Suicide Lounge (Selena Book 3) Read online

  Suicide Lounge

  Copyright © 2015, Timothy Miller

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Mike Monson and Chris Rhatigan

  Edited by Rob Pierce and Chris Rhatigan

  Cover design by Dyer Wilk

  Part One: Happy Hour

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Part Two: Off Premises

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Part Three: Last Call

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Part Four: Ladies Night

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  About the Author

  For Sheila

  And everyone we met

  in the lounge

  “Out—out are the lights - out all!

  And, over each quivering form,

  The curtain, a funeral pall,

  Comes down with the rush of a storm,

  While the angels, all pallid and wan,

  Uprising, unveiling, affirm

  That the play is the tragedy, ‘Man,’

  And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.”

  - Edgar Allen Poe, “The Conqueror Worm”

  “Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”

  - Helen Keller

  PART ONE

  HAPPY HOUR

  ONE

  Sloane

  SLOANE PULLED UP to the Red Light Lounge in her red convertible and parked along the edge of grass away from the building. She checked her lipstick in the rearview and pressed her lips together to smooth out the color. Her black, plastic-framed glasses were smudged. She pulled them off and wiped the lenses clean with her shirt.

  She got out of the car, walked across the dusty lot. She wore a knee-length denim skirt, a black, sleeveless blouse, and brown cowboy boots, her long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  A tall guy in a ball cap with brown hair spilling over his collar stood in the dim neon light by the door, pressed a mobile phone against one ear. He lowered his head, spat on the ground, and scuffed the gravel with his foot as Sloane hit the front entrance.

  The door opened to a foyer with a dark booth off to the right. A man with a slight speech impediment told her the cover charge and took her cash. Sloane could hear the boom of music from inside the club. The man buzzed her through the second door.

  The room was dark. “4X4” by Miley Cyrus played so loud the bass line made Sloane nauseous. The air smelled of perfume. A disco ball swirled overhead, casting silver spots on the black walls. Sloane wished she had smoked a bowl of kush before coming in.

  Her eyes adjusted to the darkness as she took in the room. The club had two sections. One side was a stereotypical strip club, with a DJ booth in the corner, small tables scattered throughout, couches along the wall, a dark hallway with a neon sign overhead that said “VIP.” On the stage beyond a slim blonde woman who looked somewhere between anorexic and heroin addict shook her skeletal body to Miley’s song.

  The other side of the club was built out as a sports bar complete with TVs mounted on the walls.

  Dancers entertained a couple of men at the couches with lap dances. The blonde on stage couldn’t compete with the sports channels for the attention of the other patrons.

  Sloane took a seat at a table in the bar section. Maybe ten seconds before a pimple-faced waitress in a tight t-shirt and skimpy shorts stood before her asking what she’d like to drink.

  “Hmm,” Sloane said. She looked over at the bar and the array of bottles lined up along the back. “You got a wine list?”

  The waitress didn’t skip a beat. “No, but we have wine. What kind do you like?”

  “Could I get a glass of Sauvignon Blanc? House brand will be fine.”

  “I’ll see what we have. We might not carry that kind.”

  Sloane lit up a cigarette and looked around the bar. She’d gone to the lounge on a whim, wanting to see the woman for herself. Amanda. She tried to identify her based on what little she knew.

  A pretty woman stood behind the bar. She wasn’t pouring drinks. She was writing something down on a tablet. Much too tall to be Amanda, dressed classy for this type of establishment. Long, chestnut hair, large busted. Must be the owner. Enola. Important, but not the woman Sloane hoped to see.

  A group of men at a table nearby caught her attention. One was lean with a gaunt face. He had sunken cheeks and lines around his eyes. Seated next to him was a massive man, tall and broad shouldered. He had long black hair speckled with gray. Two nasty scars marred one side of his face. The other men at the table had their backs to her and nothing about them stood out.

  The waitress returned. “We don’t have that kind,” she said. “Are you okay with Chardonnay?”

  “You know what? That would be nice. Could I get a bottle instead? I’m so thirsty.”

  “Sure, sweetie. Just a second.”

  The DJ spun up “Lil’ Devil” by The Cult and the next dancer was out.

  The waitress came by again. She was carrying a wine glass and a bottle of white, but she passed by Sloane’s table without stopping. She approached the group of men at the table, appearing hesitant to interrupt. Sloane read her lips as she apologized to the large, dark-haired man in the black shirt. The waitress handed him the bottle and a corkscrew. She pointed over to Sloane’s table. The man turned and looked her way. He looked down at the bottle in his hand then at the waitress and shook his head. He spoke to the men at the table, pushed his chair back, and stood. He took the wine bottle with him and walked behind the bar then through a door.

  The waitress came back to Sloane. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t get the cork out. The corkscrew kept chewing it up, so I asked Mister Ragus to help. He don’t want you to have that bottle. He says he’ll be right back.”

  “Mister Ragus. Who’s he? He manage the club?”

  “Well, no. Miss Enola owns the club, but Ragus is somebody important. I don’t know what he does exactly. But he knows how to open a cork. I’ll just set your glass here, okay?”

  “I see. Okay,” Sloane said.

  She fished a cigarette pack from her purse, shook one loose and lit up. No ashtray on the table; it looked like most people here used the floor for that.

  Sloane turned her attention from the ballgame on TV to the dancer onstage while she smoked.

  Only a couple of minutes until the big ma
n stood by her table. He held a bottle out for her to inspect. “Sauvignon Blanc?” he said. “I highly recommend this one. The best the Napa Valley dirt ever produced.”

  Sloane read the label and the vintage. She looked up at the man looming over her. “You like Sauvignon Blanc?” she said.

  “Tastes like cat piss.”

  “No it doesn’t” Sloane held up her empty glass.

  The man removed the cork from the neck of the bottle, placed it on the napkin in front of her so she could read the etching on the side. He tilted the bottle and poured her a small portion. “Smell it,” he said.

  She picked up the glass by the stem, swirled the golden liquid inside, held the glass up to the light, tilted it, and pressed her nose inside. She inhaled deeply. She looked up at the man and raised an eyebrow.

  “Best cat piss you ever smelled, right?”

  Sloane chuckled. “It’s not even close to cat piss, Mister Ragus.” She placed the wine glass back on the table.

  It was the man’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You know me?”

  “The waitress,” Sloane said. She waved her hand. “Seems to think you’re some big shot.”

  Ragus tilted the bottle and poured a perfect five ounces into her glass. “This bottle is on the house. You be careful drinking it all by yourself.”

  Sloane picked up the glass and took a sip from the rim. “Excellent choice, mister big shot.”

  Ragus studied her a moment. His eyes narrowed. “So what brings you here tonight?”

  Sloane pushed the wine glass in a tight circle on the table, swirling the liquid inside. “Curiosity.”

  “Yeah? Have fun.” Ragus went back to his table.

  Sloane sipped at the wine. The club took on the comfortable feel of places she’d been to before.

  Another woman stepped in through the door behind the bar. Sloane knew this was Amanda even though she’d never seen a picture of her. Short and petite, her hair cascaded to her shoulders in loose, flowing curls, most of it dyed dark burgundy, with two black streaks in front. She wore a black straw cowboy hat with a diamondback skin band around it. Her hair parted in the middle under it, the streaks of black framing her small face.

  Something was familiar about her. She looked like…almost like somebody on TV, an actress perhaps? Or maybe Amanda herself had been on TV at some point.

  Amanda wore a black top that hung from her shoulders with spaghetti straps. A Dead Sara logo ran across the front. The image had no color to it, but it was enough to draw Sloane’s attention away from Amanda’s breasts, which were too small to compete with the band logo. The shirt ended just above her navel.

  Amanda said something and Enola looked up from her ledger. Her eyes lit up. She reached out and touched the brim of the hat. Amanda spoke to her again. Enola looked down, closed her eyes, and smiled.

  Amanda took a highball glass from a shelf. Her nails were short, some painted red, others black. The pattern appeared to be random. A crosshatch of tattoos sleeved one forearm. She poured from a Four Roses bourbon bottle until the glass was full.

  The DJ spun up another song. Sloane poured herself a second glass of wine.

  Amanda came around from behind the bar and walked into the dining room with the glass of whiskey. Sloane observed the corded, wiry muscles of her forearm as she passed nearby.

  Amanda approached the group of men at. Sloane could see the rest of her now that she wasn’t standing behind the bar. Black jeans with a dark leather belt, a small round ass with a nice shape. Her stride loose, her short legs taking long steps, her free hand swayed by her side in long arcs. Her gait was exaggerated, floating, disconnected.

  Sloane knew why the woman moved in such a detached fashion. She’d seen it before but with less grace. Amanda was intoxicated. Clearly, she spent a lot of time acting more sober than she was. She was good at it.

  One of the men—the lean one with the sunken cheeks—made eye contact with Amanda as she approached. Amanda tilted her head to the side. The man nodded and excused himself from the table.

  He followed her out of the bar and into the strip club section. Their silhouettes passed under the VIP sign.

  Sloane reached for her cigarette pack. She noticed the woman behind the bar, the club owner, no longer looked down at the ledger, her gaze fixed on the VIP hallway. Sloane couldn’t tell if the look on Enola’s face was anger or concern. Maybe a mixture of both.

  Sloane drank a third glass of wine. The DJ spun through all of the classic strip club songs. A mix of pop, metal, some country. She looked over at the VIP room frequently, but there was no movement. She pulled her phone from her purse and checked the time. She had to leave soon. Deke would be coming to see her.

  She wanted to get another look at Amanda before leaving. Sloane lit a fresh cigarette, picked up her purse, and walked back toward the VIP area. The wine had kicked in, and she felt the music in her legs as she walked.

  The club floor was dark, but the hallway under the VIP sign glowed dim, neon blue. Rows of doors on either side lined the hallway. All open except one. Inside the small rooms, she could see red couches, mirrors, some had a metal pole in the middle of the floor.

  Sloane stepped up to the closed door. She leaned in and pressed her ear against it. Mumbling on the other side but she couldn’t make out the words.

  Fuck it.

  She turned the knob and opened the door.

  The lean man lay on his back on the couch, his hands under his head. His pants were unzipped but he wasn’t exposed. Next to him, an open kit of syringes and medicine bottles, packets of heroin and a blackened spoon with a bent handle. A used syringe lay on the floor.

  Amanda sat on the couch at the man’s feet. She was wiping her hand with a paper towel. Sloane smelled semen.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Sloane said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay,” Amanda said. She smiled and closed her eyes. “You looking for the ladies room?”

  “Umm…yeah. I thought—”

  “I’ll show you. I’ve gotta wash my hands anyway.” Amanda put on her snakeskin cowboy hat. She patted the man’s leg and stood, stumbled and caught herself with one hand against the stripper pole.

  “You sure you can make it?” Sloane said. “You look a little…fucked up.”

  Amanda smiled. She held onto the pole and leaned in close to Sloane. “Don’t tell anybody, okay? But I’m a whole lot fucked up.” Her breath reeked of bourbon.

  The man zipped his pants, sat up, and gathered his paraphernalia.

  “It’s this way,” Amanda said as she spun around the pole and walked through the open door.

  Amanda wobbled as she walked. Sloane put out a hand a couple of times to help catch her, but she never stumbled.

  Sloane followed her to the bathroom. She felt pity for the woman.

  It wouldn’t be long before Mozingo killed Amanda.

  TWO

  Selena

  IT WAS THE week after my Demerol overdose that I moved into the apartment above the Red Light Lounge.

  They kept me in the hospital a few days while I recovered. The doctor, an elderly man with an unpleasant bedside manner, was concerned about my liver enzymes, my lack of medical records, and that he’d seen few cases of anyone overdosing on injectable Demerol in his years of practice.

  “We see a lot of Vicodin,” he said. “Oral overdoses. Vicodin and OxyContin. Heroin used to be the OD of choice. That’s not so uncommon. Your case is unique. Opiates we get. Demerol? Not so much.”

  He wasn’t convinced it was accidental.

  “You made some statements when you were coming out of it. Do you remember those?”

  “I’m guessing they weren’t nice?”

  “You asked why we didn’t just let you die.”

  “Yeah. Well, you guys brought me down pretty fast. That was rough.”

  “Narcan disconnects the opiate receptors in the brain. It’s not pleasant, but if it didn’t, the part of your brain that makes you breathe could stop
working. Talk about unpleasant.”

  “That’s probably why I said to just let me die. I can be dramatic.”

  “I’m not prepared to rule out the risk of another, uh…accident…until you have been evaluated by a psychiatrist,” the doctor said. “That’s not my specialty.”

  I consented to the evaluation, and they transported me to the psych hospital the same day. Probably the shortest ambulance ride ever taken, but I’d hate to see the bill.

  I’d never been inside a psychiatric hospital before, but I had spent a few months in federal prison. All things being equal, I would say the prison stint was the more exciting of the two.

  My entry to the psychiatric hospital was easy. They didn’t fit me for a straitjacket. I didn’t see any rooms labeled Electric Shock Therapy or Trephining. Nobody mentioned the word lobotomy. Instead, they escorted me to a small office. I met with a friendly young woman named Diane who was the administrator on duty.

  “We don’t have a doctor available for your evaluation, Amanda,” Diane said. “So what we’re going to do is called a twenty-three-hour admittance. We do that for insurance purposes. You can stay overnight. A doctor will evaluate you in the morning. We will have to go through the normal admittance process, though.”

  Diane scanned my forged IDs and seemed okay with them. I signed forms and turned over all personal property other than my clothes and cigarettes. At her request, I gave her my belt and shoelaces. She gave me paper slippers to wear in the ward.

  She attached a plastic bracelet to my wrist. I read the information printed on top. My new name—Amanda Murphy—was there along with my date of birth and date of admittance. “After your evaluation, I’ll explain how meds are handled, group therapy expectations, and all the rest. That’s if we keep you longer. For now, let’s just get you settled in.”

  We left the office together. She unlocked the door to the ward where I would stay the night. There was a mechanical click as the door locked behind us.

  I took in my new surroundings, rooms to either side of the hallway. Most of the doors were open, and I could see the people inside. A nurse’s station at the end of the hall. We passed a common area on the right and I glanced inside. A handful of patients sitting on padded chairs and sofas watching a game show. One of the men looked up. We made eye contact. My heart skipped a beat. His eyes widened with recognition.