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 flaws 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…
