by Edward Lee
Vicki’s going to be in there, and she’s going to see me.
He left his off-duty Beretta locked in the glove box; the last thing he needed was some, drunk redneck spotting his piece printing in his pants. And there was another consideration: Vicki knew that Phil had worked for Metro; he had a phony line all planned about a new job—a non-police job. Another thing he didn’t need was everybody in the joint knowing a cop lurked amid the clientele. That would blow the whole stakeout right then and there.
KRAZY SALLEE’S, the high roadsign blinked as he disembarked. His boots scuffed gravel as he traversed the lot. Lurid light bathed him in the entry; a bull-faced bouncer gave him the eye at the door, then let him pass through. Phil expected thunderous—and awful—heavy metal or C&W. Instead he walked into a half-full bar full of similarly flannel-shirted ’necks talking over tables flanked by beer bottles and ashtrays. I thought this was a rowdy stripjoint, he reminded himself when he took note of the empty stage. Loud music and near-naked women were what he had prepared himself to be in the midst of. What he found instead was a lethargic gathering of good old boys shooting the shit over bottles of Black Label and Schmidt’s.
No one seemed to notice him when he scouted the floor; he tried to make it appear that he was looking for someone. The only thing he was looking for in reality was a seat. Sallee’s layout hadn’t changed an iota from what he remembered. Cheap tables packed around makeshift aisles, a carpet of crushed peanut shells and beer slime, warped wood walls with tacky upholstered booths in back. Every possible beer-ad-plaque hung in evidence: Budweiser mirrors, Schlitz wall lamps, Michelob neon squiggles, a Killian’s mural, and an illuminated Miller clock. What else hung in evidence was a shifting—and nearly living—wall of cigarette smoke. Phil had never taken up the habit, but he suspected he’d be getting more tar and nicotine just breathing the air here than chaining a pack of Camels. Next time wear a gas mask with your flannel shirt, bud.
He wanted an inconspicuous seat from which to observe, but then the barkeep, a thin blond guy wearing a Jeff Dahmer T-shirt, waved him over. “Plenty of seats up at the bar, brother.”
Good enough, Phil thought. At the bar corner he wouldn’t be obvious. Another thing he knew he had to do was order a beer, despite his being on duty. When working undercover in a strip joint, ordering Pepsi didn’t emphasize one’s credibility.
Only problem was, Phil hated American beer.
“Heineken,” he said.
“Ain’t got it, brother,” enlightened the keep. “We’re all Americans here. You want your money to go to Holland? What they ever do for you besides balk out of World War Two while your daddy was probably getting his ass shot at by the Waffen SS.”
“Bottle of Bud,” Phil fairly groaned.
“Comin’ right up.”
Phil glanced up at the TV mounted high at the back corner of the bar. He wondered what the Yankees were doing but saw only dismal pro wrestling on the color screen: a black guy and a big blond schmuck suplexing each other to a slavering crowd. When the keep brought his Bud, Phil asked, “How about switching on some baseball? The Yanks are on tonight, hopefully whipping the shit out of Baltimore.”
“What, grapplin’s not good enough for ya? It’s the all-American sport.” The keep seemed offended by Phil’s suggestion. He gestured toward the screen. “We got Ric Flair tusslin’ with Bruce Reed here, brother. You’d rather watch the Yankees?”
Don’t make waves, Phil warned himself. “Oh, shit, man, I didn’t realize it was Bruce Flair. Keep it on, man.”
The keep frowned. “That’s Ric Flair, brother. He’s only been heavyweight champ ten friggin’ times.”
“Yeah, yeah, Ric Flair. Best black wrestler in the sport.”
The thin keep frowned again. “Reed’s the black guy.”
“Right,” Phil faltered. “It’s been a while since I’ve caught any…grapplin’.”
The keep slid away, leaving Phil feeling like a horse’s ass. Can I help it I don’t know who Ric fucking Flair is? Right now, on the TV, Mr. Flair seemed to be getting his clock seriously cleaned by the black guy. But then Phil noticed the obvious incongruity: both wrestlers looked like they had three-pound rockfish stuffed in their trunks. Either those guys both have ten-inch dicks or they’re big fans of Idaho potatoes.
So this was what rednecks did? Hang out in strip joints with no girls on the stage and watch wrestling and drink Budweiser? There must be more to life than that. “Hey, man?” Phil flagged the keep again.
“Yeah, brother?”
“This a strip joint or a social club?” Phil indicated the empty stage. “Ric Flair’s fine, but I was kinda hoping to catch some chicks.”
“You’re not from around here, are ya?” the keep sideswiped the question. “Haven’t seen you around.”
“Actually I am from around here, but I just moved back to town. Name’s Phil.” He extended his hand.
The keep didn’t shake it. “Wayne. We’re in between sets right now. You want women, just keep your shirt on a few. We got women comin’ out that’ll mow you down like a county-prison weed-whacker crew.”
“Sounds good,” Phil feigned. But—A county-prison weed-whacker crew?
“And we got a two-for-one special on hot dogs tonight,” the keep added. “Best dogs you’ve ever had.”
Phil got the gist quick. A lighted rotisserie hosted a lone hot dog that looked like it had been cooking in there for about a month. Rule Number One, he thought. Never cut down wrestling in a redneck strip joint.
The Bud tasted awful. They should pay me to drink this swill. He was so bored so fast, that he contemplated paying up and leaving right now, but that would blow his cover too, wouldn’t it? Try to fit in, he insisted to himself. He glanced up at the wrestling and saw Mr. Flair hitting the black wrestler over the head with a metal chair, then pinning him. The crowd roared in a glee that could only be described as sociopathic. But then Phil started; at the same time the patrons of Krazy Sallee’s began to applaud with equal enthusiasm, and it wasn’t because of the wrestling.
Phil craned his neck back, eyed the stage.
Amid applause as loud as cannon fire, a woman in sheer crimson veils stepped up onto the lit stage in five-inch high heels. Tousled red hair shimmered around her head like a halo of fire. Long coltish legs rose to join a zero-fat body of perfect curves and awesome contours. With feet apart and hands on hips, her eyes scanned the crowd in a predatory glare. Her breasts jutted beneath the sheer material, tight chiffon orbs the size of grapefruits.
The juke kicked on a loud, obnoxious heavy metal cut, and the girl on stage began to dance.
“Happy now, brother?” the keep asked, wiping a glass off with the edge of his Dahmer T-shirt.
Phil felt like something shrinking, like a robust plant being drained of all its water by a parasitic taproot. The woman on stage was Vicki Steele, and what was worse, after her first stage-spin under the pulsing strobe lights, she skimmed off her top veil, stopped on a dime and looked right into Phil’s eyes.
««—»»
The night—a beautiful night—unfolded to Cody Natter’s inbred crimson eyes. “Beautiful things are made for nights like these. Glorious things. Powerful things…”
“Huh?”
It was no matter. So many of his clan were weakheaded; how could he ever expect them to understand the things he saw? God had cursed them all, hadn’t He?
Ona, he thought idly. Mannona, come to us…
One day, he knew, he would sit in equal glory, and piss in God’s pious face.
“Fireflies!” Druck exclaimed. “Look-it!”
“Yes. They’re beautiful, aren’t they? Like the night, like the moon above us. Like the world.”
“Like Ona?”
Yes.
Druck scratched his stubbled cheek with the two thumbs on his left hand. In his right hand, he held the knife.
Natter looked down at the corpse. So beautiful, too, he realized. Even in death, she lay beautiful, despite the fla
ws of their Godly curse. The sallow moon shone faintly on the still-warm breasts, the sleek legs, and abyssal black hair. Her open eyes reflected the night back like the pristine face of the cosmos.
Druck, on one knee now, appraised the hollow gourd of her abdomen. His blade glittered pastily with blood, and he passed his other hand through the detached pile of her entrails…
The boy got carried away sometimes.
“You’d best bury her now, Druck.”
Druck looked confused. “But… What’s ’bout skeetinner?
“No, Druck. Just bury her.”
The seemingly eternal night-racket—peepers, crickets, grackles—throbbed around them. Druck’s simple idiot face gazed upward, a question struggling in the warped, uneven red eyes. The sweetmeat of the girl’s spleen drooped slack in his hand. “Kin I eat some of her first, then? ‘Fore I put her in the ground?”
“Yes, Druck,” Cody Natter granted. “You may eat some of her first.”
««—»»
The Budweiser was killing him. And so were the flashing lights and the infernal music. Last call approached; Vicki had seductively danced a four-song set, then disappeared, only to be replaced by other women who likewise twirled and spun and gyrated until they’d stripped themselves down to their g-strings. Phil paid them no mind; seeing Vicki had been impact enough. He was sure she’d noticed him, but at the end of her set, she’d merely walked off the stage and retreated to the dressing room. Seeing her again, after all this time, was like seeing a ghost.
The last dancer bumped and grinded to Twisted Sister, baring her breasts as a wolf bares its teeth. She was attractive enough, but Phil preferred to stare into his beer. What am I doing here? he asked himself disgustedly. He certainly wasn’t making any observations relevant to the case. And where was Vicki? What was she doing? What was she doing right now?
Probably blowing some redneck scumbag out in the parking lot, came his worst considerations.
“Last chance, brother.” It was the keep, meandering behind the bar now as Sallee’s crowd quickly thinned.
For some reason, the keep’s head reminded Phil of a big sweet potato. “No thanks, no more beer for me.”
“No, I mean the hot dog.” The keep pointed to the wizened grease-sheened thing revolving lazily in the lit rotisserie. “If you don’t want it, I’m gonna have it.”
Phil thought of a lone car on a dilapidated ferris wheel. “It’s all yours, brother,” he said.
“Suit yourself. Don’t know what you’re missing.”
Time to get out of this hole in the wall, Phil concluded. I got better things to do than talk to this guy about hot dogs. He was about to reach for his wallet, to pay for the wreckage of this dismal night, when suddenly—
“Hey! Hey, man!”
A hand was shoving him from behind. Did I get made already? he feared as the hand continued to jostle him.
“Aren’t you Phil Straker?”
Christ. Phil turned on his barstool to face a tall guy, dressed in similar redneck garb, with blond hair down past his shoulders. “Yeah, I’m Phil Straker,” Phil admitted.
The half-drunk grin heightened. “I guess you don’t remember me—gotta admit, it’s been awhile. We went to school together. I’m—”
“Holy shit,” Phil said when the recognition finally sparked. “Eagle? Eagle Peters?”
“That’s right, man.”
What a mind-blow this was. They shook hands vigorously. “Christ,” Phil said. “I haven’t seen you since high school. So what’ve you been up to?”
“Nothin’ much, same old dickin’ around,” Eagle answered. “Got into some trouble up north a few years back, but I’m squared away now. Hangin’ sheetrock in north county when there’s work. I heard you were a city cop.”
Phil figured Eagle had probably “heard” a bit more than that, so he tailored his spiel. “Not anymore. I got fired, but the job sucked anyway. That cop shit wasn’t for me. I’m working for a landscaper now.”
“Planting bushes and pulling weeds doesn’t seem your style.”
“It ain’t, but a buck’s a buck.”
Eagle laughed. Phil paid his tab—a wopping six dollars—and walked out to the lot with his childhood friend. Gravel dust flurried as countless pickup trucks idled toward the exits.
“Must’ve been a bummer, huh?” Eagle said.
“What’s that?”
“You know. Walking into the joint and seein’ your ex up on the stage doing a strip routine.”
“It was no big deal,” Phil lied. “I’d heard she was working here. She still looks good, I’ll tell you that.”
“She’s the hottest ticket in the joint these days,” Eagle informed him. “But she really took a nosedive since you left town.”
“What do you mean?”
“Forget it, man. Let’s just say that she’s into a whole lot of shit that you don’t want to hear about.”
Yes I do! Phil wanted to yell. But he held back. Eagle was just the kind of information source Phil needed to get a line on the underside of the town. It was best not to press the guy, better to slowly cultivate his trust. Besides, all Eagle probably meant was Vicki’s plummet into prostitution, which, thanks to Mullins’ photographic enlightenment, Phil already knew about. I hope that’s what he means, Phil thought. What could be worse than that?
“Gotta get rolling,” Eagle said. “Got an early job tomorrow, hanging rock in Millersville.”
“It was great seeing you again, Eagle. You hang out here much?”
“Most nights. Let’s get together soon and shoot the shit.”
“Will do. Take care of yourself.”
They forked off. Eagle got into a beat-up Chevy four-runner—Phil memorized the plates, an occupational instinct—and filed out of the lot. How weird. Phil hadn’t given Eagle Peters a thought since the dreams had recurred, and now here the guy was in the flesh. And what had he meant about getting into trouble up north? And that stuff about Vicki—could Eagle have been implying that she was into more than just roadside trick-turning, or was Phil just being paranoid?
I’m being paranoid, he insisted to himself. He got into the Malibu, started it up, and sat a moment. So much gravel dust rose in the lot he could barely see, just as too many thoughts cropped up in his head, too much marauding him at once, from too many tangents: Mullins’ PCP case, Eagle, Susan, the Metro sham, and, of course, Vicki.
Vicki…
…she’s into a whole lot of shit that you don’t want to hear about…
“God,” he muttered. This was no good at all. He’d only had two beers, but he felt drunk in drenched images. Her dance routine ground in replay in his mind, like a lewd, overbright film loop—garish strobe lights pawing at her flawless body, her red hair a shimmering dark fire about her sleek shoulders, and the large breasts—which he’d once caressed in total love—displayed on her chest like prime raw meat in a butcher’s case…
Bait, no doubt, for her new trade.
“Yeah, the hottest ticket in the joint, and I used to be in love with her.”
He felt pathetic, a putz, a wimp. Pining over a relationship that didn’t work. But—
Why didn’t it work?
Because of me, he thought. She’s a stripper and a whore now…because I abandoned her in this shit-pit of a town.
He flicked on his headlights, prepared to pull out and head back to the station. But through the mist of dust, he spotted Cody Natter’s big maroon Chrysler rumbling up to Sallee’s entrance, and out of that same entrance Vicki Steele emerged, high heels at the ends of her long legs, a skin-tight blue sequin dress tight as frost about her body. She leaned over, was about to get into Natter’s car, then she paused. Erected herself. And turned around… Through the gray dust, she stared. She was staring right at Phil’s headlights. Phil’s heart sank. More dust rose in the wake over another pickup truck, and when it eventually cleared, Vicki, along with Natter’s long dark-scarlet car, was gone.
— | — | —
; Twelve
Phil came in off his shift at about seven a.m., to take care of the night’s paperwork and, much more importantly, to get the coffee brewing before Chief Mullins came in at eight. Susan hadn’t asked him how things had gone at Sallee’s when he’d come back to the station last night to change back into his uniform; perhaps she sensed his mental disarray.
What a night…
The entirety of his shift was haunted by thoughts and images of Vicki Steele.
He tried to clear his head, and sat at Mullins’ big desk to finish off his DOR, but then he noticed the sheet of paper on the blotter. MISSING PERSON’S REPORT, it read; somebody named Orndorf had been reported missing by somebody named Sullivan. “Hey, Susan,” he called out. “What’s this missing person’s report here on the chief’s desk?”
Susan, from her commo cubby, answered rather snidely, “It’s…a missing person’s report.”
“Funny. I mean, what’s the scoop? You know either of these guys?”
“Nope.”
“How’d this guy Sullivan look?”
“Like a typical creep. He came in about an hour ago, filed the report because he said he hadn’t seen his buddy Orndorf in several weeks.”
Phil’s eyes scanned down the sheet of paper. “Why’d he file it here? These guys don’t even live in Crick City.”
“Yeah, but the last place Orndorf was seen was in our juris. At Krazy Sallee’s as a matter of fact.”
Sallee’s? Hmmm. But why should Phil even care? Nine times out of ten, a missing persons was nothing. The guy probably owed a bundle in alimony or child support, so he blew town and didn’t tell anyone. Happened all the time.
He went back to his DOR, but still, something was bothering him. Eagle’s words: She’s into a whole lot of shit that you don’t want to hear about.
“Hey, Susan,” he called out again. “Do me a favor and run a rap check on Vicki Steele, will ya?”
Did she actually chuckle? “Checking out the ex, huh?”
