Creekers. Part 11

"h.e.l.l no. Why don't you just admit it, you're stalling. You don't want to go in there 'cos-"

"Because why, Chief? Because I know I'll run into Vicki? Is that what you're driving at?"

"Well, yeah," Mullins said, and spat into his ubiquitous paper cup. "I think you're a little bit chicken to run into her again. Christ, you dumped the poor girl like a load of heavy diapers."

Phil simmered in his seat. "I did not dump her, Chief. And keep in mind I've been a cop for over ten years. I do know how to keep my personal past separate from my job." Phil felt convinced of this, but he also felt...a sudden distant queasiness. "You want me to go in there, Chief. Fine, I will."

Mullins packed a pinch more Red Man into his jowl-if it was tobacco, he chewed it: snuff, leaf, plugs. "Glad to hear it, Phil." Then he spat a big one. "Get your a.s.s in there tonight."

Eleven.

"What are you nervous about?"Susan asked behind her Motorola station base.

"I'm not nervous," Phil a.s.serted. He'd just changed into his street clothes in Mullins' office, then came out to the commo room. It was just past midnight.

"Not nervous, huh?" Did she smile? "Looks to me like you're about to tinkle in your jockey shorts."

"How do you know I don't wear boxers?" Phil quickly changed the topic. He changed it, he knew now, because he was nervous, and he also knew why.

Evidently so did Susan. "It must be the girl, huh? Vicki what's-her-name, your ex-fiancee?"

Phil seethed. "No, it is not. Christ, can't Mullins keep his mouth closed about anything?" He shuddered to think what else the dubious chief had told her.

"Did you really dump her 'cos she wouldn't move?"

"No, I did not! Jesus!"

"Don't get whipped up. I was just asking," she said, adjusting the frequency modulator on the radio. "And if you don't mind my saying so, you make a great-looking redneck."

"I've never been more flattered." But he supposed she was right. Tight, tapered Levis over pointed s.h.i.t-kicker boots, a big buck knife on his belt, and a black-and-red flannel shirt. It astounded him how the societal contingent colloquially thought of as "rednecks" insisted on wearing flannel shirts even in the middle of summer. He'd also slicked his hair back with Score.

"Look at the bright side," Susan added, cueing her mike once. "How many guys actually get paid to sit in strip joints?"

"Hmm, you're right. It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it. Might as well be me. Anyway, I'm out of here. I'll be back around two."

"Wait, wait," she was suddenly complaining. She got up from behind her console. "Don't you know anything about redneck fashion? You've got to show some hair."

"Pardon me?"

She walked right up to him, so close he could smell her herbal shampoo. Phil was six-feet even, while Susan stood about five-seven. He looked down at her, instinctively noting the lean compactness of her body, the sudden proportion of her waist and hips, and the stunning white-blond hair. In the small "v" of her blouse, he spied a breast satcheled in a plain beige bra. The simple, beautiful image nearly shook him.

Then she began unb.u.t.toning his shirt.

"What, uuuuuuh," he asked, "what are you doing?"

"I told you. You have to show some hair. It's the redneck's version of a tie."

"Oh," Phil replied.

She unb.u.t.toned his shirt all the way to his solar plexus, then fluffed it out some. "There, that's much better," she said. "Now you look like a true Crick City redneck." Her eyes thinned momentarily, and her mouth turned up in the slightest grin. "Nice pecs, too. If you don't mind my saying so."

Jesus, he thought as she went back to her commo cubby. "That's all? Just nice?"

"Get out of here," she said, laughing.

Nice pecs. Well, he thought. He hadn't touched a barbell in five years, but at least Susan's remark, even if she hadn't been serious, offered him a welcome diversion during the drive. He realized, most fully now, that what Mullins had accused him of this morning was absolutely on the mark. I'm a f.u.c.king nervous wreck, he admitted after parking in Sallee's dusty gravel lot. And he realized two things more, just as fully: 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 pa.s.s 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 s.h.i.t 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 sh.e.l.ls 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 a.s.s 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 s.h.i.t 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, s.h.i.t, 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 a.s.s. Can I help it I don't know who Ric f.u.c.king 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 d.i.c.ks 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 gla.s.s 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? G.o.d 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 p.i.s.s in G.o.d'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 flaws of their G.o.dly curse. The sallow moon shone faintly on the still-warm b.r.e.a.s.t.s, 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 pa.s.sed 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 b.u.mped and grinded to Twisted Sister, baring her b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 sc.u.mbag 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 s.h.i.t," Phil said when the recognition finally sparked. "Eagle? Eagle Peters?"