Devine's Providence: A Novel Read online

  devine's

  providence

  a novel by

  stephen reney

  Copyright © 2020 by Stephen Reney

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  First edition October 2020

  Cover and interior design, illustration and formatting by

  Caroline Johnson

  Editing services by Dominic Wakeford

  ISBN 9798670865333 (Paperback)

  ASIN B08FXWTNVF (Kindle Edition)

  www.StephenReney.com

  For Lauren—Here’s looking at you, kid.

  “There ain’t no clean way to make a hundred million bucks…

  Somewhere along the line guys got pushed to the wall,

  nice little businesses got the ground cut out from under them...

  Decent people lost their jobs…

  Big money is big power and big power gets used wrong.

  It’s the system.”

  —Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

  Chapter 1

  NIGHT AND THE CITY

  The summer night brought with it a stale and unmoving air. The stench of the river, of the city, and rotting trash hung so heavy it clung to your skin as you walked through it. The Providence skyline twinkled in the not-too-far distance as the traffic roared along the interstate overhead. I relit my dying cigar and rolled the car window down all the way. Bing Crosby was crooning from the speakers, his voice as light in the air as the cigar smoke, wafting down to my ears like a feather landing on a velvet pillow.

  It’s been a long, long time…

  I let out a long, long yawn and fumbled for my old-but-still-perfectly-fine iPod, shutting the song off and yanking out the auxiliary cord connected to the car stereo. It was usually a favorite tune of mine—Les Paul himself played the guitar solo!—but the sleepy, romantic melody was certainly not conducive to staying alert during a late night stakeout.

  This was one of the few drawbacks of working alone. At least when I was a cop, I always had someone to talk to on these long waiting games. We’d keep each other awake by swapping stories or playing “would you rather” or seeing who could make the grossest, lewdest joke about each other.

  I flicked on the radio and scanned through the stations, settling on two guys who have never played sports arguing about how the guys who play sports professionally should be playing sports.

  Better than politics, I guess.

  I sat up straight and lightly slapped my face to stay awake. From my car’s vantage point, in a narrow alleyway between a dumpster and a stack of wooden pallets, I had a perfect view of both the front entrance and side door of the Pink Parrot Café across the street.

  The establishment played fast and loose with most things, including their use of the word “Café.” The only coffee they served came in the form of the rare espresso martini (actually just vodka with a splash of Kahlua), ordered by an unsuspecting business traveler trying to impress the girls that danced there.

  The Parrot also played fast and loose with their use of the word “dance.” While it was true there was occasionally a yawning woman walking around a pole while music played, this was done just enough to keep up appearances. Prostitution was the real bread and butter of the business. And business was booming.

  Everyone in Rhode Island knew it. The local citizens, the media, the police, city hall—everyone knew the Pink Parrot was more than a gentlemen’s club, and there was nothing gentleman-ly about it. But at least they played the game. They paid off and/or serviced all the right people, and they kept to themselves, on the docks surrounded by abandoned warehouses, so they were left alone.

  Mostly.

  In their forty-year history, they were shut down only once. In the early 2000s they tried to expand their market by offering illicitness other than the love of a woman. Twice a week, a small boat would come speeding down the river, tie up right outside the “Café,” and unload its cargo. Soon, packages large and small of cocaine and heroin would be served over the bar alongside the shots of Jägermeister and bottles of Coors Light. There was an impressive menu of pills for a while, too—Providence is, after all, a college town.

  The mistake, however, was that nobody cleared it through the right channels. You want a liquor license? You have to go through the state liquor board and the city council. You wanna pimp girls out? You better get the okay from the right gang—or at least the right politician. Drugs? Drugs are the strictest of all. Without the blessing of the old Italians in tracksuits on Federal Hill, you’re not going to make it very far. And the Pink Parrot did not make it very far.

  After only two months of slinging both the proverbial and literal hash, an FBI raid put a halt to their new venture. The owner of the Parrot, or at least the guy whose name was on all the licenses and documents, dutifully pled guilty and was convicted, and it somehow never came up in court or in the papers that he had never actually stepped foot in the business.

  After a few months of renovations and title transfers, the Pink Parrot re-opened, under new ownership, under new management, and under the watchful eye of the city’s drug task force. No one knows now who’s actually in control of the place, but the thing with Providence is, no one really cares. They’re back to keeping to themselves, quiet and alone on their narrow stretch of the waterfront, keeping their nose and their reputation clean.

  Unless of course you count the prostitution racket. But at least they know their place.

  I let out another deep yawn and looked at the glow-in-the-dark hands of my wristwatch. Almost three. With any luck, this would be the last late night for this particular case, a case that’s gone on a little longer than it should have. My yawn was interrupted as the front door to the Parrot burst open. A man came flying out, almost comically, landing on the asphalt under the faded pink canopy. Despite the seedy nature of the business, this was not a common sight. You had to be really stupid to get tossed out of the Parrot, a place that welcomed every dollar that walks through the door. The man on the ground was soon followed by the club’s security chief, a hulking bear of a man with a shaved head and neatly-trimmed goatee.

  He stood motionless as the ejected man scrambled to his feet and said something to the bouncer. The bouncer said nothing, but turned to re-enter the club. As soon as his back was turned, the man approached him and cocked his right arm back, preparing for a swing. The bouncer, however, whirled around just in time to catch the oncoming fist in his oversized palm. The man’s eyes grew wide in surprise. I watched intently as the bouncer glared the look of death at him and made like he was going to break his arm, but instead hissed something and let go of the man’s hand.

  The man finally turned and walked toward the parking lot.

  I reached out the opened car window and snuffed out the remaining nub of my cigar on the dumpster next to me. I started the engine to my fifteen-year-old clunker but kept the headlights off and even the interior dashboard lights were as dim as they would go.

  The bouncer kept his unbroken death stare as the man hopped on a motorcycle—some ultra-modern rice rocket with neon trim—and sped away, his right arm extended and his middle finger in the air.

  I pulled out of the alleyway and crossed into t
he Parrot’s parking lot, driving up to the main entrance canopy where the bouncer stood, shaking his head. I got out and approached the burly man.

  “I really appreciate the restraint, Carl,” I said. “Landing him in the hospital would’ve made my job a whole lot worse.”

  The bouncer continued shaking his head. “Didn’t make it easy. Fuckin’ dickhead, that guy.”

  Carl reached into the inside breast pocket of his black suit jacket and pulled out a memory stick. He handed it to me.

  “Yeah, it’s been a helluva week with this one. What in God’s name did he do to deserve such a ceremonious exit?”

  “You know there ain’t many rules here, Harry,” said Carl. “But he broke a big one. Let’s just say his idea of foreplay doesn’t align with our set of values.”

  “Values?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. “Did he hurt one of the girls?”

  Carl’s menacing mug cracked open into a wide smile.

  “Nah,” he said. “If that happened, you’d still be waiting for him to come out. And he wouldn’t.”

  He pointed to a faded tin sign next to the door:

  MUST SHOW ID

  PROPER DRESS REQUIRED

  NO WEAPONS

  NO CELL PHONES

  “Snuck in his iPhone. Tried recording his experience. Strict no-no.”

  I laughed, and held up the memory stick.

  “Kicked out for taking video, huh? He’s gonna flip when he sees we did the job for him.”

  Carl laughed along with me. I took a padded white envelope out of my own jacket pocket and gave it to him.

  “A little extra in there for your troubles. I could see how hard it was to keep that arm unbroken.”

  “Appreciated as always, Harry. Why don’t you head in for a nightcap?”

  I laughed and started to walk away.

  “Some other time, Carl. No offense, but this ain’t exactly my scene.”

  “C’mon,” he called after me. And then, the magic bullet:

  “Drinks are on the house tonight.”

  I stopped in my tracks and rubbed the back of my neck. I could practically hear Carl’s smug smile. We both knew what the outcome would be. Finally, I turned on my heels.

  “I suppose I could use a drink after being cooped up in my car all night,” I said, walking past Carl to the front door of the club.

  “I knew you’d come around,” said Carl. “Typical Irishman.”

  It took a long time for my eyes to get used to the dim lighting in the club. Which was saying something, considering it was dark outside. But I supposed that helped cover up the stains on the carpet from years’ worth of spilled drinks.

  That’s what I told myself, anyway, as I bellied up to the bar and tried to push away my own shock at finding myself hanging out in an establishment like this. I was no stranger to dive bars—some would say a connoisseur, in fact—but the Pink Parrot was a little too tawdry for even my taste.

  Still, a free drink’s a free drink.

  The bar itself was empty, with all the club’s patrons instead occupying the booths and tables surrounding the main stage. The bar was so empty, in fact, that there wasn’t even a bartender. After several minutes of waiting patiently, I finally got the attention of a passing bouncer. He assured me that the bartender, Sydney, would be with me as soon as the current song finished playing. He must have read the confusion on my face, because he pointed his chin toward the stage, where a topless skeletal blonde was spinning around the pole.

  “That’s Sydney,” he said. “Double duty tonight.”

  Ah. A multitasker.

  I swiveled my barstool around and watched as the men sitting at the stage threw dollar bills at her like confetti, rewarding her for gyrating, or bending over, or moving her neon orange g-string to one side. I liked the curves of a woman as much as any other red-blooded straight man, and I had nothing against Sydney’s chosen profession, but these types of places always skeeved me out rather than turn me on. All these men treating women like mere objects of desire, throwing money away just for providing fodder for their own fantasies—there was something just so sad about the whole culture. I’d rather stick to getting drunk alone in the corner of a dive bar, thank you very much.

  “To each their, own, eh?” said a voice from beside me. I hadn’t even heard the young man sit down a couple of stools away. I turned my stool back to the bar.

  “Was just thinking the same thing,” I said.

  “What do you have to do to get a drink around here?” the young man asked, but quickly followed up with, “Don’t tell me, I’m not so sure I want to know.”

  I snorted, which was a compromise between a fake laugh and impolite silence. I jabbed a thumb back toward the stage.

  “Barkeep’s, uh, otherwise engaged,” I said.

  “I see,” said the man.

  I wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter with strangers, least of all at a strip club. But that made me curious as to what type of person would be. I studied the young man out of the side of my eye. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first, but the way he chewed the inside of his lower lip—the way his eyes kept darting around the room, stopping for just a millisecond on me each time they passed—the way his seemingly casual pose leaning against the bar was just a little too staged—there was something off.

  He’s nervous.

  Nervous and pretty good at hiding it. Pretending he’s normal. Like an actor playing a role.

  His eyes landed on me in longer and longer stints, and he kept leaning forward slightly, as if he was going to say something, but then thought better of it.

  Twenty bucks says he clears his throat and strikes up a conversation with me.

  Sure enough, a few seconds later, he let out a cough—close enough—and spoke up.

  “Are you the owner?” he asked.

  I couldn’t help but let out a very real and slightly impolite laugh.

  “I…me? No! What?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said the stranger, throwing his hands up in defense. “It’s just…you’re wearing a suit, sitting alone at the bar, not paying attention to the entertainment…and to be honest you don’t look like the type of guy who hangs out in places like this.”

  “I usually don’t,” I huffed. I don’t know why I was offended. I was here, after all.

  The song, which was some hip hop track that sounded like it was being sung by a baby, mercifully ended. Sydney began collecting the piles of loose bills splattered across the stage as the next performer took her pole position.

  “Again, my mistake,” said the man. “Tell you what, first round’s on me.”

  “That’s nice of you, pal, but I’m actually already covered by the doorman.”

  “Second round then,” he said. He held out his hand. “I’m Jim.”

  I begrudgingly shook his hand and mumbled a fake name, “Sam.”

  I thought of the picture of Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade hanging on the wall of my office.

  If it’s a good enough name for Bogey…

  “Nice to meet you, Sam.”

  I hated to admit, but although I usually found people this forward—and chatty—to be just plain annoying, there was something about Jim that was very affable. I still sensed he was hiding something, but in a joint like this, in a town like Providence, this late at night…everyone was hiding something.

  “So, what do you, Sam?”

  A normal enough icebreaker, but kind of weird given the situation. Like he was trying to get something off me. I felt like he had me marked for something, but I didn’t know what. I figured I’d better hold all my cards close to my vest.

  “Accountant,” I lied. “Terribly boring.”

  Sydney had finally made her way behind the bar. She hadn’t bothered to put on a top of any kind. Once my eyes made their way up to her face, my heart dro
pped. Now that she was up close in slightly better lighting, and I could see through the layers of make-up, I realized I knew her.

  Ah, fuck.

  Her eyes met mine and her face flashed with recognition.

  “Harry?” she squealed.

  Shit.

  “Harry?” asked Jim.

  “Harry!” she squealed again. She leaned over the bar and wrapped her arms around my neck. As she pulled me in for an awkward hug and a sloppy kiss on the cheek, I stuck my arms straight out behind me lest I inadvertently touch something I wasn’t supposed to.

  “Hi Becky,” I said once I was finally free. I straightened my tie and ran a hand over my now-disheveled hair. “I, uh, didn’t realize you worked here.”

  “Wow,” said Jim with a smirk, “this place really gives their regulars great service!”

  “I’m not—,” I started, but was cut off by Becky/Sydney.

  “Harry’s not a regular,” she said, almost proudly. “He’s a private detective!”

  Balls.

  “Oh, really?” said Jim, his interest piqued.

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said. “And the best one there is! Helped me catch my cheating scumbag ex a couple of years ago.”

  She started making two drinks without even asking us what we wanted.

  “Funny,” said Jim, still smirking. “He told me he was Sam the accountant.”

  “Look, pal,” I said, “you can’t really tell me you expected to hear anything truthful in a Providence strip club, can you? Isn’t that right, Sydney?”

  She nodded.

  “Everyone in here uses fake names, not just the dancers. Sorry I blew up your spot, Harry.”

  I shrugged. Sydney placed two tall, greenish mystery drinks in front of us.

  “First round’s on the house, gentlemen.”

  Jim started to protest, but Sydney wasn’t having it.

  “Any friend of Harry’s is a friend of mine,” she said.

  “We’re not—,” I started.

  “That’s really too kind of you, sweetie,” interrupted Jim.

  “I’ll be back in a bit,” she said. “Going to change into something a little classier.”