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TWO-2

“Is that the best you can do?” expressed a familiar voice.

Oliver checked the number. He understood the response of the caller.

“Miss me yet?”

“Missed you all day!” returned Oliver, wisely volleying the response.

“Charles just came in. He’s drunk, and he wants to party.”

“Are his bodyguards with him?”

“They are always with him.”

Oliver patted the envelope containing the documents. “I’m about twenty minutes from you. While I’m on my way over, give him a lap dance to get him in the mood, and I’ll meet you in the VIP Room.”

“You’re so naughty, Ollie.”

The telephone disconnected. Oliver drove across the Hawthorne Bridge into downtown Portland. The lights of the city skyscrapers shone like beacons. He arrived at The Cabaret Gentleman’s Club. Oliver placed the envelope inside an oversized pouch he had sewn in the inside of his trench coat. He nodded at the doorman at the entrance to the club.

“She’s hot tonight,” said the doorman, Antoine, a large man with pearly white teeth that illuminated the darkness. He opened the door for Oliver to enter. He stepped into a dark cavern with perfumed candles that occupied a prominent square atop ornate bronze sconces that jutted from the wall. The sound of music punctuated the air. Oliver reached the terminus of the canyon. Viewing through a sheer pink fabric, a young woman wearing nothing but black heels danced on a wooden floor. She squatted in front of a group of men who stared as if they were in the presence of a deity.

Oliver gave a passing nod to the bartender as he stepped quietly toward the passage that lead to the VIP Rooms. Seated in plush leather seats at the entrance to the corridor sat four large men dressed in tailored suits. Dark eyeshades masked their faces. The one closest to the corridor quickly arose from his seat to block access to the narrow passage.

Oliver jockeyed for position, but the large man did not yield. “What the Hell do you want?” demanded the man.

“I need to see my girl.”

“She’s busy,” said the man. The three other men arose from the leather sofa, and arrayed themselves at varied angles from Oliver. They brushed their jackets to the side, and a holstered firearm on the hip of each man came into view.

“I said I need to talk to my girl,” continued Oliver. He pushed forward against the arm of the man who blocked his passage.

The other three men rapidly closed ranks behind Oliver. He felt their breath on the back of his neck.

“Gentlemen,” boomed a large voice from behind the congregation of men. “How about we have a drink on the house to celebrate a peaceful resolution of a pending disagreeable reaction?” Antoine held a tray with four drinks in crystal tumblers.

“No, thanks,” snapped the largest man blocking the entrance to the passageway.

Antoine pushed himself to the front of the group of men. He carried a bouquet of flowers behind his back that he produced as he turned toward the men. “This is a loyal patron of our establishment. He has made arrangements with me to await his girl in VIP Room number 4. He has flowers and a ring, if you get what I’m talking about.”

“A word of advice?” asked one of the security men. “She’ll stop putting out as soon as that ring is on her finger, pal.” He snickered as he positioned himself firmly in the middle of the corridor.

“There is no need to block his way,” said Antoine. He pushed himself toward the man.

The three men behind Oliver glanced toward the one blocking the entrance. He nodded toward the group, which eventually dispersed to the table. The lead man stared directly at Oliver as he passed before taking a seat at the table.

Oliver winked at Antoine as he wriggled the flower bouquet in a sign of appreciation. The large man moved to the entrance to the corridor to surveille the club. His girth obstructed the view of the bodyguards into the corridor. Oliver quickly entered the door to the first VIP Room. Directly in front of him, he observed a large man in his underwear sitting on a leather sofa with his face pressed between the ample breasts of a young woman who wore only stiletto heels, a top hat, and a matching black thong.

“Charles Dillingham?” demanded Oliver.

“What the…?” said the man when he quickly moved his face from the woman. His eyes burned with rage.

Oliver knew he had to act quickly to avert any harm to Cyllvia, who wisely feigned astonishment at the interruption.

“Excuse me, Miss,” said Oliver, who instantly mimed Cyllvia’s astonishment. “My business here is only with Mr. Dillingham.”

The large man quickly approached Oliver. He drew his fist backward.

“You are served with legal process.” Oliver tossed the packet at the man, and ducked away from an errant blow delivered into the air by Charles. At the side of the large man, Cyllvia remained frozen in place.

Charles picked up the envelope with one hand, and suddenly grasped the blonde hair of Cyllvia. Ignoring her shrieks from the pain, he dragged her across the floor of the soundproofed room. He stood eye-to-eye with Oliver. “Are you and this b***h working together to set me up?” He pulled Cyllvia’s hair tightly.

Cyllvia wailed, “let me go!” She screamed for assistance, while fixing her eyes deep into those of Oliver.

“No,” answered Oliver. “She has no idea who I am.” He glanced with a sense of urgency toward Cyllvia. “I have never seen her before.”

Charles relaxed his grip on Cyllvia. He turned to the dancer. He grappled her hair again firmly in his hand, and pulled her head backward. “Is this true?” he demanded.

“Yes,” she whimpered. “I’ve never seen this asshole before! I don’t know what is going on.” Cyllvia began to whimper. Her lips quivered.

Charles shoved Cyllvia to the floor. He glared at Oliver. Instantaneously, Charles ripped the envelope in half and threw the contents at the floor. “Now it’s your turn!” The man rushed at Oliver, who averted calamity by ducking underneath the powerful man. Charles could not stop his momentum. He crashed into a table holding a perfumed candle and a flower bouquet. The force of impacting the wall incapacitated Charles.

Oliver watched Charles out cold on the carpeted floor of the VIP Room. He felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Better get this man some gloves, Cyllvia,” said Antoine. He grinned mischievously at the pair. “Next up for Oliver Paige will be Anthony Joshua or Deontay Wilder!”

Cyllvia burst into laughter. “You’re forgetting Tyson Fury!” Cyllvia rolled a thick bathing robe over her body for modesty.

Antoine nodded his head. He looked at Oliver, who struggled to process the information. “Nice going.”

“You better get out of here before he wakes up, or his henchmen figure out he’s taking too long.” Cyllvia’s sincere concern clashed with her feigned performance from moments prior.

Antoine chuckled. “His men are enjoying the pleasures of Perrier-Jouët and some of your friends,” he said to Cyllvia. “They are indisposed for a while.”

Cyllvia grabbed Oliver’s hand, and led him out the VIP Room into the corridor. “I was really worried about you, Ollie.”

“Relax,” said Oliver. “Ducking punches from villains is just another day in the life of Oliver Paige.” He winked at the young woman.

Cyllvia heard muffled laughter coming from another VIP Room. She hastened her steps toward the rear of the club. They passed a pair of swinging wooden doors to a loading dock filled with boxes of inventory and cases of wine and other restaurant supplies. She piloted him carefully through the morass of boxes and shipping materials until they reached the back door. She opened the door with a hefty shove. The cool air refreshed Oliver as it struck him on the face. “Meet you at home, slugger,” she teased. With one hand holding the door open, Cyllvia escorted Oliver safely from the confines of the club. “Hey, Ollie,” she said playfully. She opened her robe to reveal her mostly unclothed body. Oliver stared at her toned female form. Cyllvia winked before wrapping the bathing robe tightly against her body. “Something to think about, champ!” She approached Oliver to give him a kiss on the cheek before disappearing within the closed door.

Oliver stood in the alley. A light rain began to fall. He watched the droplets collect on the trench coat that he wore. He listened to the music seeping from the walls of the club. He imagined Cyllvia dancing on stage, the only place in her life where he understood that she felt real. He suddenly remembered Charles Dillingham lying on the floor of the VIP Room. It was only a matter of time before he would awaken from his momentary slumber.

Oliver stumbled toward his car in the distance. A delivery truck nearly struck him as he walked across the street. His mind and his body ached for just another hit to get him through the night. Before starting the car, Oliver prepared a spoon of methamphetamine. He realized that shooting the drug directly in front of the club would not be a good idea, owing to the uncertainty that Charles Dillingham and his thugs could emerge from the front or back doors at any time. Oliver engaged the gear, and rolled onto 7th Avenue. He traveled the lighted streets toward the river. He meandered on the Naito Parkway until he reached a signal for the riverfront esplanade. He spied a vacant spot underneath a streetlight. It was quiet, and he considered that he had found a peaceful spot to ride a wave of euphoria. He prepared his arm and the syringe, and faded into a comfortable numbness. Oliver placed the syringe into the cigar box on the passenger seat. He watched the ripples dance on the river until he drifted off into oblivion.

****

Oliver recoiled at the rapping on his driver window. At first, he thought the noise from the window was a part of a dream. With each jarring blow to the window, Oliver slowly came out of his numbed euphoria. He struggled to emerge from the languid stupor that clouded his judgment. The frenetic movement of a bright illumination jolted his vision, and the constant pounding on the window jarred him to attention. Oliver tried to comprehend the words emerging from an open mouth on the other side of the glass pane. He rolled down the window.

“You alright, Mister?”

Oliver rubbed his eyes. He slowly identified a man wearing a blue uniform with a blue cap reading Portland Police Bureau. He fought to emerge from his stupor. He followed the blue ray emitting from a Maglite that the police officer directed into the vehicle. Out of the corner of his awakening eye, he noticed the open cigar box in the passenger seat.

“What’s that?” inquired the young officer.

Oliver followed the illumination of the flashlight to the open cigar box. He saw what the officer observed -- the syringe and two baggies of crystal methamphetamine in plain view.

“Is that yours?” asked the policeman.

“I have nothing to say to you,” offered Oliver.

“Is this your car?” demanded the police officer.

“Like I said, I have nothing to say to you.”

“Get out of the vehicle,” demanded the police officer.

Oliver slowly emerged from the vehicle. He lifted his hands into the air to communicate he offered no resistance to the young police officer on a dark and rainy night. He backed up to the side of the car, keeping his eyes firmly on the stern visage of the officer. Oliver watched the officer send a beam of the flashlight at his face while placing his hand on the grip of his service weapon. He watched the officer radio for backup. “Since it’s raining, I am going to detain you in my patrol vehicle while I conduct an inventory search of your car for items in plain view.”