Page 12 of Nick

Fucking Patrick. I shake my head.

“Have you not received your wages from Patrick?”

“No.”

“You have been paid your security salary and cut of the business runs, yes?”

I shake my head in the negative. “Haven’t received a cent since I came here.”

Anger flashes across Artur’s features quickly before his usual mask's back in place. “I will rectify that immediately. Unfortunately, I cannot provide back pay.”

I nod that I understand, and Artur stands from his desk. “Follow me. Cocktail hour is beginning.”

We enter the central door at the back of the room via a thumbprint scanner, and into a lavish world. Still richly decorated, but it looks like a stuck up fancy bar. Long burgundy cloths adorn tall tables and leather topped stools, and men and women dressed to the nines are scattered around them. Servers in black and white carry drinks and appetizers around the crowd. Fancy looking sconces provide low lighting and reflect metallic wallpaper with some kind of swirly pattern. Dark wood floors and oriental rugs are underfoot.

Artur ushers me towards the left side, where a rich mahogany bar is set up. “Preferred drink?”

“Whiskey neat.” I started drinking it during my long nights at the bar. It's better than the watered down beer they serve.

The bartender hands me a crystal glass with two fingers of whisky while Artur gets a glass of champagne. I spend the next hour being introduced to too many clients and women with wandering hands. Weirdly, very few names are given. Many are introduced as important clients or friends. Not helpful.

Finally, dinner is announced as we move into a full scale dining room. Unbelievable. Crystal, gold cutlery, and gold-rimmed plates sit on top of lace. I’m left to my own devices to find a seat as Artur moves to the head of the table. I grab a chair near the middle so I can see everyone. Unfortunately, one of the women dressed in a low cut gown I met earlier takes a seat beside me.

I endure four courses of admittedly great food while removing the old lady’s hand from my thigh too many times to count. Everyone seems to be discussing business around me. There are quite a few young women, possibly teens, in attendance that aren’t attached to anyone in particular. I hope Fitzgerald isn’t running a human trafficking ring, but it seems he may be. The girls are clean, fed, and well dressed, most taking part in the surrounding conversations. I’ve even seen a few smiles, which I wouldn’t expect, but you never know. They can’t all be daughters of the business associates in attendance.

I once asked Patrick where he found all the girls for his parties, and he told me there was an escort service he uses, and none of the girls are part of Fitzgerald's business.

Finally, two hours later, the clients are escorted through another door, but Artur stops me from following. He ushers me down a set of stairs to a locker room similar to the one in the basement. There are 5 other fighters inside getting dressed. I’m introduced and then shown my locker. Nodding to them, I change and take a seat at the bench.

Several tvs come on, showing a fancier cage than I’m used to with an announcer in a tux welcoming everyone. Lights only illuminate the cage, so I can’t tell what the rest of the space looks like. Nicholas The Crusher is announced for the second fight. It appears I’ve earned a nickname. The word crusher is written in cursive down the sides of my red shorts.

Two fighters leave the room, each escorted by a scantily clad beautiful woman, and lights briefly illuminate three judges sitting at a table near the edge of the cage. Like old school Vegas boxing matches, a woman in a bikini holds a sign with the number one above her head and circles the ring.

A referee enters the ring next, calling the two fighters to the center before they separate and take positions opposite each other, ready to begin. I watch intently when the bell goes off. This fight truly seems similar to any other MMA fight, which is a pleasant change from Fridays.

As the third round begins, one fighter joins me in my row. “First time?”

Looking up, I nod. This guy seems to be well built, and he’s around 6ft 3. His shorts are black and say knockout on them.

“MMA rules apply; it’s just three rounds instead of five. No death.”

“Thanks,” I grunt out as he leaves me alone again.

I can’t read the shorts through the tv but the guy in green wins. They return to the locker room and head for the showers as the cage is disinfected.

My fight is announced as a bulky guy in orange shorts nods at me. I follow him through the door, where a brunette loops her arm through mine and leads me to the cage. While the fanfare is happening, I stretch and look around but can’t make out anything further than 5ft from the cage. The same referee ushers us to the center of the ring, going over the rules, which indeed are the same as an MMA fight.

I step back and wait for the bell. When it rings, I circle my opponent as he does the same. We test each other out and then begin a genuine match. I’ve missed legitimate fighting, so I relish the challenge. My opponent is much more skilled than the Friday night fighters, and I truly enjoy the first proper fight I’ve had in six months.

I win my match by a tap out and follow my opponent back to the locker room to shower, and find the navy clad security guard waiting for me at my locker. I’m back in my tux once I’m clean since I left my regular clothes in Patrick’s office. The guard escorts me back up the stairs and through the door the other clients went through earlier. There are a series of tinted glass rooms without doors, similar to the concrete basement, but much more luxurious. Each room is as lavish as the dining room in reds, navy blues, and black. All with low lighting, plush rugs, and a view of the cage.

We stop at a room partway down the hallway with Artur inside, so I walk over to him. “Ah, Nicholas. Good fight. Relax and have a drink or a bite to eat.”

Nodding, I step over to the counter to have a look. Liquor, drugs, and various appetizers are laid out. Spotting a bar fridge, I open it and find a sealed cold water bottle. After downing half of it, I walk towards the tinted glass. We aren’t very high up, just high enough to have a clear view of the match. I take a front row seat in the plush velvet chair to watch the last fight of the night. Knockout is extremely skilled, and I look forward to meeting him in the cage someday soon. At least I have something to look forward to each week now.

Surprisingly, no one bothers me. I half listen to the conversations going on around me, memorizing names and occupations, but it’s boring everyday business talk, with no mention of Fitzgerald, drugs, or human trafficking.

When the match concludes, I follow Artur and the crowd back into the cocktail area. The navy security guy is waiting and asks me to follow him out. Taking the same route as earlier, we exit the building, and he drives me to the condo, opening the front door for me. Seems no one is aware I have a key yet.