“No time for that. Just head for the VIP section.”
Before he could set the parking brake, Prophet was waved around the building to park in the employee lot next to Paige’s Cav. A bouncer held the door open for them, grinning anxiously and focusing his attention on the bounty hunter.
“So where are you guys from?” the young burly kid asked. Cole’s reply was only, “Cicero.”
“What about you, sir? Are you with the Bears? Maybe the Bulls?”
Although Walter wasn’t a small man, he still had to lift his chin in order to look into the bouncer’s eyes. “Do I look like a basketball player to you?”
“I guess not. It’s usually the athletes that get the special treatment, though. Are you a rapper?”
Shaking his head, Walter strode past the bouncer and caught up to Cole. “I don’t know if that boy’s racist or just stupid.”
“The smile seemed genuine,” Cole replied, “so I’d go with stupid.”
They were greeted by a skinny blonde wearing short shorts, high heels, no shirt, and suspenders that were just wide enough to cover the nipples of her pert little breasts. Her smile was a bit forced and crinkled her face just enough to create a few breaks in her sparkly makeup. “You’re Cole?” she asked.
“Yeah. Where’s Miss Naughtygale?”
“She’s seeing another patient right now.”
“What about the other blonde?”
“You’ll have to be a little more specific.”
“The one with the magic fingers,” Cole said.
That caused the dancer to look at him with renewed interest. “So you’re here for the
“Now you got it. My friend and I are headed to St. Louis.”
Pausing at a metal door that practically rattled from all the bass thumping from the next room, the blonde said, “Come on in and have a seat. I’ll send someone right over.”
Once inside the main room, the music was too loud for Cole to hear himself think. The blonde didn’t even try to talk as she strutted to a little round table away from the stage, pointed to a pair of chairs and waved toward a group of drooling beer drinkers who sat closer to the stage.
“Think I’ve got enough time for some food?”
“Sure, Prophet. Knock yourself out.”
For the next two hours Cole sat at his table, sifting through various news sites and scanning their coverage of the Philadelphia incident as well as reports of the fire at Raza Hill. When the blonde in suspenders walked by again, Prophet said, “I think she’s sizing us up for the rest of the nymphs.”
“We’ve already been sized up and she’s not a nymph.”
“How can you tell?”
“She’s wearing makeup.”
As if to show the comparison firsthand, another blonde approached the table. She was the one who’d greeted Cole when he stepped into Pinups the first time and she radiated a subtle glow even though not one of the club’s many lights were pointed at her. “I just got finished with a marathon session in the back,” she said. “Should have enough fuel in my tanks to send both of you through now.”
Prophet looked toward a section of the club that was roped off from the main room. It was a collection of couches on a raised platform, surrounded by a veil just thick enough to provide a bit of privacy without sacrificing security. Two young men helped an older one down the three steps leading to the main floor. Judging by the sweat on his brow and the constant heaving of his chest, he was the lucky customer with the deep pockets.
“This’ll tap us out for a while,” she added, “so you might not be able to come back through here right away.”
“Cool,” Cole said without looking up from his phone. “Are we ready to go?”
“Sure thing, sweetie. Come this way.”
Cole stuffed his phone into his pocket, adjusted the flannel shirt he wore over his T-shirt to cover the spear’s harness, and followed the Dryad. At first her footsteps were barely hard enough to tap against the tiles. By the time she’d put on her game face and climbed up to the side stage, however, they knocked like battering rams against the floor. The crowd roared and all three of the Dryads in attendance announced their presence by letting out a chorus of sublime tones from voices that entwined around one another much like the flowing symbols on the arch near the beaded entrance to the VIP section. Crisp green energy crackled. A whiff of fresh air drifted through the room, and Cole waved to the jealous onlookers as he stepped through. Prophet went next and emerged to find himself in another part of the country.
The bounty hunter blinked, looked around, pulled in a breath and let it out.
“Thought there’d be more, right?” Cole asked.
Nodding like a kid who just realized the toy he’d been longing for was nothing but a set of molded plastic pieces, Prophet asked, “So where to now?”
The temple was located in a small room inside a club that wasn’t quite as large as Pinups. A large green sign on one wall spelled out the words THE EMERALD in neon handwriting over the bar. Since Rico was nowhere to be found, Cole took his phone from his pocket and headed for another table. “We wait for our ride. There’s another buffet over there.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Twenty minutes after making his call, a dark-haired woman drifted toward them in a swirl of purple silk and a scent that reached down to stroke the core of a mortal’s libido. “If there’s anywhere else you need to go, I’m sure I can arrange to have you sent there.”
“Hey, Tristan.”
Prophet shot up from his chair so quickly that he nearly dumped his plate of tuna casserole and crab Rangoon onto the floor. “Tristan! You’re working here? What happened to Wisconsin?”
“Hello, Walter,” she said while touching his cheek. “Wisconsin’s fine. I move around a lot, especially now that we don’t have to lay quite as low. Off to St. Louis with Cole?”
“Yeah, Stanley wants to hear about what’s going on with the Nymar.”
Cole took his eyes completely away from the phone in his hand for the first time since he’d picked up the Wi-Fi signal. “What?”
Wincing as though he’d temporarily lost custody of his mouth, Walter replied, “You remember my boss. Stanley Velasco? Paige still owes him for springing you out of that jail in St. Lou.”
“Sure you can’t stay here with me?” Tristan purred.
Walter’s temptation was so great that the conflicting gears grinding within his head almost started smoking. Finally he said, “No, I really need to see what these guys are up to. Unlike Cole and the rest of the dudes with sticks, I got a real job that needs to be looked after.”
“Every man’s got a stick that needs looking after,” she said.
Cole laughed and rubbed her shoulder as he stood up. “You’re usually a little classier than that, Tristan.”
“Water seeks its own level. Looks like your friend is here. You two be good.”
Rico stood in the doorway leading to the small room where cover charges were collected. The big man gave them a quick upward nod and waited impatiently as Prophet and Cole met him at the exit.
Once outside, Cole got a cool and damp welcome to East St. Louis. A light mist spattered across his face, but there was still an underlying heat that he’d come to believe was permanently soaked into the Missouri air. Rico climbed into an SUV and had the engine going by the time Cole and Prophet joined him. His bristly, graying hair was flattened on one side and slightly bloodied on the other. The dark circles under his eyes and the rumpled state of his clothes made it even tougher for Cole to tell whether Rico had just gotten out of a fight or climbed out of bed.
“What’s the good word?” the big man asked as he pulled on a heavy leather jacket made from patchwork sections of tanned shapeshifter hide interspersed with narrow strips of thick canvas. The jacket was laced up both sides, sported more than a few shallow battle scars, and smelled like cigarette smoke.
“Shampoo,” Cole replied.
Rico looked over at him and then to Prophet. “Hey there, Walter. You got something to say that ain’t frickin’ crazy?” After a small amount of consideration, Prophet replied, “Nah.”
“Make that two words,” Cole added. “Shampoo banana.”
