to toe with a wary look, but Dutch knew the vibe he gave off and was used to the split-second assessment people made about him based on his appearance.
The bouncer lifted a tablet and swiped through a list of names. After a few seconds, he glanced up. “You can go on in.” He opened a door that was set off to the side of the main entrance.
Loud, throbbing electronic music and colored strobe lights washed over Dutch as he stepped inside with his helmet tucked under his arm. On his left, the general public entering through the main door paid a cover charge and had to walk through a metal detector.
Weaving through the throng of gyrating bodies, he went to the bar. The line was long, but he waited, in no rush, not wanting to seem overly eager to Vargas and needing to be certain what was in his drink. He ordered, got his drink and tipped well. Then he made his way to the stairwell, leading to the VIP area.
Instead of a waitress serving as a gatekeeper to the exclusive section upstairs, there was a bodyguard. Dutch spotted the telltale bulge in his jacket. The man was armed.
“I’m Haas,” Dutch said. “Here to see Mr. Vargas.”
“Not with that you aren’t.” The bodyguard gestured to his helmet.
“Man, this is a Schuberth.” The name was synonymous with top-of-the-line. Sure, his helmet was sleek and looked cool, but it was a piece of serious gear. The outer shell was made from three layers of patented fiber called S.T.R.O.N.G. and the interior padding had special hygienic material to prevent pathogens from building up while ensuring comfort, and it had a sophisticated ventilation system and noise dampening inserts for the quietest ride possible. “It’s worth two grand. Where I go, it goes. Besides, I’m here as a guest. Just ask Mr. Vargas if I can bring it with me?”
The guy touched his earpiece and spoke in Spanish, which Dutch understood, into the mic that extended to his mouth, even relaying the helmet brand.
Looking around as if bored, Dutch knew exactly what the response would be. Vargas, the kingpin of Southern California, wasn’t going to be worried about his niece’s date carrying a helmet. Not when he was surrounded by loyal, armed men.
“All right,” the guard said. “The helmet is fine, but I’ve still got to pat you down.”
Extending his arms and spreading his legs, Dutch assumed the position, letting the man do his job. First, the guard ran a wand over Dutch’s body, scanning for listening devices. Even if he had one hidden on him, with the loud, pumping music, he’d have to be right next to Vargas for any equipment to clearly pick up both sides of the conversation.
Satisfied that he wasn’t wired, the guard moved on to the pat down, going across his arms, over his torso, up and down his legs, getting a little too close to his groin.
“Watch it, buddy,” Dutch said.
“Not my concern.” Pursing his lips in a tight line, the guard unhooked the velvet rope and then hiked his thumb toward the steps, giving him the okay to go up.
Dutch ascended the industrial metal staircase only to be greeted by another guard at the top of the landing.
“The helmet,” the second one with a manicured beard said. He had the build of a middleweight boxer, tall and lean, but wiry.
“This again?” Dutch asked. “I was given permission to take it with me.”
“Well, I didn’t give permission.”
“Max!” Rodrigo called from the swanky seating area. According to the dossier, Rodrigo was Vargas’s right-hand man and second in command. Beside him, Vargas sat like he ruled the world as young women in skimpy dresses danced around the VIP room. “Let him through.”
“See. What did I tell you?” Dutch said.
Max narrowed his eyes and took a step forward, blocking him.
“You want to dance?” Dutch asked, referring to a tango with fists. He clutched the rim of his helmet so tight his knuckles strained.
“Maximiliano!” Rodrigo said again. “It’s okay. He’s Isabel’s new admirer.”
Clenching his jaw and his fists, Max hesitated before finally letting him through.
What was his problem? Did he have a crush on Isabel and wanted her for himself?
Dutch brushed past Max, deliberately making contact without being aggressive enough to start a fight. This was his element, his culture, and he knew exactly how to behave to survive. To thrive in it.
There was another set of stairs leading to a third floor, where there appeared to be only one room. An office?