“I don’t want. I want all your work staff here today to come in.”

“There’s three security people. You mean them too?”

He leaned into her as if she had a hearing deficiency, “All staff.”

Within minutes Big Sal had Leonard, Tobias and Bloodhound gathered. “This is everybody. Now, you want a girl show? Dance first, or what?”

“I want your number one man to collect all de telephones and purse, everding, and bring it to me. Ule, go wid him.”

“You can’t do that!” Interrupted Sugar, “That’s our stuff. It has nothing to do with our work.”

“Ule, go!” It was as much an order for Big Sal to give her order.

“Leonard, go. Clear out their lockers.”

“Big Sal! You can’t let this shit-brick come in and…

Yusef pulled a Beretta out of a small shoulder holster under his shirt and fired into the ceiling. POW! The girls screamed and cowered, frantic… realizing their job just got a little more dangerous. They retreated to silence and trembling, huddling as if power or refuge were to come from their solidarity. It was just terror in the end.

Tobias and Bloodhound looked at Big Sal, asking with their eyes, what do we do? She had no answer, no orders… she had no idea where this was coming from.

“There’s no need for this, Yusef. Why the fuck you gotta shoot up my place?” He ignored her. “You came to negotiate final sale terms for Gorko on the Pollack’s stuff…” she was now looking at the ashen face of Jacob French, who looked like he might get sick, “…you don’t need to threaten us. You’re here to do the business. I understand, Jacob understands. You don’t have to get tough. We welcome your proposals.”

“Proposals…” Yusef sneered. He ignored Big Sal, instead turning to one of the girls whose cell phone was stowed under the thigh of her fishnet stockings… always ready to post on Tic Toc or Twitter… she was the youngest and most ambitious of the girls; she was building a career aimed for the Vegas lights, not the Pahrump dust bowl. “Your cellphone. Now.” He held his hand out like there was no alternative to his demand.

“But it’s my phone. Why do you need it…” The crack of the Beretta ended the rebuttal and every dream the girl had of ever being a world-famous exotic dancer. The bullet split her eyebrows perfectly… she bled fiercely. Quietly. In an ugly heap.

The girls were screaming, and either hugging or running to nowhere, laden with fear and foolish, aimless paralysis of thought; it was Lenin who brought it all to silence with a three-round blast into the ceiling with his pistol. POW! POW! POW! “Shut up! Shut up! You will be quiet… and get back into line!”

“Fuck! What are you doing, Yusef? My God!” It’s all Big Sal had… she wasn’t used to not holding the hammer. Yusef ignored her lament.

Tobias and Bloodhound didn’t look at all scary… Big Sal looked waxen… perspiring… a breath away from a heart infarction.

Leonard reentered the viewing room with two bags of belongings, Ule’s weapon at his head.

“Now, all whores if you have a cellphone, you put it in de bag. Now!” He turned with the weapon as emphasis, “You tough men, you, fat woman… you too. In de bag. Now!” Leonard moved along, each that was holding dropped their phone in. At the end of the walk, Leonard was turning to hand the bag over to Lenin, and they heard from within the bag, “911, what is your emergency?”

“What was dat?” Yusef wasn’t sure where it came from, his Beretta was sniffing out the fool… and again, “911, what is your emergency?”

Yusef grabbed the bag and turned it over, pouring all its contents onto the floor, seeing the one phone alight… “911, do you have an emergency?” He stomped on the phone crushing it into particulate and slivered plastic.

“You are clever whores? Ule, zip ties. All of dem. Dey are ours now. I will report to Gorko. I go to Baki and Ahmet outside.” He looked at Jacob French who was wordless, white and grey, burping bubbles of bile, for his shirt was covered with vomit. “You get cleaned up. You have a telephone call wid Gorko in 10 minutes.”

Yusef turned and walked through the entry lobby, glanced through the curtains out the front window, seeing nothing but the ugly desert dust and a distant butte. They would begin the rendition. He exited into the breezy afternoon, 96 degrees and getting hotter by the second.

************************

With all the Zanzibar employees and “general contractors” secured, zip ties linked one to the other, no one could run without trying to drag the whole business roster behind them. All had gags in their mouths.

Yusef linked into a Zoom call with Gorko… it would be the first time either Jacob or Big Sal laid eyes on their most senior partner.

“Good afternoon, Jacob… Sally Burroughs, I know you are there?” Yusef turned the phone to make the fullest introduction. “Oh… you don’t look like I thought… I thought you are a… a… seksi fahişe!” Gorko’s men laughed at the joke… “But you are just yağ!” the militia thugs laughed harder, Yusef giving her the benefit of interpretation while he chuckled, “Fat! Fat!” Being angry had no power this day, so Big Sal remained quiet, frightened. “Okay, let me talk with my Jacob.” Yusef returned the face of the phone to the financial director.

“Okay, Jacob… this is a Hebrew name, no?”

They removed the gag from his mouth, he yawed and twisted his mouth in order, “Yes, Gorko. It is.” He was terrified of anything that might follow because all of this he didn’t see coming. “But my father was European.” Like it mattered… anything to turn the attention from his Jewish heritage… because it was about survival… and he would reach for any small thing.

“So, we be simple, Jacob. You tell me, tell Yusef and his men, all passwords, all encrypted accounts, all off-shore accounts, everything you and the yağ have in our business. You do this soon and all get to go live more days. Do not?...” he gave a long, worrisome pause, “And people do not go home. Yes?”

Jacob saw a nuclear blast in his mind… suddenly, he knew what the brain saw when a slug went crashing through skull and grey matter – that flash of light from the eruption of all cogent content and electronic kinetics exploding into bits… it was horrible, brilliant and final… and he wet himself.

Just then they heard cars approach in the parking lot.

“Gorko, dere is a car here…” then aside to Baki, “Go see Baki. Don’t show in window.” He gathered himself, “We need to stop, Gorko, I need to see to dis. But we call back when is settled.”

Gorko just clicked off.

Baki barked out a few words that would change everyone’s’ lives, “It is polis cars!”

***********************

“What the fuck is she doing? It’s Sheriff Coyle! And troopers!”

Their alertness turned to confusion, and as quickly to anger.

“What in thee fuck is this shitbird doing? Donnie, what the fuck?”

“I don’t know, Cliff. I mean, you heard her. Did I miss something?” It was more than confusion, they almost felt like it could be a setup… but Sheriff Coyle would be putting herself right into the middle of the nefarious shit. It wasn’t just the presence of authorities while they had deviant deeds on their minds, but that there were now contingencies that they had absolutely zero control over.

“Let me see the glass!” Johnny held the spotter’s scope out to Cliff. Donnie still had the Savage sighted down on the scene. “D, do you have this bimbo’s number? I never got it from her.”

“No. I wanted less information than more in this.” Clear thoughts, Cliff knew. But here was a time when having that otherwise dangerous evidence linking conspirators would come in handy. “Johnny, call the sheriff’s station to report this. Then blow up your fucking phone. This is soo fucked.”

“She’s walking up like it’s Sunday… but the troopers… hands by their holsters… what can this shit even be?”

“I don’t know, but it smells like Fallujah suddenly.”

**********************

Sheriff Coyle knocked unnecessarily on the front door to the whorehouse lobby. There she was met by a grinning Big Sal Burroughs, looking like a long-lost friend instead of an arch enemy.

“Hey Darlene!” That smile… no reason for that smile, Darlene knew… and it wouldn’t last long with what she and her troopers had to hand out. “What’s good? And troopers too. What can I do for you law enforcement officers?”

“Miss Burroughs…” Darlene nodded her greeting, and in her observations, she knew Leonard who was back a few steps, and a new guy. “Mornin’ Leonard…” she held up a finger, “Be sure you don’t go nowhere.” Her troopers were taking corners in the room, apart with options.

“So, who’s the new guy, Sal?” the sheriff was nodding at the man sitting in the comfy chair that Cliff had used on their visit.

“That’s Ule. Just starting.” Big Sal’s face now more grim than joyous… it didn’t raise any alarm with Darlene, because the matriarch of whoredom had to know the authorities would be knocking… who wouldn’t be uncomfortable? Darlene tipped her cap to the blonde man, Ule said nothing. One of Darlene’s troopers walked the backside of Ule’s chair and then leaned against the doorpost to the viewing room; he was aiming to look casual, he took a glance into the empty room. The dead girl was gone, of course. They set up a modest perimeter, looking to harness trouble before it started. No one wanted alarm or escape or worse… bullets.

“So, what can I do for you, Sheriff? I know you ain’t here for the entertainment.”

Her troopers were now favorably posted, each keeping eyes out for any trouble. “Well, I need ya to listen to something, Big Sal…” then over her shoulder addressing her men, “… you all be alert.”

Big Sal suddenly felt like this trouble might actually be her saving grace, “Whatcha got for me?” It was almost eager.

“Well this is just the last couple minutes of it… you won’t need to hear much.” She clicked “play” on the digital recorder.

“… “C’mon sweetie, what’s going on? This ain’t normal for you, hon. What’s going on?”

“Don’t you say it, Margot. Don’t say nothin’.”

“Shut the fuck up, Susie No Sense. You’re on my dime, so shut the fuck up.” Big Sal began to frown as there was something too familiar with all this.

“They’re gonna do something bad.”

“I know honey. But maybe we can stop ‘em. I’ll get you outta here with us.”

“Margot don’t…”

“Shut up, Susie Dipshit.”

“You’re only gettin’ in more trouble, fucker.”

“Tell me, Margot. Are my buddies in trouble or just me because I’m a wiseass?”

… silence…

“C’mon, Margot. Tell me.”

“You’re all in trouble…”

What followed was the crashing of a closet door, sound of breaking wood and shouts, no words, grunts… then a gunshot… and a crash… Sheriff Coyle clicked the recorder off.

Big Sal’s eyes were big… yet she couldn’t discern which was her best bet right there. Neither were good. Both, in fact, were devastating.

“You don’t need to hear the rest, Big Sal.” She leaned, looking at Leonard, “You neither Leonard! But if I played this thing on, we’d hear more… things you wouldn’t want to hear. Like a Glock going off two times and that poor girl Margot dyin right there in the Roman Room…”

“How…”

“Your patron’s phone. He left sittin’ on a table or somethin?” Big Sal knew exactly the phone, the moment, and all they had… but how?

“But…”

“Seems the businessman has a cool setup. Has his phone programmed to feed into automatic email kind of thing, any digital notes that he keeps. It’s sort of a backup to his phone’s files…” Big Sal was still not understanding, Ule was… “So Mr. Yankovich? Seems he turned on his recorder when he sensed things were goin’ sideways…” she paused in genuine remorse, “… and can’t you hear that poor girl’s fear… sadness? Tell me you hear that, Big Sal.”

And if the boys situated out on that butte, unknown to Darlene Coyle, had heard this last exchange, and the sadness and fear in Margot’s voice, they would understand why Sheriff Coyle finally decided she would get a piece of Sally Burroughs herself… after all she finally knew about the sewer tramp queen.

Then Sheriff Coyle spoke those memorable words of Big Sal’s: ““It’s more real if the girl is killed. It’ll get a more sympathetic law enforcement effort. That way it’s not gonna splash on me. Be sure you lose the 9mm.” You remember sayin’ that Big Sal? Ya still think I’m gonna be sympathetic? Ya think it’s not gonna splash back on ya?”

Just then the trooper standing just to the side of Ule noticed a movement in the neighboring room, only too late. Two rapid rounds were snapped off from the Beretta, and pieces of brain and blood spattered over Ule…

The moment so stunned, the officers didn’t quite know what happened… and they gripped their sidearms too long, too idly… a man in sand fatigues turned the corner around Leonard and sprayed the trooper behind the counter with a machine pistol, missing nothing of vital consequence… the trooper bowed and fell dead.

Darlene drew her sidearm, and dropped below the entry desk where she had stood for the coup de gras intended for Big Sal’s arrest. But where to start firing, as the room began to stink up from fresh gunfire, the shock and adrenaline were a roadblock to clarity… she could only feel her breath, in and out… a heart exploding.

Her two other troopers were out with their 9mms and not knowing who to shoot, because the guns came so suddenly and from too many places, but they were letting loose in some protective barrage that had no effect… the trooper standing over Darlene was struck twice in the chest with automatic fire and he bounced off the front door… he turned to try and escape, and another barrage plastered him against the frame, where he slid down listlessly… leaving too much of his blood and tissue sliding down the door with him.

Darlene, in the mouth of the monster, knew she had to get out of the middle of the shooting gallery, seeing her man slide down dead to her left, she knew she would not be able to overcome the corpse’s obstruction and make it out the door, so she darted, across the room and leapt over a sofa that had once set off a fine décor, while horny patrons were awaiting their slice of heaven.

A spray of bullets followed her, one clipping her thigh just below her buttocks. She rolled, and then tucked back against the backside of the furniture, laying low, both hands on her weapon, left hand beneath in support of firing - but how, and how many assailants… and were they coming?

She heard no more guns… the smell of cordite was thick… then she heard a killing shot… had to be one of her boy’s last breaths. She cringed in anger, and sharp pangs of fear, unaware of her own wound… This woman who could be winning bake sales, now surrounded by machine pistols and death…

“Boys! Call out, boys!” She only heard a mocking voice in return.

“Boys? Call out boys?” and a snide chitter… this was fun to these people.

“Big Sal?”… nothing. “Big Sal? Leonard?” No answer… she heard a crunch as footsteps were nearing… she rolled once, into a prone firing position, she tipped out, seeing the blondie and she let go two rounds at his legs… She ducked back as a brief blast threw chips of sofa and glass, accompanied by a groan of pain and the man hitting the floor, agonizing. She hit him… at least stopped him for the second.

“Come get your dinner Madame polis!” More groans, different perp talking, she knew. She just didn’t know how many. But they took out four trained Nevada Troopers in about 12 seconds.

Darlene stayed low, and looked up, debating any reasonable exit… or unreasonable… She looked towards the front, the entry picture window shined a bright piece of Nevada sun on her. She then turned her weapon high and let out three blasts at the same time as she rose and sprung, and the dowdy appearing domestic sheriff made for the window.

The surprise of the shattering glass caused greater alarm than the sound of gunfire, and Darlene made her first three steps in a free run, when one of the machine pistols let loose and dotted a ripping line into the sofa and drywall beyond, as she went flying through the now falling glass that gave a hope of freedom...

**********************

“Jesus Christ!” Donnie blared out. “It’s the sheriff blowing out the front window…” Cliff lifted the spotter’s scope again, swiftly picking up the theater. Donnie keeping his optics on the scene, an index finger now leaning easily against the trigger guard.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?”

“Art, Johnny, guns up and hold. Don’t know what shit’s goin’ down yet.” They wouldn’t be much use at this distance, but a refreshing rain of 5.56 mm rounds from the M16 at any distance brought comfort in battle. And they would need it.

The sheriff rolled in the front garden, got up, and hustled to protection at the façade of the building, then began running, in a severe limp, along the front of the building.

“She’s been hit. That crap we heard was gunfire, not traffic!” The sound had been torrential giving the veterans the sense it was either traffic from nearby State Road160 or rainfall… and the sun was so angry a deluge would disintegrate before the first drop had landed.

“Donnie, a shooter, out the glass!” It was an order, not an observation.

“See it, Sergeant.” He was beading down, with no time for a studied shot, for the killer was reaching out with his weapon to conclude the sheriff’s fleeting run. He squeezed off a round and caught the broken stanchion just above the perp’s head, blasting away what remained of the upper window casement, showering the shooter in glass and promise of death. It was a miss, but the best kind. The shooter dove back into the safety of the room and out of view, his shots unfired.

Sheriff Coyle had made the end of the building and tucked around the corner. It was not security, because they can run the inside as quickly as she can on the outside. Maybe faster now because the vets knew she was hit… bleeding severely coloring the back of her leg…

“Move, Darlene… take advantage of your time… move lady.” Donnie was speaking in conversational tones, as if Darlene could hear him… and it seemed to work, as Darlene darted out to the parking lot, with her weapon trained towards the front of the building. She made it to the employee cars, and she tucked behind the rear of an Isuzu.

“More movement inside, Sarge. Do I take the shot?”

“You gotta be sure it’s not a trooper. Observe. If it looks like mayhem, take the shot.”

“Sir!” He barked out. Old warriors never die… they just get old and never less ready. Then Donnie shouted out, “A live baddie!”

“Take him out if you got the shot!”

Donnie was scoping down now that he had greater convenience; the perp was deep in the room, a weapon clearly in hand, small submachinegun, machine pistol maybe… “I got no good shot…” he was talking to himself as much as his partners, “Still hunkered down… peeking up and then down… like he’s trying to draw a shot.”

“Don’t shoot then. They’re trying to identify our position…” then while grabbing a fist of clay and red sand, he shouted out, “Dust up, fellas. These guys know what they’re doin’. They know what they’re lookin’ for.” At that, each of the vets grabbed a handful and slapped it into their palms and spread it as thickly as could be had over their face and hands, and all lay prone.

“Okay, hold positions. See where this goes.”