by Edward Lee
Mullins nodded. “All right, sounds like you’re on the mark. Keep it up, and for Christ’s sake be careful.”
Phil stood up, got ready to leave, “Don’t worry about me, boss. I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid.”
“Yeah?” Mullins said, giving him the eye. “Hobnobbing with Vicki Steele sounds pretty stupid to me.”
The comment held Phil in a momentary check. He’s just guessing, there’s no way he could know about what went on with me and Vicki last night. Absolutely no way. “Fishing season’s over, Chief. What makes you think I’m hobnobbing with her?”
“Couple things,” Mullins came back. “One, there’s a saying—old love dies hard—”
“Gimme a break, Chief,” Phil complained. “That ended ten years ago.”
“Two,” Mullins ignored him, “since she got hitched to Natter, she’s turned into a right cunning little bitch, and a pushover like you? You’d be putty in her hands.”
Phil rolled his eyes and groaned.
“And, three. If that ain’t her lipstick on your blamed neck, then whose is it? Eagle Fuckin’ Peters’?”
Phil’s eyes widened. He’s bullshitting, he convinced himself until he ran a hand across his neck.
Aw, no. Aw shit, he thought next.
His fingers came away red—
“So let me tell ya somethin’, Phil,” Mullins got back into it like a surrogate father. “You ain’t the first guy in the world to get teased by a woman, and you sure as shit ain’t the first to get teased by her. That’s a rough crowd she runs with—they’re killers. And the last thing I need is for you to start dicking her and getting yourself all tangled up again. It’s human nature, sure—men think with their peckers instead of their brains. But I hope you’re too smart to fall for her tricks.”
There was nothing Phil could say to justify last night’s accident. I fucked up, he admitted. But how could Mullins be so self-assured? “All right, Chief, you got me. I made an error in judgment.”
“An error in judgment?” Mullins blurted a stuffed-mouth laugh. “You stepped on your ever-livin’ dick is what ya did. You must’ve whizzed your common sense out the last time you took a piss. Don’t do it again. That bitch’ll make mincemeat out of ya. She’ll have ya like a regular fool, and you’ll wind up blowing your cover and maybe getting your ass killed.” Mullins aimed his big finger like a pointing stick. “Use your head, Phil. Keep out of that whore’s panties, or she’ll wind up hangin’ you with ’em.”
“Chief,” Phil had to object. “You’ve got her sounding like Lucretia Borgia. What makes you so sure she’s so dangerous, huh? Tell me that.”
“I will, smart boy.” Mullins’ heavy face darkened; again he looked like he’d sucked something intensely sour. “That night I was tellin’ you about, when we got that tip on Natter’s lab and wound up nearly getting blown away by a whole helluva lot of Creekers?”
“The night you, North, and Adams got set up,” Phil remembered. “What about it?”
Mullins’ small, hooded eyes glared in the recollection.
“It was Vicki Steele who gave us that tip,” he said.
««—»»
“Nice car, huh?” Phil joked, and opened the Malibu’s passenger door for Susan. Untold junk cluttered the back seat, cracks webbed the upholstery, and the paint job looked flat as dried mud. I should’ve at least cleaned out the back, he complained to himself. She’ll think I’m a slob.
“You’re a slob, Phil,” she said. “But don’t take that as a criticism.”
Phil started it up and gunned the old engine. “Never judge a man by his car. The Ferrari’s in the shop for a tune-up; otherwise, we’d be going out in that.”
“The Ferrari, huh?” Susan smiled at him. “I guess your razor’s in the shop too, right?”
“Hey,” Phil remarked of the several days’ stubble on his face, “you think I like to look this ratty? Working a dangerous undercover operation, it’s my professional duty to look as scummy as possible. And let me tell ya, that ain’t easy when you’re as handsome as I am.”
“Your diligence is outweighed only by your amazing modesty,” Susan replied, cranking the window down. “I do have to admit, though, you are the best-looking redneck scumbag I’ve seen in a while.”
“I’m touched by the compliment.” Phil pulled out of Old Lady Crane’s front drive and headed down the Route. “So now that I’ve finally got you out on a date, I have one very important question.”
“What’s that?”
“Where are we going?”
“Hey, you’re the one who asked me out, remember? It’s your job to make the evening’s agenda.”
“Okay. I’ll surprise you.”
Phil actually didn’t have a clue as to where to take her, but he knew he couldn’t take her anyplace in town, now that he was effectively undercover.
“So are the folks at Sallee’s buying your cover story?” Susan asked.
“Yeah, I think so.” If they thought I was a cop, they never would’ve let me into the backroom. Then a darker voice, the voice of his own guilt, perhaps, added: That’s right, Phil. And if Vicki thought you were still a cop, she sure as hell wouldn’t have been snorting coke in front of you last night, would she? And she wouldn’t have fucked you, either. You’ve got your little stoolie trained real well, buddy boy. The best of both worlds, huh? You’re using her for information, and you’re using her as a sex object. Give yourself a pat on the back.
The thoughts soured him. He didn’t want to confront them, so he got back to answering her question. “I’d be able to tell if they were wise to me. And hanging out with Eagle Peters gives me more credibility since he’s a regular. As long as I keep up a good front, I’m in.”
“That might be harder than you think,” Susan said.
“Why?”
“What if you have to prove yourself? Say you get deeper into Sallee’s crowd. Someone starts smoking dust one night, and they offer you a hit?”
It was something any undercover cop had to consider. “That’s a good question, and I guess the answer is I don’t know. In the right situation, I could probably fake it. I’ll worry about that when I have to.”
“Aren’t you scared? What about Natter and his people? If they ever got wind that you were a cop…”
“I know, and, yeah, it is a little scary. I’m gonna keep my distance from Natter. You never get the kingpin deadon, you get to him through his flunkies. I’m used to being real careful.”
He took her just out of town, to an old family-owned crabhouse with the absolutely ridiculous name, Captain Salty’s. “Oh, this is beautiful,” Susan commented when he took her out onto the back deck. Their table offered a vast view of the bay. “I never knew about this place. What a find.”
“We lucked out,” he admitted. “I wasn’t sure if they were even still in business. Great steamed crabs, though, if I remember correctly. I—”
What had he been about to say? Was he out of his mind? I used to bring Vicki here a lot. “I used to come here a lot back in the old days,” he quickly caught himself. “Sometimes the watermen will bring their boats right up to the dock and unload fresh bushels of crabs and oysters.”
Susan seemed taken by the view. A slight breeze played with her pure-blond hair. Phil couldn’t help but steal a glance; he, too, was taken by the view—but not of the bay.
Of her.
It assailed him—her plain and simple beauty. Her casual grace. Her unadorned demeanor. Again, it occurred to him that her attractiveness was the opposite of Vicki’s. It seemed more honest, more genuine. It seemed to reflect all of her at once with no veneers. No makeup, no designer clothes, no fronts; she didn’t need any of that. Phil felt lured to her.
And guilty as all hell.
How much of a chance would he stand with Susan if she knew about what had happened last night with Vicki?
He ordered a pitcher of iced tea, a dozen oysters, and a dozen steamed crabs. “I’ll pass on the oysters,” Susan said, leerin
g at the plate. “I don’t quite have it in me to eat things that are still alive.”
“It’s all a matter of conception, my dear,” Phil said, and then sucked one down whole right out of its shell. “I guarantee you, that oyster didn’t feel a thing.” When the crabs arrived, Phil gave her a quick lesson in technique. “There’s only one way to eat crabs,” he cited. “Like a barbarian.” He tore one open in his hands, then methodically began removing the meat. Throughout their meal, Phil avoided work-related topics. Instead, they talked more about her classes, her upcoming degree, her plans for the future. In a sense, he envied her; she had things to do and places to go. Just like I did, about ten years ago, he thought dryly. I hope she has better luck…
But she seemed to enjoy the restaurant, and the messy frolic of crab-eating. She also seemed to enjoy his company. Phil knew he needed to take this easy. He wanted her to be comfortable with him, and he wanted her to like him. He wasn’t quite sure what he foresaw—he just hoped it would be something good.
But something remote bothered him throughout their meal; he was too distracted by Susan to acknowledge it. He kept pushing it back—whatever it was—shoving it away. But when Susan excused herself to use the ladies’ room, the awareness socked Phil in the face—
Vicki.
And the things Mullins had implied…
Was he exaggerating, or did the chief know more about Vicki than he did? Mullins had solidly stated that it was Vicki who’d given them the phony tip the night they’d been set-up. But…
Could that be true? he wondered.
Phil slid his last crab away, reflecting. He hoped Mullins’ implications were an overstatement, but one thing that couldn’t be overstated were the goings-on last night. Christ, Phil thought. Right there on the front seat of my Malibu… Images felt charred into his head like emblems from a branding iron.
Vicki had been voracious.
He’d been surprised, even shocked. Her seduction was an avalanche; she’d assaulted him with her sexuality, baked him with it, smothered him. One minute they’d been sitting there talking, the next they were a naked tumult entwined in the front of the car. Each second seemed to proceed in a breathless succession of images—the shimmering sweep of her hair, the curve of her hips, the lines of her face—like cutaways in manic film. Her bare, hot breasts squashed hot against his chest; her skin sliding over his as if oiled. The darkness cocooned them there, the drenching heat glued them together. Her hands plied at him, desperate, quick, but knowingly precise. Her tongue churned in his mouth, her teeth nipped at him, her arms and legs tied him up securely as a mistress’s bedropes. Each touch and each caress, each moan and kiss and lick, made Phil feel another step closer to a precipice. At any second he might fall…
Vicki did things to him she’d never done in the past—things, in fact, that no other woman in his life had done.
She was wild, but—
Too wild…
She was like a predatory beast; Phil’s desires, and her own, were things she hunted down and devoured…
And when it was over, he lay exhausted, debauched, wrung out and used up. He doubted that he’d ever felt so primal in his life. As intense as the experience had been, it scarcely even felt real. There’d been no meaning in any of it, no passion. They were just two phantoms run amok in the moonlight.
And now, sitting here amongst a pile of crabshells, watching the late-afternoon sun sparkle on the bay, he regretted it all even more. The last ten years had trained Vicki well. Her life had a new master now—a cold and very dark master, an alchemist of spirits. It had turned her dreams to fodder, and her heart into a desperate, pleading little thing that had nothing to rise to, nowhere to go.
And then the black voice returned, a voice he’d been hearing a lot lately, sniping the truth he’d been aware of all along but never wanted to face:
She’s nothing now but a coked-up whore…
Phil winced into the sunlight.
And it’s your fault, isn’t it, Phil? You left her cold. You threw her to the wolves. You tossed her love back in her face and let Natter turn her into a junkie roadside hooker. Good job, Phil. You’re a first-class guy.
“Get off my back,” he whispered to the voice.
Yeah, you’re a piece of work, all right. Not only did you fuck her, you lied to her, you’re pumping her for information, you’re using her, Phil. You don’t care about her, all you care about is your goddamn case.
“Eat shit, voice.”
And look what you’re doing now. You’re on a date with a real woman, not some busted whore. What would she do, Phil? What would Susan do if she knew you fucked a whore last night, a junkie?
“Shut up…”
Are you gonna fuck her, too? Are you gonna fuck Susan like you fucked that whore last night?
“Go to hell!”
I’m already there, the voice replied. So where does that leave you?
Then it drained away.
The voice, of course, was his own, the part of his psyche that couldn’t stand himself for what he’d done and was doing. Was he really using her? Were the ruins of Vicki’s life really his fault? And was he really using those ruins, taking advantage of them for the benefit of the case?
He didn’t want to know.
His guilt stuck to him, like an incessant gnat buzzing round his ear. He felt dried up, as mentally ragged as he’d been physically last night, after his venture with Vicki.
“That was fun,” Susan said as they walked back to the car. “We should come here again sometime.”
“Yeah, it’s a great place,” Phil replied, slightly stunned. Maybe her comment was just a casual one, but if she didn’t plan on seeing him again, why would she be making such a suggestion? At the very least, he could take this as a good sign that their first date had gone well.
But it was still early, and now that Phil could pretty much set his own hours, he didn’t need to be going into work by eight p.m.
Where do I take her now?
“Hey, Phil,” she said, “I know this is going to sound really lame, but—”
“Let me guess,” he said, and opened the car door for her. “You have to go home early tonight.”
“No, I have to go to the library.”
“The library?” Phil’s face crinkled. “What for?”
“I left some of my school books there last night. I want to pick them up before somebody rips them off. Do you mind?”
Phil almost laughed. At least now he didn’t have to think of a place to go next. “No problem. Next stop, the library.”
He started the car, was about to pull out, when she added, “And thanks for dinner.”
Then she leaned over and kissed him very lightly on the lips.
— | — | —
Eighteen
The trip to the county library, in Millersville, had taken them back down the Route, across town. “Look, more Creekers,” Susan pointed out when they cruised past the intersection of the Old Governor’s Bridge Road.
Phil spotted them.
Two figures trudged along, a boy in his late teens and a much younger girl, probably his sister. They dragged old burlap sacks behind them, no doubt full of discarded bottles and cans which they’d scrounged from beneath the bridge. Lots of the local punks parked just off the bridge at night, swilling beer and chucking the empties over the side into the water. The litter eventually washed up onto the creekbed, where hillfolk, mostly Creeker kids, would pick it up and sell it for pennies per pound to the recyclers. Picking up junk was all the employment most of these kids would ever have.
Susan, in remorse, turned her face away as they passed. “Christ, that’s sad. Those poor kids.”
“Yeah,” Phil agreed. “I see them all the time now, collecting garbage, or fishing off the streams with strings in the water.”
He’d caught only a glimpse of the pair, filthy, disheveled, in threadbare clothes going to rot. The little girl had no right arm, while the boy possessed arms that were overly long
, his hands swinging down past his knees. Their misshapen heads turned, two pairs of tiny scarlet eyes glancing up hopelessly as Phil’s car drove past.
“Some Creekers seem a lot worse off than others,” he observed. “Like those two there—Christ.”
“The way I understand it is it’s kind of like a genetic potluck,” Susan said. “The more these little societies inbreed among themselves, the more deformed they are. Some of the reproductive genes are more defective than others.”
Last night’s excursion into Sallee’s backroom was good proof of that. The Creeker girls Phil had seen dancing were obviously birth defected, yet they also had inherited plenty of normal, and even beautiful, physical traits. Some of them, in fact, couldn’t even be distinguished as Creekers at all, until he’d looked hard.
“And the strangest thing is Natter himself,” Phil went on, following the Route down to the turnoff onto the county expressway. “He’s so big and deformed, but I also remember him being very smart.”
“I don’t know that much about it,” Susan said, “but I did take a sociology class a few years ago on dissociated cultures. Inbred societies aren’t that uncommon, even in this day and age. It’s typical for certain members to have extraordinarily high I.Q.’s while being physically deformed at the same time. And it’s these people who are always the leaders.”
“That fits Natter to a tee.”
“Well, if you want to know more about it, we’re going to the right place.”
Yeah, he realized. The library. Natter was a Creeker, and his PCP operation was run by Creekers. It would be a good idea for Phil to find out as much about them as possible. Then he could deal with them more effectively and with more cognizance.
The library was antiquated: a file card index system instead of a computer, which he was used to from his college days. Susan helped him find his way around after she retrieved her books. They located several titles on the subject, from the very basic—Inbred Life in Appalachia to the very clinical—Genetic Reproductive Defectivity and the Human Genetic Transfection Process.
