Grand Theft Auto 4: Vengeance

Cerveza Heights – Livingston Avenue.
21:15 P.M. Saturday

8-Ball hammered on the apartment-block door to number 56. His bald head turning from the door to view the roads with dread in his dark brown eyes. A dog barked lost in a darkened alley; car’s crawled down the long road in the suburb of Cerveza Heights their headlamps lightening the roads as they moved aimlessly onwards.

“C’mon man, what the fuck.” 8-Ball angrily spat under his breath, as he hammered the door again. Thunder rumbled ahead as the clouds moved in above the apartment block darkness crept and shadows twisted in the dying of the day. It made 8-Ball twitch and on edge.

The door swung open strongly, and 8-Ball shook his head slowly.

“Man, you gotta go, now, wit me.” 8-Ball said in a relieved voice, on looking into the eyes of the one who opened the door. Dark eyes from a strong chiselled face peered at 8-Ball silently; he wore a white T-shirt that complimented his muscles and taunt physique.

“Babe, who’s that.” A sultry feminine voice purred from the apartment-opened door, a half smile, wicked and yet pleasant, cut across the face of the man before 8-Ball.

8-Ball jerked his head to view Livingston Avenue, as a car crawled to a halt, under a street lamp a few doors down the road, even without the flashing two’s and blues its white bodywork told 8-Ball it was an LCPD squad car.

“Move, man.” 8-Ball urgently blurted out, as he barrelled into the apartment door knocking into the man and pushing him inside. Once inside the brightly-lit apartment, 8-Ball slammed the door closed and rounded onto the man who stood tall and arms crossed before his chest.

“Shit, they’re here. No time to explain, c’mon wit me to meet me cous.” 8-Ball ranted on, his words blurring into a sentence and loosing its coherency.

“Mmhm. Baby, you and a black man, I’ll be unable to walk for weeks.” Purred that female voice again. A naked woman, her sex glistening in the apartment, leaned against a doorframe, which lead to the bedroom. Her pendulous breasts, which heaved with every breath she took, caught the eye of 8-Ball as he looked at her slick body, shining with sweat.

“Damn.” 8-Ball mouthed and bobbed on his heels. The owner of the apartment room, who wore the white T-shirt and blue faded jeans, combed his black hair with his fingers, then snatched up a brown holster containing a .45 that he hastily strapped it over his shoulder.

“Ditch the bitch man, and let’s fucking roll.” 8-Ball groaned as he trotted passed the naked woman, and into the bedroom. He opened the window vertically and clambered out onto the fire exit stairs snaking down into the street behind the apartment, the Chinese car-rental shop across the road lit up brightly with neon lights of blue and reds.

The man who now wore the holstered gun, followed 8-Ball, before tossing a silk blouse to the blonde woman, she clothed herself quickly slipping the blouse over her milky skin then followed 8-Ball and her lover out onto the fire escape ladders.

Their footing echoed and rattled as they descended the fire escape stairs quickly, it creaked in parts, shaking violently as they ran crookedly downwards, a small shriek from the blonde broad the only human noise to accompany the trio as they hastily ran down the stairs.

On hitting the concrete ground harshly, 8-Ball jerked his head upwards seeing his mate and the broad pound down the fire escape stairs; a call from an upstairs apartment window shouted their annoyance at the rattling stairs.

His mate and the blonde hit the concrete and now stood with 8-Ball, 8-Ball’s lusty eyes tracked onto the blonde’s heaving breasts, as her nipples stood erect like bullets and stretched her blouse top to breaking point. The white T-shirt wearing man held hands with the blonde and ran down the road, towards a blue Chavos.

Opening the door with the car keys, 8-Ball clambered into the front passenger seat, the broad climbing into the back of the four seated car, while the apartment flat owner calmly ventured into the drivers seat. Starting the throaty engine hurriedly, the car spun, smoke drifting from the back wheels, as the car lurched forwards zooming passed the Chinese car rental and leaving the apartment block in their awake.

8-Ball breathed heavily, as his bald sweating head tilted back into the headrest; the sights of the Dukes neighbourhood blurring as one as the Chavos zoomed onwards. A smile enveloped on 8-Balls face as his thick lips parted lustfully, his thin goatee twitched on seeing the blonde’s sex, shaved and visible, in the car rear view mirror.

“Schottler… Dillon Street.” 8-Ball sighed to the driver; he came to Cerveza Heights to possibly rescue his friend, and simultaneously bring a blonde buxom broad to his cousins dope house, 8-Ball grinned broadly and could not believe his luck.


*

Schottler – Dillon Street.
21:25 P.M. Saturday.

Conscious of her lack of clothing the blonde was reluctant to leave the car, it was not the fact that it now poured with harsh slashing rain, neither was it the fact she stunk of sex, it was fact she was in a renowned area. Her eyes peeled around the dark neighbourhood where street lamps flickered and barely worked, here passing blacked out windowed cars boomed heavy music, and a stray gun shoot resonated a few streets away.

She could deal with two men at once, she had done before, but even this was shortly out of her depths. The car door of the Chavos opened, she recoiled and tried to whimper, but all she did was moan as she was dragged from the back seat by the Caucasian driver and bundled into a side door in Dillon Street.

The humidity of the air made her nipples more erect, and painfully stab against the thin blouse moist with rain. She felt the breathing of men clogging her senses, it aroused her more, and her naked sex glistened wetly than her soaking blouse.

Low rumbling music issued from a doorframe up the flat stairs, where light and a dense smoke drifted from the door gap. A side door creaked open near the girl, and she was gently lead inside by the man she spent a few short exhilarating hours with previously. The door closed and the girl was alone.

“No worries, yah, blonde be fine in der.” A relaxed Jamaican sounding voice throatily announced in front of the side door. 8-Ball and his Caucasian friend nodded at the second black man, who stood in front of the door holding the white girl inside protectively.

8-Ball clasped his hand on the shoulder of his friend and started to ascend the creaking stairs in the flat.

“We got out, man, but this shit ain’t over.”

8-Ball looked into the dark eyes of his friend, he never spoke, never uttered a word, and it was his trademark. Some called him ‘Silence’ but 8-Ball knew differently, a smile crept across 8-Ball’s face. “I think da old ways are coming back.”

8-Ball rapped onto the door with his knuckles and called out.

“Cous man, it’s me, 8-Ball.”

The door opened inwards, and 8-Ball grinned. A man his height, with his black hair set in cornrows, wearing black rimmed glasses hugged him tightly.

“Clarence. Good yah made it, boyo.”

“8-Ball, man, for my friends and me face.” 8-Ball broke the friendly embrace and animatedly waved his hands to show coolness.

His cousin laughed and turned to face the Caucasian. He nodded slowly, inspecting the chiselled faced man before him, his black hair styled and set in short spikes, dark eyes lurked from a hollow face.

“Little Jacob. 8-Ball speaks well ov yah man.” Little Jacob held out his hand.

“Claude, ice cold killer man, drove da Mafia from Liberty well time before man Niko come round.” 8-Ball announced, his hands clasping on the shoulders of Claude. Claude slowly shook the hand of Little Jacob, Little Jacob nodded, and grinned broadly, he saw strength in Claude’s eyes, and felt his power in his handshake, Claude reminded himself of Niko, in parts.

“Come man, let’s sit.” Little Jacob announced gesturing to the apartment space. Claude ventured in, as the music started to die in the room, then the beats of ‘Stranger’ by Black Rob rumbled into play from an unseen radio device in the room. Two men, both black, wearing track bottoms and over coats sat by a table cross legged, playing a dice game, they ignored Claude’s entrance, while drinking from brown bottles and smoking a joint which smoke furiously. Little Jacob and 8-Ball sat casually on the couch, it looked ruined and creaked as they sat down heavily upon it. Claude stood still his face a mask of unreadable stone, a silent statue in the area of relaxation and friendship.

“Tell man Claude what’s been hitting the streets.” 8-Ball said, not looking at either Claude or Little Jacob. He leaned over and picked up a stray bottle of brown liquor, and started to drink it heavily, while leaning back into the depths of the couch.

“Two white folk hit hard an’ turned cold, close to Niko and 8-Ball. We know them, Claude, we feared da hitmen be after yah, so me cous come to rescue yah from bullets an’ lead.” Little Jacob slowly stated, while looking at Claude, he lit up a rolled up joint, thin and smoking furiously like the other joint in the room.

“We’ll find out who’s playing trouble seeker, Niko reckons da mob be pushin’ south again, Russian an’ da old mob comin’ back. One man was hit ouside da strip club in Nort’en Gardens head there now wit T and Row…” Little Jacob spoke while his words blurred. A man staggered into the room, through the ajar door, his left hand holding onto a bleeding wound on his right forearm.

“Crackers up man, in Steinway Beer Garden.” The injured man panted and winced; he was also coloured and knelt before Little Jacob as his face screwed up painfully.

“Ray Ray!” Little Jacob shouted, 8-Ball and one man from the two who were playing dice held onto Ray Ray, they aided him into another room, who cursed and mumbled incoherently.

“Crackers in Steinway, insult da Jacob and Niko! Take bro Row and go whack da crackers.” Little Jacob angrily announced to Claude, the remaining man who played dice bolted down the flat stairs, Claude without hesitating followed him, the flat door slammed heavily behind Claude trapping him in darkness as he descended the stairs.


*

Steinway – Beer Garden.
21:59 P.M. Saturday.

Claude’s hands held the steering wheel calmly, the car had stopped for some time now, as his dark eyes peered through the glass towards the side entrance of the Beer Garden in Steinway. A rap song started to fade away on the radio station The Beat 102.7; the muscle Row tapped his black track bottoms with his right hand to the rhythmic beat. Claude still wore his blue faded jeans, but had donned a hinterland coat coloured black, shielding the .45 in its holster which pressed against his chest muscles. The rain had ceased and no thunder rumbled in the unseen skies above the city.

The tune faded off and the news title soundtrack kicked in. “Hello I’m Jenny Acorn reporting for Weazel News, top story this hour, Police Detective Tony Walcott…” Claude killed the engine, and the radio sank into silence. “I see ‘em.” Row said, his low voice droned in the dim light of the Chavos car.

Three black men left the side entrance of the Beer Garden, two flanked a leader, the leader wore a red T-shirt and looked thin, his trousers were brown fatigues, his two heavies wore a hinterland yellow coat and a black leather waist length coat respectively.

Claude vacated the car first, followed by Row, the Chavos doors closed on rusted hinges, and Claude did not lock the doors knowing they’d need time to escape. The three that left the Beer Garden looked up to see Claude and Row, they were on the Yorktown Avenue heading south, silently each person studied the other.

The three that left the Beer Garden bolted back and entered the side alley off the Beer Garden, Row and Claude followed in hot pursuit. Claude’s sneakers hammering against the concrete floor of the pavement, as they rounded down the alley to find a yellow Sabre two-door car and the three men huddled around it.

“Whack tem cracker foo’s!” Shouted the high pitched toned leader in the red T-shirt, who pointed at Claude and Row. Claude and Row stalked forward, as the two heavies moved forward, fists clenched eyeing each other. With stoicism on his face, and a coolness to his movements, Claude retrieved his .45 levelled it at the nearest man and fired.

The crack of the gun echoed loudly in the back alley, lightening the area with a bark of the gun, one thug keeled over, clutching his stomach. Claude turned his gun on the other heavy; his dark eyes passive as the other opened his mouth for a silent scream of surrender.

A second crack of the gun. This time a nearby woman shrieked, glass smashed in the Beer Garden, and the second man snatched backwards and spun, he roared in pain as he landed face down, his left arm clawing at his right shoulder screaming wildly.

Row stood silently, his round face looking at the man near the yellow Sabre as Claude moved forward silently towards him, he fumbled with his keys for his car, but dropped them in the shaking panic of his body. His forehead speckled with sweat, as his eyes tracked onto Claude.

“I’m… connected, bro.” The leader stammered, “I’ll pay, man, c’mon, fifty kay rite now, man, in cash.” Claude silently stood before the man, his .45 facing the ground, the two heavies now moaned weakly in pain, they shuffled on the ground, bodies grinding off the floor.

Claude’s .45 raised to the dealers’ head, his mouth peeled open to scream. Bang. His head snatched backwards, as blood splattered his Sabre’s roof; his body collided against the yellow bodywork and collapsed lifelessly to the alley floor.

Lowering the .45 Claude turned and jogged to leave the back alley, the blood from the wounded staining the ground in a darkened shallow lake of blood festering through the concrete cracks of the cities veins. Without looking at Claude, Row followed the killer back to the blue Chavos, people milled outside the Beer Garden, while Yorktown Avenue deserted of the living. The engine throatily coughed into life and the car crawled backwards in a reverse sweep then cruised down the road, calmly the car cruised down the darkness of the streets, in a tranquil fashion, as Double Cleff FM. played classical music from the rusty radio.


*

Schottler – Little Jacob’s Flat.
01:00 A.M. Sunday.

“Uugh, ahh, uurgh!” The blonde gasped and moaned, as she rode Ray Ray’s black shaft, impaled inside her warm wanting sex. Her body bucked wildly, back arching as her body moulded with his, her milky skin caressing roughly against the body of Ray Ray’s as he sat perched on the couch. Her thighs slapped against his taunt body, grinding rhythmically as their flesh collided in the heat of sex.

Her blonde hair waved and cascaded down her back, bouncing upon her sleek shoulders, tumbling before her face, as her features screwed into animated passion and lust, her eyes squinted in feverish pain as Ray Ray’s erect member penetrated deeply into the moistness and tightness of the blonde’s womanhood.

“Uuugh, Ooh, MMM, Ahhh, ggah, uuurgh!” She gasped loudly, as her speed intensified, her body writhed on Ray Ray’s, as his hands, large and dark in the dimly lit room, grasped onto her thighs and held her tightly as his own body roughly collided with hers in their joining.

Ray Ray’s eyes peeled towards her breasts, the heavy, teardrop shaped, globes jiggled with weight and firmness as she arched her back more jutting out her large breasts further, begging for a deeper penetration, her nipples stood erect and yearning to be touched. Ray Ray gritted his teeth and leaned forward, his heated mouth parted and buried his mouth over the left breast of the blonde. He bites hard, forcing a shrill cry of pleasure from the blonde, as his teeth draw a faint line of blood around her wide pink nipple.

The blonde’s head dips low, nuzzling close to Ray Ray, her body movements easing their bucking and writhing motions for a more controlled rhythmic grinding, their flesh does not slap loudly in the room anymore, grunts and gasps of lust do not break the walls of silence.

“Come on, big boy, fuck me harder, deeper, faster.” She pants in the ear of Ray Ray, as her dainty hand claws up the arms of Ray Ray, and skirt across his taunt muscled shoulders towards his back.

“Treat me like a bitch, fuck me like a bitch in heat, come on black stud, fill me, come on!” She slathered, drool slapped against his ear warmly, as her filthy words bleed into Ray Ray’s ears. His bandaged right arm slapped her fleshy rump, the sound echoed loudly as her flesh was connected harshly, like a whip lash, as her rump collided with his palm, her body bucked wanted another.

Ray Ray tore his mouth from her aching breast, red from slight bruising and tender from the roughness of his teeth. His bald head leaned back admiring the view of the blonde riding feverishly on his black shaft, her body bucking wildly as her breasts, pendulous and large, jiggled with her heavy movements. His hands grasped her breasts and kneaded them roughly, slapping them together, simultaneously his teeth gritted and his body shuck spasmodically.

The blonde sagged heavily on his loins, feeling a pulsating heat race through his shaft imbedded in her moistness, her toes curled by the couch on the floor, as her body sat upright back arched her face staring at the ceiling.

In an echoing groan of ecstasy, Ray Ray’s black shaft fired his warm seed into the woman. Her eyes closed, as her head tilted back, blonde hair rippled down her back, as a smile, warm and pleasant, oozed across her unblemished face, her womanhood milked the seed from Ray Ray, as it leaked down his deflating manhood, coating her pubic hairs in its glossy reflective cream.

The two sat moulded together, Ray Ray’s hands still upon her breasts, kneading them roughly; forcing a sigh from her lips each time they sensuously worked and stirred her blood. The blonde combed loose strands of hair from her face, and looked at Ray Ray with loving blue eyes, she bent down and kissed him feverishly, her tongue rolling inside his mouth hotly savouring his taste. Pulling away from him, while Ray Ray was deeply into the kiss, she smiled a smile that was both pleasant and wicked and whispered in a sultry seducing voice. “That was amazing.”

“Damn, bitch is good.” 8-Ball whispered, and whistled a low whistle. Ray Ray smiled upwards towards the blonde, as a shy innocent smile crept across her face. Her head turned to face 8-Ball and T, they were still naked from their sex with the blonde, their hands stroking their deflated black members eagerly, wishing for another round with the blonde.

She blew a kiss towards both men, and slowly winked with her right eye, she lay perched and sitting upright still on the lap of Ray Ray, his warm seed filling her womb and the blonde felt it. Sexually her head turned to face Ray Ray, as her hands seductively slides against his own arms, her palms rest over Ray Ray’s hands as they continue to knead her breasts, she aided him in their working enjoying the feel.

“We’ve got dis bitch tamed.” T spoke in a low rumbling voice that was barely audible from the rhythmic beating of the radio blasting low rap tunes. The blonde could not help but smile, as she tilted her head to face T and 8-Ball respectively, her hands leaving the warmth of Ray Ray’s hands to flop by her sides.

“This white bitch is all yours now, gentlemen.” The blonde announced in a demure voice, low and husky. Ray Ray, T and 8-Ball laughed loudly, as the blonde protectively shuck her hips and ground her body in the lap of Ray Ray sexually.

It was hard to believe that the blonde, whose name was Anna, was afraid mere hours before. She had heard the commotion of Claude and Row leaving, and the panic issuing upstairs, building confidence within herself she had left the security of the dank small room and ventured upstairs towards Little Jacob’s flat, the guard posted on the door no place to be found.

A dealer in the Beer Garden in Steinway stabbed Ray Ray in the right forearm, she knew of the place but had never been. Anna watched as T, 8-Ball and Little Jacob aided their friend to a stable condition, Ray Ray was more in shock about the wound than the physical injury itself it was a minor injury something that could easily be covered without expensive hospital bills and doctors questions.

Anna talked about herself then, even though only wearing the thin blouse, she knew the men were hard over her look, and as she relaxed in their company, knowing what might come next, she discarded the garment with a smile across her rose coloured lips. Anna spoke of Claude and how he paid for sex, as she was a street hooker walking the streets in Boabo, for the cost of a thousand bucks she’d spend the night with him. Since it was still night she was still paid for and allowed the men, individually, to fuck her.

The only ones she had not pleasured this evening were Row and Little Jacob. “Yo, Cous, Ray Ray’s spent in tha bitch, yah turn man.” 8-Ball shouted, while still looking at Anna, as Ray Ray continually caressed her breasts and occasionally bite them.

The flat door opened and Claude entered the room followed silently by Row who closed the door on entering the room, which stunk of sex, weed and beer. “Welcome to da party, bro!” 8-Ball announced, his hand leaving his softened member to wave towards Row and Claude. Anna turned and looked at Claude meekly, her face lightened with a reddish glow, embarrassment colouring her cheeks.

Claude removed his hinterland coat, and folded it before his arms while crossing them before his chest; he stood near the door silently, looking at Anna then towards a grinning naked 8-Ball.

“Back, yah late.” Little Jacob said in a lightened tone, “What’s up wit te raster, yah ave the blonde boo boo later yah.” Little Jacob patted Row on the arm, gesturing him to lighten up, Row’s face was unreadable.

“Da pusher cold, two thugs hit n’ tat.” Row said in a strong voice, he removed his jacket and looked at Anna, she caught his eye and smiled an innocent smile while climbing off the body of Ray Ray. 8-Ball clapped and laughed, “Tat’s yah man Claude.” 8-Ball turned and left the main room, and entered a brightly lit bathroom Claude saw various clothes pilled near the sink as 8-Ball closed it behind him.

“Bout time yah, man.” Little Jacob whispered and moved towards Claude, Anna stood and placed her arms across her breasts and wet glistened womanhood, her face avoiding Claude’s and everyone else’s in the room.

“As I sayin’ before da crackers whacked me Ray Ray, we’ll find out who’s playing trouble seeker, Niko reckons da mob be pushin’ south again, Russian an’ da old mob comin’ back. One man was hit ouside da strip club in Nort’en Gardens. Head there now wit 8-Ball me Cous, see what knows an’ tat. Man who was hit carl him Tony, police man yah. Careful yah Claude man.” Little Jacob whispered at Claude, his green fatigues and black clothing still on his person, his black rimmed orange-hinted glasses sat upon his wide nose.

“8-Ball, yah, come take Claude man to triangle club, seek out info there yall.” Little Jacob spoke up loudly and turned towards the bathroom. Claude faced Anna while he placed the hinterland black coat back on, shielding the .45 and its holster pressing against his chest. Her eyes caught his own, and she smiled an apologetic smile then shrugged. “You paid me, babe, for the night.” Her voice made Claude’s loins stir wildly. 8-Ball trotted out of the bathroom and slapped Anna’s rump on the way passed. He was dressed in blue jeans, white sneakers, a sleeveless denim jacket and white sweatshirt.

“I’ll take me own ride, yah banger’s seen enough for one day.” 8-Ball clasped his hand on Claude’s shoulder as he opened the flat door to descend down the flat stairs. Claude looked at Row who slowly removed his clothing; Ray Ray still sat upon the couch and now lit up a joint.

With stoicism etched across his face, Claude turned and followed 8-Ball down the flat creaking stairs. The tunes of K’Jah Radio morphing in the background as the staircase lights flickered and ebbed in a harsh yellow glow, the flat door closed and the majority of the light snuffed out in the staircase.


*

Northern Gardens – Broncs Street.
02:15 A.M Sunday.

“Damn that bitch is mighty fine, man, yah find some good bangin’ ho in Boabo.” 8-Ball cheerfully declared as his car strolled into the car parking spaces of the Triangle Club. For the best part of the journey he gloated about Anna, how she squealed his name while taking her like a bitch in heat, how her breasts felt in his hands, the warmth of her sex clamping his erect bloated manhood inside her depths. Anna was attractive for a curb crawler, with a size twelve body, good E-cup breasts and dazzling blonde hair she was crème de la crème of the streetwalkers in Boabo.

Claude said nothing, as usual, he remained in silence listening to 8-Ball as he drove through the darkened streets Rise FM blaring from the radio tuning, keeping the adrenaline sky high as 8-Ball’s four door grey Schafter cruised through the streets. Parking the car in one of the vacant spaces, 8-Ball killed the ignition, the radio died and the lights dimmed.

Claude and 8-Ball vacated the car and entered the chill of the night, the sounds of a rock song thudded within pink lighted walls of the Triangle Club. Claude had a look around the place before entering, some spaces were taken by ordinary cars, four door family cars and rusting bangers, but a cream coloured limousine stuck out like a phantom ghost in the shady neighbourhood among the stationary vehicles.

“Lets hit the scene man.” 8-Ball said and swaggered towards the entrance, bypassing the burley security guard standing vigilant and tall by the ramp leading to the club. The two entered the club and the rock song faded and then blurred into the rhythmic upbeat tempo song of ‘Shake Ya Ass’ by Mystikal. A smile could not help but envelope on Claude’s face.

Strobe lights and neon pink signs greeted the two as they rounded passed a bend in the building to survey the scene of the Triangle Club, the music thudded and pulsed deeply within the two men’s bodies as they stood near the bar. Claude eyed the two stages and the fifty or so men inside the building either drinking or tossing money on the stages, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, it was another day in paradise.

“If there’s one bitch t’at knows the crack, it’s Roxy.” 8-Ball shouted in the ear of Claude, as he tapped his friend on the arm and swaggered to the bar counter. Claude eyed the exit sign in the back of the club, and saw a man wearing white three-piece suit and a bowler hat come from the private booths, laughing and flocked by two women draped to each arm. But Claude’s dark eyes flashed to the heavies behind the fat man in the white suite, two wore ordinary clothing, hinterland coats and fatigue or jeans trousers clothing their legs, the other two wore printed shirts, sporting fatigue trousers and knee height boots.

Claude walked silently towards 8-Ball, his walk athletic, tall and simultaneously light on his heels: a predatory walk. A Hispanic girl with short dyed blonde hair wearing a two piece bikini of pink lace and one fish net stocking on her left leg approached Claude, a sparkle in her brown doe eyes. “Hey, sugar, want some… fun.” Her sultry broken accented voice breathed on his face, her hand cupped his groin on saying the word ‘fun’ her tone purring while she licked her rose pink gloss lips.

“Da dawg want’s Roxy.” 8-Ball’s voice chimed through the rhythmic beats of a different song blasting in the ears of all around, sounding like a remix of ‘Hungry Eyes’ by Eric Carmen, 8-Balls voice had the tone of the ‘hood’ sounding in his words.

“Join the cue.” The Hispanic dancer replied demurely, then turned and walked off before sitting on the lap of another drunken punter her arms draped around his broad shoulders and whispering words in his ears, enough for him to grope her rump with his free hand.

A burley laugh drew 8-Balls and Claude’s attention to the fat man in the white suite, who sported a black thin trimmed beard around his portly face, his hands ringed in gold, while a golden medallion hung around his many chinned neck. Claude’s eyes snapped between the four heavies flanking the fat man, though the man in white was Caucasian his heavies were dark toned in skin, Mexican by the looks, his instincts told him Colombian.

“Yah guys ready for the Roxy to rock your world.” A sultry demure voice, similar to Anna’s, fed into the hearing of Claude and 8-Ball. They both turned and stared at a voluptuous milky skinned girl, her black hair cut short in a bob fashion, one bang covered her left eye, she wore a white bikini top and bottoms, her legs were slender but toned.

“Damn it, Roxy.” 8-Ball chimed in a high pitched voice, and whistled. Raising up her hand she poked both men in the chests and curled her index finger towards herself. “Follow me, boys.” She cooed and walked off, full hips swinging, towards the private booths.

Claude and 8-Ball followed Roxy towards the booths, eyeing her from behind as they entered the booth, Roxy closed the silk curtain behind them while Claude inspected the room. It was dark in colour, the couch was high backed and red in colour, the material was not leather. The music was low and thumping, but still not drowned out, while blue lights from the outside feed into the small booth which himself, 8-Ball and Roxy occupied. The humidity made sweat bead on Claude’s brow, his hands became clammy, but he could not remove the hinterland coat for he still wore the holster for his .45 and guns were not permitted in the club, despite everyone else having one.

“Damn, Roxy… we ain’t come for this, we need to know of da man whack outside, see anythang?” 8-Ball questioned Roxy, while eyeing Roxy as she breathed, her silicone enhanced breasts heaving heavily with each inhale she took.

“You mean the detective killing? Not a thing, but I had a private dance for two just after the killing, paid in fifty-buck bills for some hours. They took off their coats and were armed, MP5’s by the looks, they’ve just left with the fat bastard in white, groping me even off the job.” Roxy spoke; while folding her arms, shielding the mounds of her large breasts as best she could with her arms.

“Catch da fat fuckers name, ho.” 8-Ball replied. Roxy narrowed her right visible eye and slapped 8-Ball across the face, the sound echoed in the booth, Claude smiled broadly on seeing the look on 8-Ball’s face.

“I’m no ho, boy.” Roxy replied in a scathing voice. “I got no name, you dickless fuck, now pay me and beat it.”

8-Ball cursed and rubbed his face, annoyed at the girls outburst and reeling from the shock of being struck. Retrieving a wad of notes from his jeans pockets he tossed the green bills at Roxy, the bills fluttered as she tried to catch them and slowly sank to the booth floor. “There’s yah paper, bitch.”

8-Ball and Claude left the booth and hastily left the Triangle Club, on exiting the building 8-Ball told Claude about Roxy, how she was an informer for Niko Bellic, Little Jacobs top boss, this side of the river in Bohan, he kept this quiet as he spoke secretly.

“Anyway man, gotta split, back to Cous and tell him yah findin’s.” 8-Ball said, and handed Claude the keys to his Schafter. “Take da ride, it’s unmarked and clean.” 8-Ball rummaged through his denim jacket and produced a key with a red-key ring to it. “Flat in Mohawk Avenue, red door, in Hove Beach, been remade cool as ice. Once Bellic’s now yah’s man, keep it real.” 8-Ball placed the key in Claude’s hand near the car key. “One more than yah. Though da names Clarence, for streets sake, call me 8-Ball.” Claude smiled and chuckled silently, before turning to the Schafter, he noticed the cream limousine was gone.

“Yo, man Claude.” 8-Ball called out, Claude turned and 8-Ball tossed him a black object which sparkled in the night. Claude caught the plastic smoothly shaped object, no larger than his palm; he opened the flip phone and nodded.

“We’ll contact yah.” 8-Ball called out, as he waved Claude goodbye, he turned and swaggered down Broncs Street, turning towards Boulevard. Claude stood near the Schafter car; his hand posed to open the car door while his dark eyes stoically looked towards the Triangle Clubs wall near the car park entrance. Police tape fluttered in the breeze, cordoning off the ground which was sleek with water; the forensics and the elements had washed the blood from the killing ground.

Silently and without a word Claude entered the grey Schafter car, started the throaty cough of the ignition and reversed to Broncs Street. His eyes not lingering on the police tape as he eased the car to a crawling speed onto the main road, then cruised into the darkness of the Industrial sector, The Journey radio station tuning in as a contrast to the ambient night.


*

Hove Beach – Mohawk Avenue.
03:35 A.M. Sunday.

Claude killed the ignition for the grey Schafter; his eyelids sank with fatigue and tiredness, as the sounds of the street died around him. The ambient tunes from The Journey radio station faded away, the last song and its electronic feel rang through his ears. He sat facing the south in the direction of Firefly Island, joggers wearing black hoodies, white sneakers and tight jogging shorts slowly plodded in the distance.

Opening the door of the car Claude vacated the musty smelling car and closed the door slowly, locking it as he did so. He looked towards the red door in the terrace block, the only red door, in Mohawk Avenue near the 69th Street Diner. The brick work looked scorched by a fire, the windowsills on the lower floors were boarded up and the white paint job was cracked and greying.

Claude couldn’t complain, his house in Cerveza Heights was probably watched and no way was he spending the night with Little Jacob and his goons with Anna. His feet patted against the concrete floor, soles clicking against the flat ground as he opened the red door with the key provided by 8-Ball, the door opened inwardly and Claude stepped inside.

Closing the door behind him he locked the door to Mohawk Avenue and looked around the ground floor, it was a mess. No wallpaper coated the walls, no carpets comfortingly covered the exposed black floorboards, and the banister leading upwards was not yet complete. Claude was too tired to complain and sluggishly ventured upstairs, the stairs creaking as he walked on rounding from the stairs he came across a black door leading to his apartment; light flickered and ebbed under the doorframe. Pulling the colt .45 from his holster, he braced himself near the door, unlocking it he barraged in and levelled the gun at a shrieking woman near the open fridge.

Anna dropped the milk carton and it spilt on the yellow and black carpet, the milk seeping against the carpet thick and covering the apartment floor. Claude lowered the .45 and holstered it within his black hinterland. Anna sighed and smiled warmly at Claude, while she bent down and picked up the milk carton, Claude watched Anna silently with dark deep eyes, she wore a black sweater top, blue baggy jeans and her hair was tied behind her in a fashionable ponytail.

“Little Jacob’s friend dropped me off here, thought I’d surprise you.” She cheerfully said, picking up the carton and standing up again. Claude nodded and turned to inspect the room, it was enough for two to three nights, a small television occupied one dark brown wallpapered corner, a green sofa not far from the telly sat adjacent from it. A sofa bed of blue and mustard yellow with black sheets and white linen covers lay in the centre of the living room, if it could be called a living room.

Anna placed the milk back into the fridge and closed the humming door of the cooler. “Thanks anyway, for taking me with you. Little Jacob told me what was going on.” Claude ignored Anna, only hearing her words barely as he removed his hinterland coat and tossed it over the green sofa, then removed his holster and placed it methodically tidily on top of the crumpled hinterland coat.

“I can go… if it please you, babe.” Anna’s sultry voice stopped Claude in his steps; he turned and looked at Anna with deep eyes from a chiselled manly face, his black hair still spiked and relatively modern looking. His loins stirred at the sound of her voice, yes she was pretty, undeniably pretty, but it was her voice that did it for Claude.

Taking three short steps to Claude, Anna’s body brushed against the white T-shirt of Claude, her arms silkily draped upon his shoulders, his strong shoulders, while they traced down the grooves of his athletically built biceps and taunt muscled arms. “I’m sorry for sleeping with those men, when you bought me for yourself.” Her voice cooed deeply, in a low husky tone. Her eyes whip lashed upwards and looked pleadingly at Claude.

“Let me make it up to you, babe.” Anna’s voice oozed from her glossy lips, she stunk of sweat and cheap perfume, and as Claude’s arms brought her body close to his she felt both fragile and smooth. Half carrying her half leading her, Claude and Anna stank onto the creaking sofa bed, and shared a deep, heated kiss.