He opened his eyes as the growling vocal and guitar faded. His bike slid into view as the van rounded the back of The Fog Bank. No Greg, no crowd, no burnout. He pulled the earbuds. The van stopped and he jumped out without a word. He looked at the bike, turned away, and headed to work.
Gunner pushed open the door. His boots clunked on the old plank floor as he moved into the dressing room. Two naked girls and one who might as well have been, looked at him, but said nothing. He took a look. Nice, but nothing to distract him. Two of the girls went about their business, avoiding him. One made eye contact. He moved to her. Tits were a little small. No pigtails.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself, Gunner Neville.” She showed him a little pout and folded her arms under the tits. Didn’t help much. Didn’t hurt. He got a warm feeling but damn if he knew her name.
“Sorry, honey, if we hooked up I can’t recall.” He folded his arms and looked down.
“Oh, hon, if we hooked up you’d never forget.” She turned and walked to a locker, showing him a serious ass and tight dancer legs.
“Lovin’ the view, darlin’, but come back this way.” He watched her swing around, dipping her head to the right, showing enough black hair to get lost in. It settled over her right shoulder and draped over her breast. The hair accented her rich tanned skin and showed off brown eyes. The tan was perfect. Gunner knew the dancers lived in tanning beds, but something said this was all natural, and he noticed it was all over.
“What do you need? Or, is it what you’re looking at?” She smiled. Better than the pout.
“Lolita, you see her?”
“Really?” The pout was back.
“Business, darlin’, sorry.” What the fuck was he explaining himself to this chick for? Careful, man.
She cocked an ear to the back of the room. Gunner could hear a thick bass line. Didn’t know the tune.
“That’s her finishing up. Room’s mostly empty, just perv alley, so she won’t be getting any private dances this time. Man, she worked the room at noon, though. Made a tonne.” Her pout went to a frown and then over to the smile. “She shouldn’t have to dance except lunch and evening crowds, you know. When I headline, fuck the two o’clock losers.”
Jesus. Was this girl from that stripper’s union in Montreal? Gunner knew about it, and if Williams let one of them in The Bank he’d rip the prospect patch off him and toss him off the bridge. Her smile broadened.
“Don’t let me bore you with girl talk. I gotta get ready. I’m next. She’ll be right in. Come check out my act when you finish that business.”
Maybe, he thought, maybe. He watched her walk to the locker. She slipped into a tight leather skirt and shredded leather bustier as if they were greased. A long chrome bike chain ran from shoulder to shoulder, dipping to her navel. It swung forward as she slid into a pair of thigh-high leather boots. She grabbed a black riding crop from the locker and headed to the door, giving him a spin as she passed. No way he’d ask her name.
“Hey, what tunes you use?”
“Well, let’s see, Gunner. A little Guns to get me hot, some Slash to match these.” She ran black nails over the cuts in the bustier. “Then, it gets hard.” She glanced down, turned, and walked away. Her boots doing the clunking now. Gunner looked at the thick heels, not stilettos. Good boots for hooking onto a set of pegs. Fucking ass looked even better in leather.
Gunner leaned on the edge of the desk, his arms folded, boots crossed at the ankles. He watched the monitors. He’d rather sit behind the desk to talk to Lolita, but he couldn’t fit back there with the desk on the riser. Fucking Williams. He’d told Lolita to hurry the hell up and change, but now Gunner was hoping she’d take her time. The dancer was working the stage nicely, slapping that riding crop on her ass to the beat of “Night Train.” Fast tune, she worked it like it was written for her. She looked directly at the camera, and he felt that warmth again. He looked at the other monitors. The few men not in perv alley were over by the poker machines. He could see they were turning away from the idiot boxes and watching the stage. She was headline stuff. He turned back to the stage monitor waiting for her to shed that top, even though he knew she wouldn’t. Nothing comes off in the first tune. Long first dance making them wait for it; she had style.
The knock on the door drew his eyes from the monitors.
“Open it.”
Lolita walked in, wearing a pair of ripped jeans and a Stallion support hoodie. It was too big, ran to her knees. If she was dressed to impress, it wasn’t working. He glanced back at the dancer on the monitor. Still dressed, still prancing, and getting a little raunchier. She was swinging the bike chain now. He wished he’d seen her remove it. Lolita stood at the open door. Jimmy Williams was behind her. This tiny stripper was taller than he was. Gunner swore he would talk Snake out of patching that guy.
“Close the door, prospect.” He nodded to the sofa, and Lolita dropped into the leather. She hugged knees to her chest and began examining her fingernails.
“All right, girl, we’ve got a problem, and I need to know how bad it is. So why don’t you tell me?”
She kept working the nail.
“Told Jimmy. I wasn’t at the clubhouse. I was here and then went to Sheilagh’s place. Ask her.”
No gain there. The girls were lovers, if Williams wasn’t making that shit up. Even if he was, they were dancers, and they all lied for each other. With the time they wasted going to see Mapp, every girl in the club probably signed off on the lie. Gunner leaned forward quickly and slapped her hand away from her face. She looked up. Showing fear. Good, she knew she wasn’t dealing with Williams.
“Little girl, you calling my bro a liar? I spoke with Grease this morning, and he was clean and sober. Told me about your little visit. Let’s hear it again.” He placed a boot on the sofa between her feet.
“I didn’t do anything. He was already dead.”
Fuck.
“Tell it.”
“I went to see him like I was supposed to. I got there, and my brother was freaking out. I was pissed at the old bastard and stabbed him. Just once, and he was already dead. I swear. We figured we should get rid of the body, so no one would know. Thought you guys would be good at that. Guess not.” She went back at the nail. Gunner let it pass.
“What do you mean, you went like you were supposed to? Who sent you?”
“You did.” She shifted to a new nail. The backhand got her full attention, but the fear was gone, defiance showing now. Gunner slapped her again.
“The fuck you trying to pull, bitch? You want to find out how good we are at that sort of thing, keep that shit up.” He leaned back on the desk. He didn’t want to mark her, had to stop hitting her near the face. Of course, the trouble with strippers is: where the fuck do you hit them?
She held a hand to the side of her face and looked at him.
“The club, I mean, the club sent me. Not you.” She kept the hand there ready to fend off another blow.
“Fuck, girl, if the club sent you, would I be here asking you about it? Talk to me. I’m getting pissed.”
“Got the call on my cell, same as always. Caller said it was the house calling, same as always. Sent me to see him, same as always. It was the club. We figured you’d want us to get rid of the body.” She dropped her left knee and went back to the nails.
Gunner ran his hand through his hair and looked up at the stripper on the monitor. The top was gone now, so was the crop. She was having fun running the chain across those tiny breasts. He took a deep breath.
“Give me your phone.”
She reached into the pocket in the front of the hoodie and handed him a pink-shelled iPhone.
“What time you get the call?” He was scrolling through her recent calls list. Most were from Montreal. Made sense. That was home base, and he knew she was headed back there in a week or so.
“Don’t know. Before the midnight show. I did my ten and was back in the dressing room talking to Sheilagh.”
It was easy enough to find; there was only one call between ten and twelve. A blocked call. The clubhouse would sure as hell come up blocked. No way to prove anything with the phone.
“You trying to tell me Grease sent you to that preacher and then ignored you when it went bad? He was the only one at the clubhouse, and he didn’t say shit about that to me.”
“Not your clubhouse, man. Mine. I mean Montreal.” She looked up at him now.
Well, shit, Gunner thought, that lie would be a little harder to chase down. It might even be true. The Stallion Montreal charter owned Lolita. Halifax took most of the profits when she danced at The Bank, but a piece had to go back to Montreal. If the bigger charter had a side business going with her here, it should share that money with Halifax, too. Should. Montreal had a habit of playing outside the rule book. Hell, Gunner ran side gigs hidden from his own charter sometimes. Everybody did it. He tossed the phone at her.
“Go put some ice on your face.”
She got up and headed for the door. He was watching the monitor again.
“Wait.”
She turned back.
“Who is that on stage now?”
A smile from her now.
“Cheyenne. I’ll tell her you asked.”
“You’ll tell her nothing.”
He reached for a cigarette as he heard the door shut. He blew smoke out to the screen, as Cheyenne bent over and dangled her chain in front of a drooler in perv alley. Didn’t let the guy touch it. She walked to the centre of the stage, wrapping it around the chrome pole and leaning back, her hair trailing down to the stage. The music faded, and Gunner instantly recognized the opening notes of her finale. He was fingering the chords on his air guitar before Slash hit the third chord. Myles Kennedy was wailing about getting “Back From Cali” before Gunner realized what he was doing. He folded his arms again and looked at the screen as Cheyenne dropped the skirt and strutted the stage in her boots, swinging that chain. Cheyenne.
Thursday, dusk
A bright yellow moon floated above the trees of Point Pleasant Park, the colour of the setting sun shading its surface. The sky ran from a brilliant orange in the west, to a deep blue where it met the waves in the outer harbour. The sky and water would be the same ink black when Thelma Waters returned at the end of her prayer walk. The moon and the tiny flashlight she carried in her pocket would be enough light to get her home. The park would be closed by then, but it was okay. She’d left her car outside the gate as she always did.
God put that moon there for her. Just as he shaded the eastern sky in the blues identical to the binding on the tiny leather prayer book she clutched to her breast. The soft, fine leather felt warm in her hand. Her thumb rubbed the embossed gold cross on the front cover. Her other hand held the balled-up tissue she couldn’t seem to keep from her eyes. How could these eyes still produce tears after so many hours of crying? She fought to focus on prayer, but instead of His glorious peace, dread pressed into her chest beneath the prayer book. This path was her personal connection with God. There was always the joyful meditation of repeated prayer here. Not tonight.
She was being weak. God was doing what only He understood, and she must accept it. This was a test, nothing more. Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. Proverbs taught her that. Her faith would be purified in this horrible crucible. It would be stronger in the end. She knew that. Did not doubt it for a moment. But the pain and the panic were more than she could handle.
Again tears burst forth, tears of shame. How could she be worrying about her pain, about her state? Poor Pastor Brenda. Alone in Africa dealing with the loss of her husband, her partner, her pillar. The call to Brenda was the most difficult thing Thelma had ever done. When the police finished with their questions, she insisted on making the call herself. It took three hours for the Christian Service League to get a satellite phone to Brenda in the remote village where she was ministering. Now, it would take four or maybe even five days for Brenda to get out of that place and back here. Thelma couldn’t believe she had to fight with the League volunteers to arrange transportation. In the end, it was another African aid organization that took control. She owed it to Brenda, her sister in prayer, to fight to get her home now. They shared a burden that no one could understand. Just as no one could truly understand Pastor Sandy, not the way they did. He was a man of God, a beacon of faith that shone across the globe, but still just a man. All men are born weak. Job tells us that. She clutched the tiny book tighter. It tied her to God, and to Pastor Brenda. They had identical copies, gifts from Pastor Sandy.
Thelma saw so clearly now what she could not see before. Pastor Sandy’s death was a message from God, as are all difficult things. The symbolism is so obvious once you know where to look. She rubbed the edges of the prayer book and smiled a small smile. The first since she’d heard the news. The pain was real; it would not leave soon. She knew that. But in God’s message to her, she saw the need for this pain. For as long as Pastor Sandy was alive she could not, would not, betray him. She ignored his weakness. No—more than that—she helped him feed the hunger he could not control. She looked away from her heart, from God, and served Pastor Sandy instead. It was wrong. Her smile broadened as she thought of the two police officers who brought her the terrible news. Messengers from God, who were not even aware of their role in the greater plan. One named for Christ, the other the brother of a priest. How could God be more clear? It was time for Thelma to stop the horrors, to tell all there was to tell. It would hurt the church, but the church would survive. She had told the others of her plan after the prayer service tonight. Now she was certain it was right. She would wait for Pastor Brenda, of course, but together they would follow God’s command.
The moon brightened now. The yellow shade gone. The cool air filled with the salty brine of the ocean as the waves crashed in perfect rhythm. The tree frogs began their nightly serenade. Crickets joined. All of it for Thelma. God is everywhere if you open your heart. The path ahead began to narrow as she passed the rocks of the beach. She found the small opening in the treeline beside the main path used by the joggers and dog walkers. She entered and headed for her bridge. Not really a bridge—two wide planks some men from the church had placed across a stream that cut through the path. The city arborists left it there, used it in their running battle with some bug Thelma knew was invading the park. Waist-high railings of two-by-four lumber ran across each side. This prayer path was a Church of Salvation initiative, occasionally used by the joggers who discovered it. The godless fools at city hall would destroy it if they knew. Thelma knew even those who ran through here found a path to God. They, too, would be led to Him. All in His time. His plan.
She stopped partway across the bridge. She could no longer hear the waves crashing, but the gentle trickle of the stream was just as beautiful. She placed the tissue in her pocket and held the rail. The day’s warmth still being released by the wood felt pleasant on her skin. Her heart calmed as she looked up through the canopy overhead to the moon and back down to the slivers of light dancing on the surface of the fast-moving stream. “Thank you, God. I feel you here.”
Another brilliant reflection sparkled like a jewel beside her. It barely registered before the pain. Her sweet joy now a searing agony, heat now cold, light and dark as one. The moon jumped from its ancient orbit and rose above her quickly, directly above her now. How did that happen? The deep darkness of the pine trees on each side of the path framed it perfectly. A shadow moved across it, an eclipse, and then that glint once more. More pain, and a sound, a howling, an animal maybe. They said there were coyotes here in the park. No. Was it? Could that be her voice? She turned away from the sound, from that sliver of light that drove pain deeper. She could see her right hand beyond the planks. She watched as her fingers opened, an
d the tiny book slipped free. The reflection of light from the gold cross, and then darkness.
Chapter 6
Friday morning
The tires moaned against the weight of the car. I fought the pull of the seat belt, stiff-arming the dash. The oil pan or something else under the front end banged into cement. I said nothing but shot Blair my best hard-guy stare. The toothpick in his mouth rocked up and down. Better hard-guy look. He was driving, a clear advantage. He manhandled the wheel and willed the car to stay in the hard right turn. It did. We shot out of the dark tunnel and leapt from the parking garage beneath the temporary major-crime office in Bedford. The ramp pointed us into a sun-filled morning sky. Did nothing to improve my mood. Never think for a moment things can’t get worse.
We arrived early and were waiting for the morning briefing to start when the call came in. Blair and I kicked around his thoughts based on the interviews at the house. Sam and Bobby remained a double bill on the suspect list, but still untouchable, according to the inspector. Neither one of us could get behind that, and we both hoped it would change with the briefing. Sam, we agreed, remained off limits. His mother was on the way, and he was blanketed by the YCJA. But Bobby, man, that guy needed a round in the box. The inspector was holding back, waiting until everything was in place, he said. Like what, a defence lawyer?
We were set to raise our concerns with the inspector when the new body fell into the mix. The inspector handed it to us. Teach us to arrive early. I remembered the good feeling twenty-four hours earlier when I ducked under that crime-scene tape and into the first real case we’d had in two years. Somehow, I didn’t expect this morning’s scene to feel quite so good.
Disposable Souls Page 12
