Bait: A Novel (3 page)

TWO DAYS AGO.

“S
ure, we’ll get along fine.”

Ginger Rosen realized she was talking aloud as she sat on the cold toilet and squeezed out a half pint. The speech she had been practicing over and over in her head had grown angrier and was now working her mouth as well as her brain. Curtis was dreaming if he thought she’d be up for his little suggestion. Sarcasm coated her words before she spat them out.

“We’ll all get along like a frigging house on fire.”

Things between her and Curtis had been going from bad to worse, and now his demand for a threesome, with that bitch Rita no less, was her cue to start forming an exit strategy. Despite Curtis’s assurances that they could all play nice, the idea of sharing a squeaky bed with one of his skank associates made Ginger’s skin crawl. God knew what STDs Rita was carrying. Ginger didn’t need any more complications in her life, and certainly none of that variety. Her past scrapes with the clap were more than enough. What Ginger needed was a distraction. The poster plastered to the inside of the stall door screamed at her in fiery orange graffiti:

Fuel Injector Live @ The Barracuda Room 10pm show. $5 cover. Ladies free!

There was a photo of the band below. The members looked well past their prime, posing against a brick wall under the misguided impression that they were in any way still cool or relevant. She thought about tearing the poster down and wiping her cooch with it. When she found no toilet paper in the dispenser, she did.

“Fucking dump,” she muttered as she elbowed open the stall door. “Why do I keep coming back here?”

Her mind was a reflex.
Because it’s one of the only bridges left that you haven’t burned yet.

Ginger went to the bathroom mirror and looked at the reflection of a woman who wasn’t allowed in very many local establishments anymore. A single long crack down the middle of the glass refracted her slim body, making her appear even thinner. Greasy streaks on the surface smeared her features. Bloodshot eyes were returning to normal, though she still felt a little high. There was a residual paranoia that she could never shake after smoking the hash she pilfered from Curtis’s stash, something she planned to bury soon under a much stronger score, if she was lucky.

Ginger shook out her hair and undid another button on her shirt, letting her cleavage pop more. Her perfect C-cups had aided and abetted her for as long as she could remember, though judging by the space for rent inside her bra these days, her tits had shrunk to a B. Her previous kind of pull had shrunk with them. She reapplied lipstick and touched up her mascara until she was sure she’d attained that fuckable look that always seemed to bring boons from others.

She walked out to the bar. Still early, but the Barracuda Room was starting to get busy, despite its notoriety as a dive. A stale, sour smell hung in the air. The sticky floor hadn’t been washed in weeks. An overabundance of neon beer and liquor signs on the walls served as the only decorations. Her stool at the end of the bar was still vacant. Jojo the bartender was good about keeping it free of other customers. Ginger sat and he had a vodka-cran in front of her before she even opened her mouth.

“Thanks, handsome.”

Jojo winked. “I know what my girl likes.”

Ginger was nobody’s girl, but she winked back nonetheless. It was a half joke coming from him, but she knew he’d bang her in a New York minute if she ever gave the green light. Tickling his fancy just enough kept the odd free drink coming. She conceded Jojo was cute, extra points for putting up with her bad nights and occasional temper, but he was not her type. No one was her type. If she ever got too hard up, however, she knew the bartender would pay one way or another to bed her. She kept that opportunity simmering on the back burner, knowing her impending bust-up with Curtis would leave her in need of both cock and cash. Ginger batted eyelashes at Jojo as he snuck another look at her cleavage.

“If you could see me now, Curtis . . .” she mumbled.

Curtis Moffat, her unfaithful partner of two years, no doubt cooking up a spoon with Rita in some motel room right about now, would find his ass dumped by the end of the week. It was a good thing. Ginger didn’t like what he was getting into nowadays. When she first hooked up with him he’d only dealt pot and prescription pills. It wasn’t long before he graduated to coke and smack, but more recently he’d been running guns. She didn’t want to know what else he might be involved in.

Ginger sipped her drink and scanned the room for prospects. Slim pickings, hardly worth a second glance, but one person managed to catch her eye. A man, and maybe a bit of a looker, stared at her from the gloom behind the pool tables at the back. She held his gaze long enough to suggest invitation.

Game on,
she thought.

He didn’t move, just sipped his Corona and kept staring, not even coy about it. Ginger looked away, pretending to be interested in the selection of bottles on the bar racks. When she looked back his eyes were still fixed. She felt the intensity from across the room.

Been a while, sailor?

And a sailor he might be. He looked the part: clean shaven, dark hair in a buzz cut, trim figure, and nice clothes. So completely out of place, Ginger could only assume he was in port for the week with some shore leave. She hoped he had some cash to burn and a sweet tooth for a fix, hard candy or better. She took an ice cube in with a gulp of cocktail and crunched it, raising an eyebrow at her new fan’s improper stare.

“You think I’m gonna come to you, bub?” she muttered.

The man seemed to hear that. He took another sip of beer and began making his way over, sidestepping the clubgoers between them. Ginger looked away again and counted down the seconds in her head until his arrival.

Six, five, four, three, two—

“Hello there, gorgeous.”

She turned. He was a little older than she’d originally thought, but better looking up close and out of the shadows. The New York accent had its charm.

“Hi.”

“You look thirsty. Can I buy you a drink?”

It was a terrible opener. Ginger almost walked. She reconsidered, eyeing his figure, taking note of his dimpled chin and strong hands. It wasn’t every day that such hotness offered to buy her a round. She resolved to give him a three-strike limit.

“As soon as I finish this one you can,” she replied, taking another sip.

He chuckled. “So, what’s a girl like you doing in a joint like this?”

Not much better. Ginger thought it was she who should be asking him that question. She was right at home in the Barracuda Room. He looked like he had the wrong address.

“Is there somewhere better I should be?”

The man grinned. “Maybe.”

Ginger played it so cool it might have come off frigid, but she took the straw out of her drink and nibbled the end to give him a preview of her mouth at work.

“You got something in mind, sailor?”

“That depends.”

“And on what does it depend?”

The man paused, checked over his shoulder, leaned closer. The overapplication of aftershave was offensive, coming off of him like fumes, enough that if Ginger had been smoking they probably both would have gone up in flames.

“What are you into?” he asked, his tone lowering.

Ginger smirked. “What am I into? You kinky or something?”

The man’s cheeks reddened. “No, I mean, I’m just wondering if you like to . . . um, if you like to
party.
”

“I always like to party, baby.”

“Well, I can hook you up if you wanna follow me outta here. Anything you want, anything at all. I got it.”

“How much?”

“I’m sure we can work something out.”

Ginger couldn’t believe her luck. Excitement gripped her, but alarm followed quick on its heels. Ginger was used to the unusual, but this was getting uncomfortable as well. The guy and the speed at which the conversation was going didn’t add up.

“Anything I want, you say?” she asked.

“Just name your poison.”

She didn’t like that, or the grin that followed. A particular memory suddenly struck her, that of an old acquaintance named Talia Wint, a working girl who had become a cautionary tale in the neighborhood. Eight months prior, Wint went missing from her corner for a week before her headless corpse wound up in a Dumpster. The body was a mess, according to the grapevine, so bad that people avoided discussing the details. The head never reappeared. Case still unsolved. Ginger looked over at Jojo, trying to get him to notice her new suitor, but he was too busy at the opposite end of the bar dealing with a pair of loudmouthed bitches.

“You’ve got a very pretty face,” the man said.

That you might want to put on your mantel,
she thought. “Aw, ain’t you sweet.”

“So, you wanna get out of here?”

“Easy, tiger, you got a name?”

His smile was sly. “Do I need one?”

Ginger returned the smile, but a shiver ran down her spine. She didn’t like where this was going. Guy was too quick on the draw. It didn’t look like he partied either, at least not at her level. She could tell he wasn’t a dealer, a crook, or an addict who would be into her for the trade of sex for substance, despite his insinuations. Something else bothered her. The guy hadn’t glanced down at her cleavage once.

“I’ll take you up on that drink,” she said and downed the rest of her vodka-cran.

“Mind if I make it a double?”

“Long as you make it tall too.”

The man waved two fingers and Jojo came down the bar, happy to get away from the two squawkers doing shots at the other end.

“A Corona and another of what the lady is having, this time double and tall.”

Jojo nodded and cast a sideways glance at Ginger, who made no sign that she was in need of assistance anymore. She planned to be out of there in a matter of minutes.

“Hey, stud, while my drink is being fixed I’m gonna go to the ladies’, powder my nose and stuff.”

“Don’t you be gone too long, now.”

Ginger giggled. “And miss out on you treating me right tonight? I think not. This stool better be free when I get back.”

The man nodded. “I got it covered.”

Ginger figured the drinks order would keep him anchored for long enough. She slipped off her stool and headed for the washroom, feeling him watch her the whole way, eyes slithering over her hips and ass as she walked. It wasn’t lecherous. Predatory was the sense she got. She wanted to shed his gaze like a snakeskin. When she reached the washroom door she risked a glance over her shoulder. The man was distracted a moment, one of the two mouthy girls yelling at him about how cute he looked.

Good,
she thought.
Cut the head of that bitch, buddy.

Ginger took her chance and banked right, ducking behind a group of people who had just come through the front doors. Before she knew it she was out into the cool night air and flagging down a cab. She’d have to go to Curtis soon, unable to avoid it much longer. Curtis Moffat had what she needed. The cabbie gave her a once-over as she slipped into the back.

“Where to, lady?”

“Anywhere but here.”

NOW.

“A
nywhere but here,” Ginger said, looking skyward. “Christ, anywhere but stuck on an island, forced to watch this pathetic little cockfight.”

“He started it,” Nash whined.

“Little?” Felix grunted, grabbing his crotch. “Honey, if I dropped this cock of mine on your head, you’d think a grand piano had landed on your dome.”

Ginger’s eyes could have cut glass. “Buddy, if you’ve ever wanted to see your own dick and balls sailing bloody through the air, then I suggest you keep talking.”

“Dyke,” Felix growled.

“Prick.”

Nearby, the kid on the sand stirred. Nash took a step away, unsure of this one. He looked pale and wiry, unstable even in his sleep. Felix stepped closer until he was almost on top of the kid. Nash watched from the corner of his eye, fearing he might receive a bitch-slap for his earlier slur if he didn’t stay vigilant.

“He’s waking,” Nash said.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Felix pushed the kid’s hip with a foot. The kid grunted and slurred something profane, drool seeping from the corner of his mouth. Felix paused a moment, then delivered a fierce kick to the kid’s shin, snapping him awake with a screech.

“What the hell did you kick him for?” yelled Ginger.

The kid writhed drunkenly in the sand, panicky breaths popping in and out of his lungs as he tried to get his bearings. Felix stepped back to give him some space, but it didn’t help.

“Get away from me!” squealed the kid.

He scrambled to his feet, kicking sand over the still unconscious girl beside him. The baggy jeans he wore inhibited his movements, making him appear clumsy as he staggered back. His stretched and torn wife-beater revealed a thin, hairless chest, peppered with acne. He flailed his arms effeminately at the others, his words coming in a lisping, blubbery babble.

“Wherethefuckwhothefuckwhatthefuck?”

Great,
Nash thought.
Enter the mincing twink.

Wide-eyed and near tears, the kid retreated to the edge of the long grass, where he picked up a fist-sized rock. He crouched to make himself a smaller target in case anyone decided to take a run at him.

“Who the hell are you guys?” he shouted, holding up the rock as if it were a live grenade.

Nash advanced slowly, arms outstretched and palms to the ground to show he was no threat. Felix swept right, trying to maintain a low profile, looking as if he was preparing to tackle the kid. It did not go unnoticed.

“You wanna get stoned? Just take another step then, man!”

The kid’s arm rose, threatening to pitch the rock, keeping Felix at a safe distance. Ginger finally stood, wiping sand from her ass. She marched past the two men and approached the youngest addition to their fucked-up little family, coming close enough to unbalance him. He stumbled, the rock fumbling from his hands and landing in front of her. Ginger put a foot on it.

“Don’t you come any closer, cunt!” the kid yelled. “I know karate!”

“Look, calm down. I just—”

“You best back the hell up, or I’ll—”

“Hey, will you chill the fuck out already?”

Ginger’s explosiveness caused the kid to jump back. He looked at her with surprise and maybe a new respect. Ginger put her hands on her hips and tipped her head sideways, lips pursed wearily. The kid hung his head at the sight of it, embarrassment pinching his face.

“You finished being a drama queen?” asked Ginger, voice suddenly soothing.

The kid swallowed hard and breathed deep, trying to regain some composure. Ginger took another step toward him.

“Do you, in fact, know karate?” She chuckled.

“No” was the sullen reply.

“I didn’t think so. What’s your name, kid?”

“Kenneth . . . Kenny. My friends . . . they call me Kenny.”

“Kenny, Kenny, Kenny,” she cooed. “You’re not in any danger from us, okay? My name’s Ginger. That’s Nash and Felix. We’re just as lost as you are, babe. Wish I could give you some answers, but I can’t. So take a deep breath and relax as much as you can. No one is here to harm you, okay?”

Ginger gave Felix a glare for the shin kicking. The look he gave back said he’d do it again. Nash took a step toward Kenny, but the boy flinched.

“Listen to the lady, kid. We won’t hurt you. She’s right about that much.”

The kid nodded, but inched closer to Ginger for protection. She let him enter her comfort zone easily. Nash was taken aback by the woman’s kindness toward this new one in their midst, concluding it was some kind of homo thing. She was a dyke, kid was a fag, and that united them. Nash resented it.

“Okay,” Kenny said, breathing slower. “I’m cooling out.”

Ginger nodded. “Good. That’s real good. . . .”

A few more words softened the boy’s armor until he was putty. Kenny put his hands in his pockets and cracked a half smile, nodding his head in a bid of truce. Nash felt a flare of annoyance. Felix was on the same page, arms folded and eyes slit with contempt. They were both thinking this Kenny kid was going to have to be the babysat bitch in the bunch.

“Sorry for yelling at you,” Kenny said. “I didn’t mean to call you a cunt.”

Ginger smiled. “Forget about it. It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

“I think you can be forgiven under the circumstances—”

Nash’s voice could have bit through concrete. “Jesus, when you two little bitches finish finger-banging each other, do you think we can figure out what we’re gonna do about this predicament of ours?”

Ginger’s face darkened and she spat venomously in his direction, murmuring a string of obscenities. A slap across his face would have satisfied her, but she restrained herself. Instead, she turned to Kenny and thumbed over her shoulder.

“I should probably tell you now, when God created righteous cunts, he made the mold out of Nash over there.”

Nash snorted. “You got some fucking nerve, woman—”

A moaning sound came from the sand. The Hispanic girl was starting to come to. Disoriented and mumbling, she lifted her head. When her eyes fixed on the others she instantly rolled away and cowered.

“It’s okay, honey,” Ginger said. “We don’t bite.”

The girl didn’t answer. Judging by the confusion on her face, Nash wasn’t sure she was capable of giving a reply.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The girl swallowed hard, never taking her eyes off them. She was petite, but not fragile. Her dark hair and skin could have been sensuous, if both didn’t look so horribly neglected. Felix’s rumbling voice visibly rattled her when he spoke.

“Answer the man. What’s your
name
?”

Nash frowned. “I don’t think she speaks English.”

“Oh, she speaks it, alright,” Felix said, looking the girl in the eye. “Too many cons have tried to pull the
no Eengleesh
card on me in my time.”

Each of them threw a sharp glance her way. The girl swallowed again, but this time answered with a thick Spanish accent.

“Maria is my name.”

She drew her knees up under her chin, wrapping her arms around her shins. The eyes that looked around were those of a terrified animal. Kenny sat on the fringe of the grass, scratching at his chest and offering her a weak smile that did nothing to set her at ease. Felix mulled over the scene, looking back toward the footprint trail with a compulsion that suggested a freshly stuffed candy nose.