Corinthian Club

by C. F. Pierce

Part 1 apppears in this issue.

conclusion

“You should join us for a tune,” says Ritchie.

“Maybe we can catch up a little later,” says James, looking at his bewildered companions. “We’re in the middle of a meeting here.”

Reverberating through the stuffy enclosure is the percussion intro of Sympathy for the Devil, which James recognizes as part of the repertoire he played in Ritchie’s band.

“Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen,” says Ritchie to Dutton and Blake, the latter nodding. “Jimmy, let’s talk later.”

“So, you were once a wannabe rockstar?” says Blake. “Whatever happened with that?”

“It wasn’t going anywhere. Besides, my ex-wife — girlfriend at the time — was not a big fan of the Rebel Rockers. She kept asking me, ‘When are you gonna grow up?’ Then she got pregnant. And it all came to a grinding halt.”

“I understand,” says Blake. My daughter Jane — she also had dreams — until this.”

“Mr. Blake, I know how you feel,” says Dutton. “I want to make this right. Tell me what it would take.”

“It’s time to go outside,” says Blake. “Mr. Dutton, I should let you know that under the table, I have a Sig Sauer P365 pointed at your stomach. Very compact, very efficient. I know a little about weapons. I used to be a cop until I got suspended for being ‘overzealous.’”

James sees fear in Dutton’s eyes and a drop of sweat on his upper lip. The men rise from the table. Ritchie is back on stage with his group, immersed in a passionate rendition of All Along The Watchtower. The crowd is dwindling.

Blake directs the men to the rear exit. His right hand remains in the pocket of his jacket, the smooth black fabric pointed at Dutton to demonstrate the weapon underneath. Behind the bar is a parking lot adjacent to an alley.

Stepping outside, James feels the drizzle of raindrops on his hands and head. The night air is refreshing after the toxic brew in the bar. Slight puddles in the alley reflect yellow bulbs beaming from back door tops. The hum of car engines on Lincoln Boulevard is buried by the echo of barking dogs beyond the alley.

Blake instructs the two men to stand in front of the metal dumpster behind the rear entrance of Fast Cash No Questions Asked Check Cashers. His right hand remains hidden in his pocket.

Blake turns to Dutton. “Do you ever give it a second thought? I’ve read up on you. The young women are the worst. But that’s not the half of it, is it? The workers you don’t pay, the tenants you evict to build bigger buildings. The list goes on.”

“I swear to you I had nothing to do with what happened to your daughter. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.”

With a quick motion, Blake pulls his hand out of his pocket, swings his right arm back and with an open palm slaps Dutton hard on his left cheek, the blow emitting a loud clap. Dutton yelps then raises his hand to touch the inflamed skin, his eyes starting to tear.

“There is a reason I asked you to stand by the dumpster. After I shoot you, I’m gonna lift you up and toss you inside. Because that’s where you belong.” His hand is back in his pocket holding a hidden object, pointing it at Dutton.

“You don’t want to do this,” says James, trying to remain calm, searching for a way to defuse the situation.

“You’re wrong,” says Blake, “I do.” In the distance behind him is thick dark foliage hanging over the street at the edge of the alley. “Look at the damage he does. The pain he causes. High time Mr. Despicable became Mr. Accountable.”

“What about your daughter?”

“The one good thing in my life. The one thing I didn’t mess up. Paula thought selling real estate would be a step up from flipping burgers. She was in a hurry to grow up, I warned her, but she insisted.”

Blake looks down for a moment, contemplative. James senses an opportunity and lunges at Blake, shoulders collide. Reaching into the pocket for the weapon, Blake retrieves a small appointment book with a heavy leather cover.

James raises his eyebrows in astonishment: There is no gun. A fast-approaching black and white vehicle flashing red lights screeches to a halt in the middle of the alley. Men in dark uniforms with weapons holstered around their belts descend on the parking lot.

“Here’s your man,” says Blake calmly pointing in the direction of the metal receptacle.

“Mr. Dutton, we have a warrant for your arrest.”

The officers place Dutton in handcuffs. The distinctive sound of metal clicking resonates through the lot. With hands bound, the owner of Corinthian Club is escorted to the backseat. Exiting patrons look on. James leans over the open back door of the black-and-white vehicle and utters a cliché about silence and gold.

“What about him?” protests Dutton raising his head to point to Blake. “You’re not arresting him? This guy just threatened me at gunpoint.”

“Who? Mr. Blake? He is the one who called us.”

“Is that right?” asks James.

“Yep. I called them an hour ago,” says Blake. I knew they would take their time. From what I have witnessed, justice is rarely swift.”

Blake turns to the officer. “You know where to find me,” he says, before turning his back and walking off.

James hears the roaring hum of a jet overhead starting its descent to Los Angeles airport. He looks up but can’t see it. The drizzling has stopped. Puffy white clouds fill the night sky after the rain. James scrolls his cell phone, contemplating the next move after Dutton is out on bail.

Huddled by the rear door, Ritchie and his band hold beer cans. “It was tight tonight, gentlemen,” says the front man. “Sounded really good. That new Midas mixer kicks ass. Great investment.”

The group marches back into the club minus one. The last men standing outside face each other between the alley and the rear entrance where the words Corinthian Club are displayed in illuminated blue. “What happened to your friends?” asks Ritchie. “Were the police here?”

“It’s complicated,” says James. “A misunderstanding.” The muffled buzz of bass and drums leak out of the club, the only sounds apart from their voices.

“Can I ask you something, Ritchie? You’ve been playing in small venues for many years now. What has that been like?”

“You can say ‘dives.’ It’s okay.” He laughs. “This is what I enjoy. And even though I never made it big, it’s what I do best. I’ve had odd jobs to pay bills: telephone sales, waiting tables, walking dogs. Anything but in an office all day, Monday through Friday. That wouldn’t work at all. Tried it once. Almost went crazy. It was like trying to put a square peg in a round hole. Then I said to myself ‘Hey man, stop trying to be what you’re not.’”

James looks into Ritchie’s clear blue eyes and imagines, When he gets home tonight, wherever home is, he will sleep soundly. Tomorrow night too.

“Sure you don’t want to come on stage and join us for a tune?” says Ritchie, pulling out a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket. Might take your mind off other things.”

“Another time,” says Dutton’s counsel, with a hint of a smile.

“All right. You’re on,” he says, putting his cigarette in his mouth, flicking his plastic lighter, the flame brightening his wrinkled brow.

The former lead guitarist of the Rebel Rockers, once known as Jimmy, loosens his necktie, unbuttons his jacket, and tosses it over his shoulder. He lingers for a moment.

Ritchie looks hard at his former bandmate, takes a long drag and blows a thick ring of smoke into the night air. “I’m serious,” says Ritchie, “you should do it. Put on your red velvet jacket. Strap on your Stratocaster. Strum some chords, bend some strings and lose yourself in the rock, rhythm and blues. You’d love it, man. You’d feel like you’d died and gone to heaven.”

“Yes,” says James with a dead-serious expression, nodding as he starts to walk off, “I know.”