I knew him though I had never seen him..

I started this short story based on the first sentence prompt. Never entered it. Struggled to close it out. Would apprecaite any feedback on style, description etc. Also any guidance on closing. Having trouble ending some of my stories.

Thanks Stewart


I knew him, even though I’d never seen him before in my life. This didn’t surprise me. I hadn’t expected finding him to be difficult at all. I sensed it was him before he had even fully entered the bar. The streetlamp outside cast his silhouette against the whitewashed windows, his outline matched the description I had been given; medium height, slim bordering skinny, with a long goatee. The latter profiled quite starkly against the white.
Even the location proved easy to ascertain. I knew if waited long enough, he would turn up. The bar was just too irresistible to pass by; popular, crowded and full of girls just wanting a piece of white action.
The door opened and he stepped in, looked about, spotted an empty table midway across the room and slithered like the snake he was across the room. A waitress spotted him, her small breasts firm and standing at attention. They wobbled as she walked only to settle quickly back into place. Beady eyes tracked her progress, settled on her raised nipples and slowly moved to her face, a lizard-like tongue flicked over his thin lips. Over the noise, I couldn’t hear what he said, but saw him mouth the word “beer” and settle into the padded chair at the table.
The girl’s butt moved the same way; tiny jiggles that danced in harmony, the white g-string doing nothing to protect her modesty. Her name was Myia. She had been working on each occasion that I had been here. From what I could tell, she simply served drinks. I had seen her talk to customers, share a laugh and sometimes a beer, but I hadn’t seen her disappear to the backroom with any of them. Other girls had, and I wondered why she would be different, maybe she had more sense. Maybe she had her period. Whichever, it was none of my business.
Her English was good and we had exchanged a few words the first night I came in. Since then, she had left me alone. I guess one beer wasn’t gonna earn her too may tips.
Already dark, the lights dimmed further, a spotlight winked into life on the stage to my left, and Barry Manilow’s Copacabana, the base too loud for this classic, boomed through the ceiling speakers. Two semi-naked girls strutted onto the stage; their bodies glistened under the warm lights. In unison they began to writhe around twin poles that stretched from stage floor to ceiling.
Across the room Max Empact slugged on the beer Myia had set on his table, condensation formed on the bottle, puddled on the formica top, and dribbled, unnoticed, towards the edge of the uneven surface; his attention had turned to the stage and the dancers. The air was thick with excitement, expectation and smoke.
Wolf whistles, jeers and various lewd calls competed with Manilow for air time and created a cacophony of sound that reminded me of a college frat party. As I thought about it further, this was exactly like a frat session. Twenty years on, I wondered if I had behaved like this, guessed I probably had, parked the thought and stared at Empact again. Time to move, I told myself.
The two girls had joined each other at one of the poles and were alternately sliding their crotches along the smooth surface in mock sex, their lips pursed, eyes glazed in a poor display of ecstasy. There were two chairs at his table. I stuttered across the wooden floor, bumped a fat guy drinking a cocktail that sported too much fruit and an umbrella, and flopped into the spare seat.
“Hey buddy! Mind if I sit here?” I called through the noise.
Without taking his eyes from the stage, he waived a dismissive hand in my direction, “Whatever.”
I slugged a couple of mouthfuls of beer, “Man,” I shouted, “You think these two will get it on up there? I love it when they get it on.”
This time he turned towards me and fixed his tiny eyes on my own. “Listen pal, I don’t care if you sit there, but I don’t wanna talk, OK?”
Up close, he matched the description I had been given exactly, right down to the scratches across his right cheek. Even unshaven, the three raw lines that ran from his ear across his neck, stood out clearly. Dark pupils stared at me. I couldn’t read them; they appeared empty and devoid of emotion and feeling, black like a dead pool. “Yeah, OK. I got it. Let me buy you a beer for letting me sit here though.”
Without waiting for a reply, I waved at Myia and signalled for two more. She waved back and jiggled her way to the bar. “Wow, what a nice ass.” I shouted. He threw me a sideways glance, “Oops, sorry mate.”
The set finished and conversations struck up about the room as people waited for the next routine; two men, bottles in hand, danced with a couple of girls to a Lionel Ritchie song. Smoke hung heavy in the air and I could taste the bitterness of cannabis wafting about me.
Ignoring the dancers I focused on Empact. I needed to engage him in conversation, get him outside quickly, or at least find out where he was staying.
Aware that I needed to be careful, I lifted my beer, turned to face him, tapped my bottle against his and took a solid slug, wiped my lips with the back of my hand and thrust it forward, “Alfred Banks,” I said. My impromptu introduction caught him off guard and he absently took my hand. His palm was slick with sweat.
“Edward Robinson,” he replied.
I rubbed my hand along my jeans, ignored the false name he had given. Expecting nothing less, I slurred my way into some more small talk. He claimed he was visiting from Singapore where he worked for an oil company; the weekend in Pattaya was an opportunity to get away from Singapore’s sterile environment. Despite the lie, I could sympathise with the statement, having worked there myself for a number of years prior to my return to New Zealand. Whilst he spoke, he absently rubbed his face, his fingers worried at the welts on his cheek.
“Hey Ed, why don’t we split this place?” I said, catching the inquisitive look in his eye, “This place sucks. I know a great place down the road. Some real fun to be had, if you get my meaning.”
He sat straighter in his chair and gave me a curious look, “What kind of fun you talking about?”
“Something a bit racier than this. Younger girls, heavier action.”
The man I knew as Empact chugged back the last of his beer, stood up and said, “Ok, let’s go.” Despite his small stature, his voice was deep and sonorous.
Outside the heat and humidity made the club seem like a cold store refrigerator. People milled about or sweated in small groups, browsed nearby stalls, bartered in loud voices or studied the “ala carte” menus displayed on the club and bar doors.
Beyond the cool bar, sweat formed in pea sized blobs which rolled down my back in ever growing rivers, cooling yet causing discomfort at the same time. From the corner of my eye, I could see Empact suffered the same fate. The bar I had referred to was two blocks further along the street. I had scoped it out earlier in the week once I became aware that Empact had been seen in Pattaya. The street was narrow with bars and clubs running along each side; a bustling souvenir market ran through the middle where vendors competed for the abundant tourist trade. Numerous dark alleyways dotted the thoroughfare and ran off at right angles linking parallel streets. It was one of these into which, I hoped to lure Empact.
The alley I had selected had a tight entrance and separated a seafood restaurant and a hostess bar called Mamma Mia’s. Nighttime made the passage fell even more claustrophobic; by day a large mural adorned the club wall, but in the darkness the bricks remained ominously black. Garbage bins, filled with rotting seafood and unfinished meals added to the darkness and deepened the shadow. Within two metres we would be invisible to the world. Yes, I thought to myself, this will make a great place to dispatch Empact and dispose of his body. Given the size of the garbage bins, I doubted his body would be found quickly.
The gap loomed to our left. A quick glance confirmed that nobody was interested in us. With a final look, I shoved Empact into the opening and stepped quickly behind him.
The small man stumbled through a large puddle, the splash soaked his trousers to the knee, “Hey, what do you think you’re...”
He didn’t get the chance to finish as air whooshed from his lungs. My fist thundered into his stomach. He doubled over like a paperclip, gasped for breath, and managed to suck in two gulps before his head shot backwards. I heard the satisfying crunch of shattered cartilage as my knee smashed his nose with a pop. He dropped, bewildered, to his backside. Stunned he floundered in the puddle and gasped, his mouth drawing equal parts oxygen and blood. With the spreading stain of blood and water, he looked like he had pissed himself. I felt an overwhelming sense of pleasure as he struggled to regain his feet.
I leant closer to him and shouted, “Was it Petra that sent you?”
Empact’s eyes smouldered like a dying fire, but he just stared at me, “Fug you,” he blurted. Blood and spittle splattered across his chest creating a triangle of polka dots down his white shirt.
I watched him struggle, fighting a pity he didn’t warrant. Guys like him deserve what they get. They believe they are better than everybody else, make judgements for others, take action into their own hands, believe they are above the law. They’re all the same. Every one that I’ve met has been anyway.
A private investigator. That’s what my informant told me. A lone man walking the streets asking questions about a large white guy with a limp.
My rage grew, “Answer me!” What was that slut thinking, sending an insignificant creature like Empact to find me? Didn’t she realize that I could just break him? Smash him, like I smashed her?
I stepped in, confident that the next kick would break his exposed ribs.
The mocking look on his face put a halt to my approach. A band of white broke free of his smashed and bloodied face; he was smiling, taunting me. Through a red mist, I stopped seeing a man and saw an animal awaiting slaughter. Lifting the back of my shirt, I pulled a small gun, cocked the hammer and pointed it at his head.
I spat words at him, “Perhaps this will stop you smiling, you son of a bitch!” My anger built as his smile widened, inexplicably his gaze shifted to a point over my right shoulder.
His chest was centered in the sight at the end of the small barrel as an all too familiar voice called from behind me, “Put the gun down Alfred.”
Veronica. Her voice, soft and lilting, brought back memories I had worked hard to banish; memories marbled with good times and darkness. Memories so powerful I could recall the musky scent of her perfume, remembering how I hated the smell, recalling how she wore it solely to becase I disliked headiness of the fragrance so much. Ignoring Robinson, I twisted right, squinted against the harsh lights from the street and focussed on the silhouette framed in the entranceway.
“Well, well, look what the rats dragged in. What do you want, bitch?” I threw the words at my ex-wife, hoping to gain the upper hand. My pistol remained pointed at Empact’s head although the weight of the small object dragged my hand down.
“I asked you to drop the gun. Now do it!” Her voice had grown hard. She shifted position revealing her own gun; small and compact like my own, it looked massive in her tiny hand. The short barrel pointed straight at my chest and didn’t waver.
“I see you’ve made a full recovery then”. The last time I had seen her, her right leg had been covered from ankle to hip in a cast. Now gone, it had been replaced by a cane held firmly in her left hand, “How’s they eye?”
My attempts at taunting her failed. Veronica wasn’t fazed by my words, if anything she appeared to grow taller with every word. Tentatively she took another step forward, the cane causing the puddle to ripple as she leant against it, “I told you when you left me lying on the floor, I would track you down. Shortly you could be joining Blackwood and Finch.”
In the half light, she must have seen my confusion. “Oh? it didn’t occur to you that they died by my hand.”
Blackwood had been first. I had heard that he had been killed in Hong Kong. A mugging. Or so I thought. Finch’s death was even stranger. He was apparently a victim of suicide. Sydney Police found him splattered across a dozen paving stones outside the lobby of his condominium in Balmain. A jumper, the coroner had declared.
“Those girls were innocent; their childhoods have been ripped from them by you and your perverted friends. You’re the last.”
I felt a rising panic. A rat scurried along the wall, disturbed by the commotion, seeking escape. I felt a pang of jealousy as the animal sped past. I swung my head left and right, desperate for a way out of this standoff.
“So what now? You’re going to kill me?”
Empact had gained his feet and moved closer to Veronica. Taking up position to her right he brushed muck and water from his clothes.
“You don’t need to do this,” he said to Veronica. “Now that we know he is here, we can notify the police.”
Veronica seemed to consider this for a brief moment. Behind her late night revelers continued to walk the street, oblivious to the three strangers gathered in the darkness.
“No, I have a better idea.”
Taking a step forward, she leant on her cane again for balance. Her eyes never left mine, but her hand shifted slightly, moving lower. My eyes widened, the change in trajectory not missed. Her face broke in to a look of grim determination.
“You denied those girls the experience of becoming women, stripped them of their opportunity to see sex as pleasurable. They are emotionally and physically broken. So, it seems only right that you get to experience life as they do.”
Realisation of what she said hit me hard. The urge to flight overwhelmed me. Before I could turn and run, a loud crack split the air. In slow motion rats scurried from behind garbage bins, a few heads turned in the street looking for the car that backfired and my backside hit the ground hard. I landed squarely in the puddle Empact had recently occupied.
Looking down, I saw a dark stain spread across my trousers and I cursed Veronica for causing them to get wet. With the spreading stain came pain. Pain that grew even more rapidly with realization. As blackness overcame me, the hole centred a few inches below my belt appeared to grow bigger and bigger.
Above me a thin white face stared down, fingered three dark scars and disappeared.