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.
— | — | —
