We’d gone down this road before with guys promising the world, then not delivering. That’s why it’s imperative to have a sit-down and iron out all the facts beforehand. That way, there were no surprises like the promotor wanting way more of a percentage than they deserve.
I punch the elevator button for the offices on the third floor, then enter the glass-enclosed space, allowing me to survey the two levels of the empty club. The twenty-thousand-foot space always fills me with pride.
After Samson and I broke away from Frank, we came out to Vegas and started Club Wicked from the ground up. Our success wipes away all the late-night beatdowns on the Brooklyn piers, all the times we had to toe the line and make sure we kept the mob boss happy.
Now that the bad days are behind us, the only way to go is up.
The doors whoosh open, and I walk the short distance to Samson’s office. I knock, then shoulder through the door, and he turns from the one-way glass overlooking the club.
“Is Jax here?” I ask. “I didn’t see him on the way up.”
“Nah, he called in sick the last two days,” Samson says. “Maybe it’s that new redhead he’s seeing.”
“The one who dances over at Ecstasy?”
“Yeah.”
The Serpents MC own Ecstasy, a strip club in North Las Vegas, and lately Jax has been spending time there, so maybe Samson is right.
“I got nothing against him getting his dick wet, but I wanted him to sit in on this meeting with Pierce since he was the one who did all the research on the guy. Make sure you have a talk with him tomorrow.”
Along with security, Jax vets all new employees or business contacts. His savvy tech skills allow him to do a deep-dive in backgrounds, and according to Jax, Graham Pierce not only checks all the boxes, but has a solid business plan when it comes to promotion.
“That deadbeat, Sal, showed up last night again.” Samson settles on the couch in his office and knocks a cigarette out of the pack on the coffee table.
“What the hell could he want after all these years?”
“No fuckin’ clue.” Samson flicks his lighter. “The first time he showed up last week, he was asking questions of the bartenders and the bouncers. Telling them he was an old friend of ours from back in Brooklyn.”
“Friend? That’s a fuckin’ joke.”
Sal was a small-time player who ran the Pit, a strip joint in Brooklyn where Cheryl had worked as a waitress. Theplace was a dump, and he treated his workers like shit. The kind of place with daily fights at the bar and weekly stabbings. Ironically, it was also where I met Cheryl the first time.
“I told the bouncers to keep him out.” Samson leans back against the couch cushions.
“Agreed. He’s most likely looking for a handout. The fuckin’ guy was always behind with his bookie.”
“Probably out here sniffing around ‘cause he’s burned all his connections in New York.”
“Let him do his sniffing somewhere else.” I nab a smoke out of the pack and light up. “The last thing we need is his brand of trouble here.”
“I was thinking . . . maybe Frank’s behind Sal hanging around?”
“Nah, I doubt it. Sal was way too low on the food chain to interest Frank.”
“Still, Sal was definitely one of Frank’s lackeys back then. Maybe he sent him to keep eyes on us.”
“No way.” I ash my smoke in the cut glass ashtray.
“You never know.”
“Frank gave me his word six months ago when I got back with Cheryl that he’d stay outta our shit, and leave Club Wicked alone.”
“And you believe him?”
Samson and I let those words hang between us. Frank definitely still has East Coast ties, but when mob wars began breaking out, he moved west. Now, he spends most of his time in L.A. overseeing a string of jazz clubs he opened up and down the Pacific coast.
“He wouldn’t do anything to put Cheryl or Portia in danger.”
