on, their bulbous heads bobbing in glee. Druck’s knife flashed, cutting an expert seam from the girl’s pubis to her chest.
“Soup’s on, boys!” he exclaimed.
The three of them, then, sloppily disemboweled the girl where she lay, reveling in a wet, noisy festival of gore. Hands dipped down and came away red. Jabbers of enthusiasm rose above the sounds of evisceration. Organs were promptly scooped up and consumed…
Natter’s hand released the back of Vicki’s head; her eyes fled away.
“Oh, my love,” creaked the monstrous man’s voice. “Never lie to me, or else they’ll do the same to you.”
— | — | —
Fifteen
“No Ric Flair tonight?” Phil asked when he pulled up a stool.
The bizarre barkeep gestured toward the TV. “Flair, the Nature Boy, the Champion of Champions? Naw, ya missed him. He’s already been on, whupped the tar out of Rocky Johnson. Like he says, to be the man, you have to beat the man. Right now we got Terrific Terry Taylor mixing it up with Rick Morton.”
“Ah,” Phil said. “Of course.”
“Bottle of Bud? Hot dog?”
“Just…a bottle of Bud.”
Sallee’s was buzzing, the crowd waiting for the next dancer. Phil glanced around. Well-bosomed waitresses in ludicrously tight tops wended orders between tables like tight-ropists. Same crowd as last night—Generic rednecks, Phil thought. Is that all these people do? Bum around in strip joints? Lights throbbed idly above the vacant dance stage, through lolling sheets of cigarette smoke. Hoarse laughter erupted every so often, and the bar, in its casual discourse, was not lacking in foul language and bad jokes. “Hey, what are two words you never wanna hear in the men’s locker room?” “What?” “‘Nice dick.’” “You got ten gals with PMS and ten gals with yeast infections, what’ve ya got?” “What?” “A whine and cheese party!” Brilliant, Phil thought. He didn’t see Eagle anywhere, nor Vicki; he felt immediately foolish sitting at the bar by himself He frowned up at the wrestling foolery on the TV. These guys probably spend more money per year on hair bleach than I spend on car insurance. The keep was peddling shriveled hot dogs at one end of the bar, while two bearded guys at the other end nearly got into a fight arguing over whether cast aluminum engine blocks were more durable than cast iron. Next, they’ll be arguing over who should win the Nobel Prize for Literature, Phil joked over his beer. But this night was no joke. His lame distractions coaxed him to forget he had a job to do, yet he continued to do exactly what Mullins—and professionalism in general— warned him never to do: Take things personally. His mind kept homing back—to Vicki, and the dusting of cocaine she’d left in his bathroom.
Addict, the word kept haunting him.
Eventually the next dancer came on, a blond who was surely half-inebriated as she plunged her routine into another nondescript heavy metal tune. A snake seemed to peer from her navel, but then Phil realized it was a tattoo. Small, weathered breasts jiggled with each high-heeled step, like slackened bags of gel, and wires of black pubic hair leaked from the seams of a flesh-colored g-string.
One thing Phil eventually came to notice, though, in spite of his despondency, was an influx of patrons crossing the bar toward the men’s room but never returning, and as he became more aware of this, he tried to pay more attention without being conspicuous.
What the hell’s going on back there?
A cramped hallway in the corner led to the men’s room, and right next to it stood a door. A funny-looking kid in overalls waited beside the door itself, arms crossed and stone-faced. A Creeker, Phil ascertained. The gaunt features and enlarged head left no doubt. One periodic redneck after another approached the kid, bypassed the men’s room, and after a moment of discussion, was granted permission to pass through the cryptic door. It seemed almost as if the Creeker kid was guarding it.
Maybe it’s a billiard room or arcade or something, Phil suggested to himself, but that wouldn’t make sense.
Why would the kid be guarding it? Then Phil thought back: When he’d first started staking the lot, hadn’t he heard several patrons mention something about a back room?
A hand slapped on his back. Phil jumped.
“Hey, man. How’s it going?”
Eagle, his long blond hair in his face, pulled up the next stool and ordered a beer.
“Can’t complain,” Phil answered. “Well, I guess I could, but why bother? What’s up with you?”
“Same old, same old.” Eagle craned to view the current dancer, then quickly frowned. “Looks like she’s dancing with cinderblocks tied to her feet.”
“Give her a break, Eagle. She probably just got out of Harvard Law School but hasn’t quite found the right firm.”
Eagle chuckled and swigged some beer. “I don’t know where they dig some of these girls up. Sure, some of them are all right, but most of ’em look like death warmed up. Vicki blows them all away.”
“Yeah,” Phil replied but thought: Yeah, I’ll bet she does, when she’s not blowing Natter’s coke up her nose.
Another thrashing song thumped on the juke, waves of grinding guitars like chainsaws in tempo. The crowd haphazardly applauded when the dancer stood on her head and parted her long, pale legs, no easy task for a drunk. Phil and Eagle small-talked a while, but in the corner of his eye, Phil detected still more scruffy patrons shuffling rearward, to the door beside the Creeker kid.
“Hey, Eagle? What’s in there?”
“Where?” Eagle asked.
“That door back there. I keep seeing guys walking over and talking to that kid. Then the kid lets them in.”
“You don’t want to know, man. It’s a gross-out.”
“A gross-out?” Phil pondered this, and came up with nothing. “Come on, what gives? They got pool tables back there or something? Let’s go shoot a few games.”
Eagle chuckled again, more darkly this time. “Ain’t gonna shoot no pool in there, man. It’s the back room. I been in there once, but I’ll tell ya, I wish I hadn’t.”
Phil couldn’t figure this one out. Gambling? Cock fights? He wanted to find out what was cooking. “What? I gotta guess? Fill me in.”
Eagle swept some of his shoulder-length hair out of his face, to reveal the sourest of smirks. “They got a second stage back there,” he replied.
“What, you mean more girls?”
“Yeah, man. More girls,” he said, dour.
Why’s he balking? Phil wondered. “Well, this gal here isn’t exactly setting the world on fire; looks like she might die before the next set. Let’s go check out this other room, see these other girls.”
“It ain’t like out here, Phil,” Eagle finally confessed. “They got Creeker girls working the back.”
Phil’s beer went flat in his mouth; he nearly gasped. “Creeker girls? Stripping?”
“That’s right, partner. The cream of the crop. They all look great—till you take a second glance. Believe me, man, it’s a gross-out. That’s the draw. The only people who go back there are kinks and sickos.”
Phil eyed the door. Creeker strippers. He’d already seen some, that first night of his stakeout, with his binoculars. He couldn’t imagine who would want to witness such a thing, but then he remembered what Eagle had just said. Kinks. Sickos. Yeah, Natter’s really got himself a prize here. Shit. It seemed ultimately perverse, and an even more ultimate exploitation, but Phil doubted that the girls were underage. Natter would never be that stupid.
So why was there a doorman?
Only one way to find out, Phil. Ask. “How come that kid’s watching the door?”
“It’s private. Cody Natter doesn’t let just anyone go back there, only friends or regulars. Things would get too rowdy otherwise. The kid’s name is Druck, one of Natter’s gofers.”
