MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH

by Michael Lister

  We rush over to the front desk.

  —You see Tiffany leave? Regan asks.

  —Which one is —

  I describe Casey.

  She nods slowly, seeming to think.

  —Yeah.

  —When? I ask.

  —Why?

  Regan puts her hand on my arm.

  —It’s important, she says. We think she might be mixed up in something.

  —Not sure. Hour-and-a-half. Two hours.

  —Who’d she leave with?

  —She was by herself. Said she didn’t feel good. But...

  —But what? I ask.

  —There was a guy sort of, you know, lingering by the door. I got the feeling he might’ve been waiting on her.

  The manager walks up and stands behind the desk.

  —What’s going on?

  Regan tells him.

  —Was she in VIP with the guy before she left? I ask.

  The receptionist shrugs.

  —I don’t know who she was back there with, she says.

  —But she was in VIP just before she left?

  She nods.

  —The rooms have cameras, right? I say.

  —Some of them, the manager says, but he’s already shaking his head.

  —Just let me see who she was with before she left.

  —Can’t do it. No way. There’s no guarantee they were even in a booth with a camera, and even if they were, you can’t see much anyway. But I can’t let anyone look at that footage. It’s part of what we —

  —You look at it and describe him to me.

  He shakes his head.

  —Sorry. Just can’t.

  I storm out angrily without saying anything — not even to Regan, who can’t follow me — and call Rashard as I look around the parking lot.

  — You know how hard a search warrant is to get? he asks, after I explain everything to him. No way we get one on what you got.

  —Fuck.

  —Sorry.

  —What if you just came and talked to him? Maybe he’d let you watch it.

  —He won’t. And I can’t anyway. This ain’t TV. Can’t just do whatever in the fuck I want to.

  —Yeah. Yeah, I say and end the call.

  As I finish searching the parking lot, I try to figure out what to do next.

  All the vehicles are empty.

  My phone vibrates once to alert me of a voice or text message.

  I look at the display. I have a voicemail. Must have come while I was talking to Rashard.

  I quickly punch in my security code and listen, my stomach sinking as I do.

  —Oh God, Merrick. Where are you? I’m in real trouble.

  Distorted, driving music in the background is so loud it’s little more than noise makes it nearly impossible to understand her.

  —So unbelievably stupid, she is saying. I can’t believe that I would be so... over money. I just wanted to be able to stop dancing.

  A DJ or an announcer says something, but I can’t make it out.

  —Anyway, call me as soon as you can or just come to —

  There’s a struggle.

  —No, Casey says. What the fuck —

  Somebody yells something.

  Casey screams.

  The phone is dropped, and a moment later the line is dead.

  As I’m about to pull out of The Dollhouse parking lot, Regan runs out and waves me down. She is fully dressed now, a large bag hanging from her shoulder.

  I stop and roll down the passenger side window, but she opens the door and gets in.

  —I want to help, she says.

  —What about your job?

  —No longer have it. Said if I left now not to come back. They have to be that way. So many girls try to leave in the middle of their shift — once they’ve gotten their money.

  —Why would you —

  —I want to help you.

  I pull onto 98, heading west toward the beach, thinking about Regan’s actions, wondering what motivates her and why I can’t figure it out.

  —I don’t understand you, I say.

  —Whatta you mean?

  —You don’t return my calls for days at a time, then you quit your job to help me.

  —Sorry I couldn’t call, but —

  —Doesn’t matter, I say. Is what it is. But I appreciate your help — and I know Casey will.

  —But —

  —Finding her is all that matters right now.

  My phone vibrates and I see it’s Rashard calling me back.

  —You get my message? I ask.

  —Yeah.

  —She’s in real trouble. Needs help. What can you do?

  —The investigation never stopped, he says. Sheriff Parker talked to Sheriff McKeithan. I know he knows you spoke to her, but until they confirm... Every law enforcement officer in the county’s still looking for her. But I’m also gathering some guys I trust for extra help.

  Great, I say. Thanks, man. Anyone talk to that Ian King dude?

  —Probably not since taking the missing persons report, he says, but I’ll find out. Maybe I’ll have a go at him.

  —Like to be there if you do.

  When I end the call, Regan starts to say something, but I immediately call Tristan.

  —Ciao, he says.

  —Where are you?

  —The Curve.

  —I need your help.

  —No shit?

  —None, I say. It’s important.

  —What’s up?

  —Can you meet me in the parking lot in about three minutes?

  He hesitates a moment.

  —I wouldn’t ask if it —

  —No, it’s not that. Sure. I’ll be there.

  The parking lot of Newby’s Too is filled with rows and rows of bikes. The music of a live band pours out of an open garage door on the end, and patrons spill out of the bar onto the patio, around the picnic tables, and around the Sweet Racks tent.

  Unable to find a place to park, I pull up to the entrance where Tristan is waiting, blocking in several bikes as I do.

  Jumping out, I cue up Casey’s message.

  Regan gets out and is standing next to Tristan by the time I get around to them.

  —Ciao darlings, he says.

  —Tristan, Regan. Regan, Tristan. He’s the sickest DJ in town.

  —Pleasure, he says, taking and kissing her hand.

  —Listen to this, I say, holding the phone up to his ear.

  —What am I listening for? ...Oh my God. Who’s —

  —I need to know where she is, I say. Hear the DJ? Is that a DJ or an announcer? What kind of music is that? She left a message earlier tonight. The background noise is very different in this one. She’s somewhere else.

  —Let me hear it again.

  I replay it for him.

  If anyone can identify where Casey’s calling from, it’s Tristan. Not only has he spun records in virtually every venue in the area, he knows all the people involved in that scene.

  He presses the phone up to his ear with one hand and covers his opposite ear with the other.

  —One more time, he says.

  I play it again.

  —Where is she? I ask.

  He shakes his head, as he squints and looks up, seeming to think about it.

  —Not sure, he says. Too distorted. Can probably narrow it down some though. What’s going on?

  I tell him.

  —Shit, man. Okay. Things are a little different this weekend because of the rally. More places have music and bands, but DJ helps narrow it down. Let me think.

  —Is it live or canned music? I ask.

  —Can’t tell. Could be either. In general, there’s karaoke at The Backdoor, here at The Curve — except tonight there’s a band ’cause of Thunder Beach, and at Sweet Dreams. There’s live music at Mrs. Newbys, Dysfunction Junction, La Vela, Spinaker, Sharky’s, Hammerhead Fred’s, Club Oxygen, Tootsies, The Tiki Bar, and maybe Latitudes.

  —But they wouldn’t have DJs, right?
I say.

  —Right. May have announcers, though.

  —Then there’s Splash, the gay bar out here. Probably doesn’t have a band, but will be playing dance music and probably have an announcer.

  —So many possibilities, I say.

  —More this weekend than usual. In town, there’s also the strip clubs — Tan Fannies, Gold Nugget, Toy Box, and The Dollhouse. There’s a small joint over in Springfield, Bambi’s Dollhouse or something, but don’t think it has a DJ.

  —Tan Fannies doesn’t have a DJ, I say.

  —Oh, that’s right, he says. There’s also The Fiesta — the gay bar downtown. There could be other places I don’t know about — or, you know, that’re doing something special just for this weekend. Rarely do places have a DJ with a live band, but for the rally... I don’t know. I bet some have local radio personalities — Kramer, Holly, Miguel, 6-Pack, Dr. Shane, some of those guys. I’ll make a few calls and find out.

  —Just give me most likely, I say.

  He thinks about it for another moment.

  —Lot of pressure, he says. Don’t want to lead you astray.

  —We gotta start somewhere. You’re our best bet.

  —La Vela, Spinaker, The Dollhouse, Nugget, Toy Box, Splash, Oxygen, Fiesta — oh, and Stetson’s.

  —The country place?

  —Used to be. It’s changed. They have a DJ and a band. The others are possibilities, but longer shots. You got a picture of her?

  —Yeah. Why?

  —We could split up. I could take a few.

  —You don’t mind?

  —Happy to, he says. She’s hot.

  The drive out to Spinaker and La Vela is slow, and I try calling Casey periodically.

  —I’m sorry I did it again, Regan says.

  —What?

  —Withdrew.

  I nod.

  —I’m so unhappy with Gabe, but... He’s unhappy, too. Not just unhappy — that sounds so juvenile. We’re in different places, going in different directions, but I feel so sorry for him. Our relationship is over, run its course, but we’ve shared — not just a life together, but losing...

  She drifts off and I know she means Tina, their daughter who died.

  —I’m having a hard time leaving him, she adds.

  —I’m not asking you to.

  —What?

  —It’s taken a while, but I get it. And I understand. I do.

  —But —

  —We’ll find Casey, put all this behind us, and be friends.

  —Friends?

  —Yeah. I meant it when I said I loved you. I’ll be here for you. Always. You can count on that. Do anything I can for you. I’m sorry if I put pressure on you or wasn’t understanding enough. Like you said, we’re heading in two different directions.

  —I said that about me and Gabe.

  —Oh. Well... it applies.

  —So, what, you don’t want me anymore?

  —That was never our problem.

  —But it is now?

  —No. It’s not a problem.

  —But you don’t want me? she says.

  —I’m not letting myself. Desire doesn’t go away — at least not for me, not that fast.

  —So we’re... what? Through? Just like that?

  —Not through. No. I told you, I’ll be a great friend if you’ll let me. I’m just stopping the cycle.

  —What happened?

  I think about it.

  —You know what I think it is? I say. I think the pattern just repeated itself one too many times.

  —I can’t believe this. You’re punishing me for having a hard time letting go of my marriage?

  —You think I’m punishing you?

  —What it feels like.

  —It’s not that at all.

  —Then what? she asks.

  —I’ve already said.

  —My marriage will end anyway. It’s just a matter of when.

  —Then our timing was bad.

  The enormous parking lot at La Vela is full of semi trailers, vendor tents, and motorcycles. There are a few people wandering around, but obviously most are inside the club.

  The elaborately painted tractor trailers have murals of brands and products I recognize — from motorcycle companies to energy drinks — but the two that stick out the most are one for a traveling tattoo parlor, the sides of which have a fully nude, heavily inked and pierced young woman lying on her side, stretching the full length of the trailer, and an all black trailer with simple white letters that reads Pure Pleasure Massage and Escort Services.

  —Can’t find a date to take to Thunder Beach, Regan says, buy one when you get here. Pay a little extra and get a happy ending.

  I’m about to say something when Tristan calls.

  —Ciao baby, he says. Forgot to tell you. Go to Spit On Her first.

  —Come again.

  —Spit On Her — it’s what we call Spinaker. Spinaker is Spit On Her and La Vela is Velveeta. Go to Spinaker first and tell them you work with Chris over at Pizza Hut. Should get you in. Then go to the PFM tent in front of La Vela. Tell 6-Pack I sent you. He’ll get you in. If he’s not there, look for Larry Gordan.

  —Cool. Thanks, man.

  —All part of the service.

  Located right next to La Vela, Spinaker is part club, part restaurant, and caters to a slightly older demographic.

  Tonight it’s quiet.

  Of course, it’s still early — and most people are probably at the concert next door — but I don’t think Casey called from here.

  The Gulfside Rock Arena is mostly empty — a few girls gathered around the bar, two couples at a table upstairs, a lone guitarist strumming a Jimmy Buffet tune on stage. Along the backside next to the beach, the Paradise Grill is filled with families eating hamburgers.

  We pause for a moment on the top deck and look out over Thomas Drive and the east end of the beach. Across the street, beyond the bikes and vendors, beyond the traffic and pedestrians and bar patrons, kids scream as they’re propelled over ten stories into the air between the two giant red-lit arms of the bungee Slingshot.

  We take a quick stroll through the Groove Room and the VIP Lounge, but both are quiet, the partying not having started yet.

  I’m so certain she didn’t call from here, I don’t even pull out her picture and pass it around.

  Billed as the largest nightclub in the US, La Vela is a mammoth, multi-venue facility with several parties occurring simultaneously in theme rooms. Each with its own vibe and ambiance, the rooms cater to different tastes.

  Tonight the concert coliseum on the west end of the pool deck is packed with people listening to a Lynyrd Skynyrd tribute band. As we walk in, they’re covering one of my favorite Skynyrd songs, “Simple Man,” thousands of fans in front of and around the lagoon-shaped pool swaying and singing along.

  We stand on the elevated area not far from the entrance and look around.

  People continue to pour in through the gates — bikers in jeans and leather, college-age guys in plaid shorts and T-shirts, young women in party dresses and high heels.

  Not sure where to start, I’m overwhelmed by all the various rooms — Thunderdome, Night Gallery, Underground, Rock Arena, Pussy Kat Lounge, Foam, Galaxy, Space, Dark Room, and Posh Ultra Lounge.

  We turn away from the concert and make our way up toward the entrances to the other clubs.

  —Should we split up? Regan asks.

  I shrug.

  —Probably not a bad idea.

  —Okay, she says. Call me.

  —You gonna answer if I do? I ask with a smile.

  We aren’t apart for long.

  Every room at La Vela is closed until after the concert except Thunderdome.

  —The gods are smiling on us, she says. We could’ve spent all night just at just this one place.

  We walk up the incline and into the largest of the clubs in the complex, and the moment I hear the music and DJ coming through the 75,000 watt sound system I know this could very well
be where Casey called from.

  Daric “The Hitman” Daniels is spinning dance remixes of top 40 songs in the elevated booth to the right of the giant, black, backlit V, as hundreds of people dance beneath the enormous disco ball and massive hanging truss system of rotating lights and moving cryogenics.

  Regan looks at me, and I nod.

  We both withdraw the folded cover photos of Casey we’re carrying and get to work.

  —I’ll take the first bar, she says, pointing toward the area to our left and closest to the entrance.

  —I’ll take those I say, indicating the two other bars — one in the center, one along the far wall.

  As I move further in, I call Tristan. I get his voicemail.

  —See if this sounds like Casey’s message, I shout into the phone, telling him I’ll do this at each place we go to. Text me back. No way I’ll be able to hear you in here.

  The female bartender at the center setup is the busiest in the building, but takes the time to look at the picture and pass it around to a few of the patrons who’ve been sitting there the longest. None of them have seen Casey.

  I move around the large room, looking, scanning, searching for her blond hair.

  In contrast to the adult biker crowd outside around the pool for the concert, those gathered here skew much younger — older teens and twenty-somethings — all dolled up and on the make. Singles. Couples. Girls running in small packs.

  I show the picture to anyone willing to look at it — and a few people who aren’t, but I get the same response — the shake of a head or a yelled, No, sorry, from the girls, and a, No man, ain’t seen her, from the guys.

  By the time Regan and I have gotten back together, Tristan has texted to say he’s fairly certain she didn’t call from here and that he struck out at Sweet Dreams and Sharky’s.

  Crossing Thomas Drive on foot, we enter Dysfunction Junction, through the bar in the front to the concert venue in the back. There’s a band, but no DJ.

  We hang around for a few moments to see if the lead singer says anything above the music that sounds like a DJ, but he doesn’t. Just in case, I call Tristan again and leave him a message.

  With Tristan checking Club Oxygen and Mrs. Newby’s, Regan and I head back into town to hit The Toy Box, The Gold Nugget, Stetson’s, and The Fiesta.

  —I appreciate your help, I say, but I can drop you at your car if you like.

  —What? she asks.

  —I can drop you off so you can get on home. Think I can handle it from here.