- Marvin Tork visits Dulcie's Club

Across town on Beverly Boulevard avant-garde filmmaker, Marvin Tork, is having brunch at Jan's Restaurant. He is scribbling down notes for his latest project on a large legal pad.

He waves a hand at the waiter who presents him with the check. "Just put it on my tab."

"You don't have a tab here anymore, on account of you never paid your last bill, and you ain't important enough to have a tab."

"Unbelievable!" Incredulous, Marvin rummages in his pockets and wallet and throws a handful of scrunched up dollar bills and change on the table leaving the waiter to count it up. As he exits the double doors, he calls out for all to hear, "By the way, your coffee is burnt, and your eggs taste like shit!"

Outside the doors he pauses to light up a cigarette, a slight tremor in his hands. He is about to cross the road when he sees two men crossing the street and walking towards him. Immediately he about-faces and quickly walks the other way. He runs back into Jan's and makes his way toward the back, grabbing a newspaper off a table and holding it up to conceal his face from the men peering through the window. His path is barred by the waiter.

"Back so soon, I thought we weren't good enough for you?"

"Yeah, well I just need to use your restroom. I think those eggs might have done a number on me!" The waiter narrows his eyes and steps aside as Marvin rushes to the back.

Inside the restroom he leans over the sink breathing heavily, his hands gripping the sides, staring at his drawn reflection in the mirror. He splashes cold water on his face, the tremor in his hands is more noticeable now. He hears some commotion outside and the sound of the double doors banging open. He bolts into a cubicle, and perches on the toilet seat tucked into a foetal ball, his hands clasped around his head. The restroom door creaks open and he hears leather soles clicking on the tiles. Marvin clamps his hand over his mouth to quieten the sound of his ragged breathing. The door is kicked open with a bang, and two dark-skinned men bundle him out and escort him from the restaurant into a waiting limo. He is shoved in the back while the two men bookend him. Another man on the passenger seat swivels around to greet him.

"Hello there Marvin." He smiles Cheshire like.

"Jerome, always a pleasure."

"Marvin, I get the feeling that you've been trying to avoid us?"

"Possibly," Marvin shakes off the grip from the two goons either side of him.

"That hurts me deeply, Marvin, I'm cut to the bone." Jerome pouts.

"I've been tied up with other things, you know how it is."

"Not really, perhaps you would care to explain," Jerome's grin becomes wider, menace in his voice.

"Well," Marvin breathes out. "I'm afraid I can't right now. Look, I'm a very busy man Jerome, you can just drop me off here and I'll be on my way." He makes to get up out of the backseat as the limousine slows near a street corner. The two men on either side of him push their beefy hands against his chest forcing him back down.

"Mmm-mmm, no can do. Dulcie would like a word with you," smiles Jerome.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Marvin curses as he thrashes himself backwards and forwards against the plush seat of the limo, realising what is coming next.

(Note: this section contains some Jamaican patois slang, scroll to the bottom for a translation)

Marvin is shoved through an entrance at the back of Dulcie's Club, where a movement in his peripheral vision causes him to pause and turn to his right. There is a room ominously covered in black plastic. A man wearing just his underwear sits in a chair strapped in with duct tape. The man stares upward, his bug-eyes are focused on the huge Rastafarian looming over him swinging a cruel machete. Screams are muffled by the tape over the man's mouth and he rocks in the chair in a desperate, but futile attempt to escape. The blade comes down heavily over the man's wrist, neatly severing the hand. Blood gushes from the stump in brief spurts. The man appears to faint, his head lolling to one side. The lifeless hand plops and rolls to within a few feet of Marvin who stands frozen in terror, his mouth agape. Squeaking noises escape from somewhere in the back of his throat. The Rastafarian holds the man's chin up in his large palm, and then lets it drop as he turns to face Marvin. His expression seems to say what you looking at? Marvin feels his legs start to wobble.

"Get movin', Dulcie don' like to be kept waitin'." One of the goons, shoves him in the back rousing him from his stupor. They move forward, and Marvin's eyes begin adjusting to the darkness of the club.

Dulcie Brown, the Cocaine Queen of LA, is resplendent in a zebra print wrap dress with a feathered collar. She is seated on a large cane peacock chair surrounded by her cronies. Her fingers are adorned with chunky diamond rings, her dangerously long nails are painted dark red. The strains of Toots and the Maytels' Funky Kingston blare from a seven-piece reggae band rehearsing on stage. Dulcie claps her hands and the band members obediently drop their instruments and make themselves scarce.

She eyes Marvin with look of disdain. "Well, would ya look at what the cat dragged in," she says in a thick Jamaican accent.

"Dulcie, you're looking wonderful as usual. What an absolute vision you are!"

"Don't ya com' in 'ere wid ya boasie  talk!" Dulcie waves her hand dismissively at Marvin. The two goons force him to sit down in a chair opposite.

"Where's ma money?"

"Ah, the money. Now Dulcie, I was working on that when I got picked up by your boys here." He leans forward and says in a low whisper, "Quite frankly I don't think they're very intelligent."

"Ya lagga head, we know ya put it all up ya nose hole!"

"Now look, I can assure you that my credit is sound, all I require is another two weeks to work out some formalities with my clients."

Dulcie drags on a cigarette, its end glows. She blows smoke in Marvin's face and says, "Ya come in 'ere, tryin' to make terms with us. Jus' who d'ya tink ya are batty man? " She puts the burning end on Marvin's cheek. The flesh sizzles - a sickening sound.

Marvin emits a high-pitched shriek of pain before recovering some bravado. "Well I'm not your fucking ash-tray, that's for sure!!"

"Ya got two days!" Marvin seems to visibly crumple with relief. "But before ya go, we gonna give ya a little some-ting to help wid ya memory."

"It's really not necessary, I assure you I'll remember!"

Dulcie holds her palm up indicating that the matter is final. Marvin is roughly dragged to his feet and carted away. Dulcie's eyes settle on a young man to her right. She eyes him up and down approvingly. "Wot your name suga?"

"It's Jimmy."

"Well ain't yo a stinga. Ya got a girlfrien' Jimmy?"

"No ma'm."

"C'mon, skin dem teeth for Dulcie."

The young man smiles nervously, a bead of perspiration visible on his brow.

Jamaican slang

boasie - boastful or ostentatious (fancy)

lagga head - a stupid person

batty man - a gay or effeminate man

stinga - a guy that all the girls love

skin dem teeth - to smile