Page 7 of Night Justice

It amused her to see how she chose the same pieces of clothing she’d worn during her missions in war zones. Dark colors, sturdy fabrics that slightly hid her curves as a way to avoid drawing any kind of attention were her go-to wardrobe. Black pants, dark green canvas jacket, her messenger bag, sturdy boots, complemented with her green beanie created the perfect outfit for a night out investigating.

When she emerged from her building’s underground parking, Orla didn’t notice anything unusual or out of place, and that settled her mind, allowing it to focus on the task at hand, which was to seek out Damon Evans. If she could talk to him, get a hint of the negotiations that had taken place, she may have enough clues to connect to the big fish and source of the drug. It was too bad this particular smaller fish swam in a very nasty tank.

The ride to the El Diablo bar took no more than twenty minutes at that time of night, traffic being light. Each of those minutes helped her align her mind with what she had to do. She’d kept an eye on Damon Evans since he’d become the Storm Wayfarers MC president years ago. Not that people didn’t switch chairs a lot in those circles, but he’d been the youngest president in Chicago at least, and it had drawn a lot of attention, and triggered several immediate battles to challenge his position.

Orla had done a paper on the MC’s war back then but her angle had been more about exposing the cracks in the attackers’ armors and how it showed the possibility that MCs were struggling to keep their ground in the intensifying criminal activity that included gangs, the mafia, MCs, and other foreign kingpins. If she were recognized, it would add another level of danger to the situation.

Soon, she saw the glow of red lights announcing the strip club, the neutral zone frequented by mostly MCs in the Chicago area. Orla had passed in front of it several times during the day, but this would be her first visit at night.

As she parked beside an endless row of Harleys, her anxiety fled, replaced by anticipation and a surge of adrenaline. Orla had found her footing again. When she exited her car into the cool night air, the tension was palpable. If it was hot and she was surrounded by sand, she’d think she was back in the war zone. Maybe she should have brought her flak jacket.

When confronting guerrilla warriors or Chicago’s worst, there wasn’t much difference in her attitude. As a woman, she’d always be seen as weaker or a potential spoil of war. She’d survived so far because of her brain, her wit, and her experience, and this little visit would be no different even if it were thousands of miles from the Middle East.

Small groups of men were hanging outside as a loud beat poured from the club. Most of them ignored her, but the doorman, a black man with a mean tattoo covering the right side of his face didn’t, and he blocked her way.

“I don’t think you want to go in, Missy. Turn around and get your cocktail elsewhere.”

Orla bit back a laugh. “No offense, big guy, but I know better places to drink than your hole in the wall. I’m here to see Damon Evans. I know he hangs here.

The bouncer arched an eyebrow, obviously debating what kind of trouble she would get herself into—or provoke—inside.

“Come on. I’m only here to talk a minute. I’m not carrying his child. I’m not carrying a gun, and I plan to leave quickly so you won’t have trouble because of me.”

The Cerberus guarding the door mumbled something incomprehensible before stepping aside with a grimace.

The smell was the first thing that assaulted her senses. This bar stank of so many things, it was difficult to pinpoint if it had been cleaned since its opening. She was glad for the low lighting, red walls, and black floors, as they probably hid most of the filth.

The place was packed. In the middle, the main stage was surrounded by a rowdy bunch. Strippers were busy on side stages surrounded by love seats that had seen better days. It was difficult to distinguish faces in the dense crowd, so she headed to the bar at the far end. Bartenders were the best source of information, regardless of location.

Scantily clad women passed her as if she was invisible, not surprising as it was clear she wasn’t the one holding the money. Throughout the space, it was easy to spot those who would lose their money first.

When she leaned against the bar, Orla knew that even if nobody seemed to look at her, every single soul knew that a stranger, and more importantly a woman, was in the house. It took some time to get the bartender’s attention. He was a man in his late fifties, bald, obviously tired, and seemed to have no interest in serving her. Annoyed, the man finally stood in front of her. “What do you want?”

Unfazed, she smiled instead. “A beer, first. Information, second.”

She pushed some money toward him, and his frown deepened. “I don’t have information. You a cop?”

“Nope, I’m not. I just want you to tell me if Damon Evans is in the house and point him out to me. That’s all. Easy money for you.” She pushed the wad further in his direction, and from experience, she detected the constant gleam of avidity mixed with hesitation. As always, she knew which one would win.

The money vanished, and the barman poured her a beer. When he returned, he leaned close. “When you turn, he’s at your two o’clock. The blonde one. I see you’re not using your tits to get his attention. You’d better have something important to tell him because when he’s with his gang here, the last thing he wants to do is talk business.”

Orla nodded. “What’s his beverage of choice?”

“Starts with beer, then shooters. Shouldn’t be long now. That’s when his brain starts to dissolve.”

Taking a couple more bills from her pocket, she pushed them in his direction. “Shooters for everyone from the MC. Delivered by their favorite strippers. And because I’m so generous, I’m offering a lap dance for his lieutenants. For Evans, just give him this.” She put her card on top of the money. On the back was a question she hoped Evans would be able to answer.

The barman shrugged and prepared her order. She removed her beanie and fluffed her hair. If anyone doubted she was a woman, that was gone now, and even in the dim red light, her hair would act as a beacon.

Busty women came and went with the shooters, and now it was time to cross her fingers. She watched as Evens lifted the card and read the message she’d written on the back.

If you lost your bid on “P”, then you’re a lucky bastard.

When I find who won, he won’t be as lucky.

It wasn’t a threat, because she knew without a doubt that Chicago PD would rain the fires of hell on the drug distributor with everything they had once they were found.

Cheers echo over the music followed by catcalls and women giggling. Orla took a sip of her beer and drew patterns in the condensation on the glass; her brain was in overdrive as she worked on plan B. She hated plan B because that meant it would take much longer to reach her goal. She wanted the Phantom investigation to be quick, so she could go back to her pet project of chasing down the vigilante.

---