by Peter Hartog
I finished what was left in the mug and looked out the window, watching the city flow by in a blur of light and movement. We finally arrived about a block from the nightclub. The place was in full swing, even for a weeknight. Deacon stood up, tucked the truncheon inside his jacket, and gave me a look.
It was go time.
Leyla giggled, studying me with amusement.
“What’s so funny?” I frowned.
“Well, you’re sure going to stand out, dressed like that.” She suppressed another laugh.
“Like what?” I sniffed indignantly and donned my coat. “Unlike some of us, I dress for the weather.”
“Yeah, and it also screams ‘I’m a cop!’” She tapped her lips with a finger, thinking. “We don’t have time to stop somewhere and trick you out.” Leyla’s face brightened. “But I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I go in separately? I’ve seen Julie’s image, so I know who I’m looking for. I can blend in with the crowd a lot better than you two. I’ll snoop around, look for Julie, and call in anything I find.”
“You promised Abner you’d remain in the pod if anything got dicey,” I reminded her sternly. “And someone needs to stay here and keep an eye on the tracker program. I can’t keep you safe if you’re running around the nightclub, right?”
“Aw, c’mon Doc,” Leyla said, crestfallen, yet determined. “The program runs itself, and there’s been no update. I’ve got it linked to my phone anyway, so if something pops up, we’ll know about it right away. Besides, you’re going to need me in there.”
My mind raced with all the things that could go horribly wrong. Not to mention how awful it would be explaining to Abner what happened, and me somehow living with that and not losing my mind.
“No kiddo,” I replied firmly. “You’re not going in there alone.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Besim stood.
“I shall accompany Leyla,” she announced.
As I turned toward Besim to remind her yet again she wasn’t a cop, I stopped and stared.
Besim had removed all her makeup and the soaked bandana from around her head. Gone were the garish streaks of dark colors and mismatched layers of foundation, powder, blush, lipstick, and mascara. Her hair remained a patchwork dichotomy of painted black, bleach, and auburn-gold, as the rain had been unable to wash out all the dye. I was struck by how luminous her short, natural hair appeared, even in the shadowed confines of the pod. It was like a living thing.
The prominent architecture of her sharp features, with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes slightly wider than a human’s, was clean and clear. The dark tattoos running along her scalp and down the sides of her face bore stark contrast with her pale features. Looking on her fully, I was taken aback yet again by her physicality, the long arms and legs proportionate to her size, and the similarities she shared with a human woman. There was a powerful sensuality to her as well, hidden beneath the layers of makeup. It was raw, almost primal, yet held in check by the firm grip of a cold, logical mind.
“You, ah, clean up good,” I stammered.
“Thank you, Detective.” Besim offered me a brief, almost hungry smile that was gone in the same instant. “As I was saying, I will accompany Leyla into the nightclub. In this way, we can, as you say, ‘cover more ground.’ Two eyes are better than one, yes?”
Deacon’s frown deepened to a glower.
“I don’t like it,” he snapped in irritation. “If Julie’s in there, she’s probably armed and expecting trouble. You ain’t ending up like Tony.”
“Perish the thought, Deacon. I have no intention of that occurring,” Besim explained with long-suffering patience. “Leyla and I will enter the nightclub first. We will establish our presence through the normal fraternizing young women exhibit in such places and belay any suspicions. Once we have integrated ourselves with the rest of the patrons, we will be considered two females amongst many attempting to satisfy our bohemian desires. The two of you will enter an appropriate amount of time afterward. I suspect a member of the on-site security will accost you, at which point I am confident in your abilities to successfully circumnavigate the situation. Meanwhile, Leyla and I will reconnoiter the premises to ascertain the whereabouts of Julie DeGrassi.”
Deacon and I gaped at her.
“You can’t be serious,” he spluttered.
Besim held up a hand to forestall any further arguments.
“It has the virtue of simplicity.” Her lips curled into a slight smile. “Of course, should the situation become untenable, Leyla and I will extricate ourselves from the nightclub by exiting via the front door.”
I shook my head as I considered her idea. “There are too many unknowns.”
“On that we agree, Detective Holliday,” Besim replied primly. “However, time is short. The longer we debate, the more opportunity Julie DeGrassi has to elude us.”
“Besides, we’re a team, right?” Leyla added, moving to Besim’s side and linking arms. “You came by Abner’s because you said you needed me, so here I am. Let’s do this!”
I looked to Deacon for help, but he stood with a vacant expression on his face.
“I don’t like it,” he said, his voice troubled. The former Protector winced as he rubbed his right side. “Give Leyla an earpiece. Saranda has hers. Just don’t forget to use it.”
His answer caught me by surprise.
“Fine,” I sighed, throwing my hands up in the air. “But the moment anything gets hairy, you two ghost out of there. Am I clear?”
“Sure, Doc,” Leyla laughed. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Chapter 21
“This is a terrible idea,” I muttered for the third time.
“You agreed to it, so it’s your own damn fault,” Deacon replied dryly, his dark eyes fixed on a distant point beyond the rain-streaked window. “Least they ain’t dead yet.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, suppressing the urge to pull out my gun and shoot him.
Leyla and Besim had been gone no more than ten minutes, but it felt like an eternity. The consultant provided marginal details of their approach, describing the nightclub’s exterior in clipped, emotionless tones. We heard the rhythmic rumble of bass-heavy music through their earpieces. The sound grew louder after each heartbeat. I adjusted the speaker control to reduce the noise before my eardrums exploded.
“Sorry, what was that?” I asked, missing whatever it was Besim said.
“…commenced…Holliday,” she repeated, her soft voice drowned out by the roar of dance music.
“Come again,” I repeated, exchanging a confused look with Deacon.
Leyla shouted something unintelligible, followed by a few muffled thumps. A sudden squeal of feedback shrieked over the pod’s comm system. The nightclub music fell away, replaced by a dull, undulating throb.
“This any better?” Leyla’s voice came through clear. “I made a slight adjustment.”
“What’d you do, smash it against a wall?” I grumbled in irritation.
“Lighten up, Doc, I know my way around cheap electronics,” she replied cheerfully. “Besides, the wall was padded. Boys and their toys. Am I right, Besim?”
I rolled my eyes and shook my head but didn’t argue. We heard someone ask if they wanted anything to drink. Leyla ordered a vodka tonic, while Besim requested the wine menu.
“We’ve got a table upstairs along the railing,” Leyla provided a moment later. “There’s a staircase on either side just past the entrance to the club. We’re on the left, six tables down the row. No sign of Julie. We’ve got a good view, but there are a lot of dark places she could be hiding in, and we’d never know it.”
“EVI, please check Resources and pull the architectural designs for Kraze,” I ordered.
“Accessing.”
The heads up display fizzled to life, producing the original blueprints, as well as colored images of the nightclub and three-dimensional graphics of the interior. I studied them all, rubbing my stubbly chin with fingers and thumb.
Kraze was a big place.
Past the entrance, the club opened into a two-story mezzanine, framed by square pillars. The main floor contained a three-tiered inverted terrace with railings around the perimeter. The images revealed cozy leather booths arranged at regular intervals along the terraces around a massive dance floor which lay at the club’s center, like the bottom of some gladiatorial arena. Three sets of short, broad steps ran from the topmost tier down to the dance floor, one several feet inside the main entrance, and two further along to either side. Several round tables, scattered throughout the bottom, left most of the area open for dancing. Doors in the back wall of the second tier of the terrace led into an area for the bathrooms, commercial kitchen, a storage room and an office. The bar stretched along the right-hand side at the top of the terrace. A raised stage stood at the far end to provide ample space for a DJ or live acts. Even in today’s world of magic-powered technology, artificial intelligence and digitized music, you still needed a live someone to keep things fresh, raise a roof, and bring the funk.
Or whatever current crap young people partied to these days.
“Kids listen to such shitty music,” I lamented. “Doesn’t anyone care for the classics anymore?”
“You’re a fuckin’ fossil, Holliday.” Deacon exhaled a long plume of smoke and chuckled. “What’s that?”
He pointed at a short series of stairs accessed via a door in the back wall of the stage.
“Basement and boiler room,” I surmised. “Old building like this probably still keeps its mechanicals down there. If the nightclub owner is anything like Armin, they’re more interested in maintaining the lightshow and speakers than the refrigeration and heat. Leyla, I want EVI to connect to your phone so that we can see what the scene looks like tonight.”
“And give ECPD access to my stuff? Not on your life, Doc,” she replied scornfully. “Besides, it’s just people out having a good time. No one I recognize, though. Half of them are wasted, and the rest are well on their way. The place itself is pretty decent, and there’s a retro feel to all of it, the décor, the sound. It’s a throwback to one of those decades in the late twentieth century. The eighties, I think.”
The people of Empire City loved resurrecting fashion trends, and often outfits that hadn’t been worn in a while would make a surprising, and sometimes unfortunate, comeback. Clothes were never a thing for me, although the music from back then was a different story.
I thought back to Armin’s, and the conversation I had with Besim when we looked at the band advertisements posted to the windows.
Maybe Deacon was right. Maybe I was a fossil. I should probably get out more.
And maybe I should just put my head in an oven and turn it on broil.
“I’ve watched enough history holos to recognize where mullets, hoop earrings and hairspray came from,” Leyla continued, breaking me from my half-baked reverie. She thanked a server for bringing her drink. “There was one girl wearing a pair of those rainbow-striped leg warmers. You know, the kind that glow in the dark?”
“We don’t give a shit about what everyone’s wearing, girl,” Deacon growled into the communicator.
“Mm, this tastes good!” Leyla exclaimed, ignoring Deacon. “Besim, let’s order another round!”
“And don’t you get shit-faced on your first assignment,” Deacon warned.
“Focus, kiddo, focus,” I urged, stifling a grin. “Do you see anything else?”
I had pulled up Julie’s profile on our ride over here. As expected, there wasn’t much to it, other than her image, a brief employment history and little else.
“Nope, nothing,” she replied with a slur to her voice. “But you and Deacon, you’re gonna fit right in.”
She giggled, and I swear Besim chuckled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Deacon snapped.
“Oh, nothing,” Leyla giggled again, and hiccupped. We heard the clink of glasses. “You’ll just have to see for yourselves. C’mon Besim, let’s go dancing!”
“This ain’t no fucking field trip, girl,” Deacon admonished angrily, but Leyla’s reply was cut off by a loud surge in the music.
He blessed me with a baleful glare and said, “She’s your fucking responsibility, Holliday.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I grimaced, and went to refill my mug.
As I resumed my place, I had a thought.
“EVI, who owns the club?” I asked, leaning back in the chair.
There was a moment of rough static as the nightclub schematics and photos were shunted to the side of the display.
“Kraze is owned by David Crain, of Westchester,” EVI’s voice crackled and popped as an image of Crain appeared.
A brief biography of the man dribbled along a panel as EVI relayed a bland summary of an unassuming background for a local businessman.
But I stopped listening.
The Insight burned around the edges of my vision as it reacted to what I saw on the HUD. Crain was a pale man in his early thirties with sharp features, light blonde hair and blue eyes. His image wasn’t smiling, yet I felt the hunger lurking behind the calm exterior, a chained and calculating beast, remorseless and cold.
I didn’t need the Insight to tell me David Crain was a predator.
Throughout my career, I’d busted men just like him for all manner of horrible crimes involving women and children. These men held no fear of the law nor gave a shit about anything. They felt no contrition for the vile acts they performed, no remorse for the innocent people they harmed. They cared only for the power they held over the weak, feeding an insatiable need to inflict pain and suffering. And on the rare occasions when a few of those scumbags made parole, they went right back to where they left off, hurting someone, anyone, perpetuating a never-ending cycle of hatred and violence.
Oh, I’d seen that look before. I bore several white-puckered cigarette scars on my forearms, friendly souvenirs courtesy of my very own personal parental demon. It was also the reason why I never picked up smoking.
For a moment, I became lost in a myriad of tender memories involving my father’s alcoholism, and the things he’d done to me when I was young. A sheen of sweat formed on my brow. I trembled, my body reacting to the memories, deeply accentuated by the Insight’s power.
“What the hell’s wrong with you, Holliday?” Deacon demanded, noting my reaction. “You look like you’ve seen a goddamn ghost.”
I stared wide-eyed as Crain’s face mocked me, a living reminder of my past, weighing heavy and dark. And I found myself blazing back, angry and defiant, and full of bitterness. A very dark emotion surged through me. It was all I could do not to draw my gun and put a bullet through the image of a man I’d never met.
“The girls are in danger,” I grated between clenched teeth. I turned to the Confederate with a flinty stare. “We’ve got to get them out of there. Now.”
One look from me was all Deacon needed to tap out his cigarette and lurch into motion. I checked the SMART gun, and without another word, we left the pod. A steady rain pelted us, but I didn’t pay it any attention.
“Meet us at the entrance,” I ordered. “We’re coming to you.”
“Why, what’s the rush?” Leyla responded without a hint of concern. Fast-paced music pounded in the background. “This place is great!”
She was drunk.
Stupid, stupid girl.
And stupid, stupid me for letting it happen.
It took us less than five minutes to cross the soggy distance to the nightclub. The entrance was empty except for one bouncer standing beneath the stoop of the door. At our approach, he stepped into our path.
“Hold up,” the thick-bodied man ordered, eyeing us with a hard stare.
“Move,” I said, and shoved my badge in his face. I wasn’t in the mood for this.
He hesitated for a half-second, then looked between me and a grim-jawed Deacon, but that was long enough to get past him and into Kraze.
An explosion of sound greeted o
ur arrival. The girls weren’t there to meet us, a fact that fanned my growing unease. A young man, dressed in matching black shirt and pants, shouted at us about paying the cover charge. I waved the badge at him and glared. He backed away with his hands held up, not wanting any trouble.
About ten steps later, I came to a dead stop.
Leyla was right. Many people were dressed up in styles from the late twentieth century.
But what she’d failed to mention was how the rest of the crowd looked.
Halloween had come to Kraze.
A scantily-clad vampire in a blood red corset and very little else wandered past us. She blew me a kiss.
“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I groaned.
Deacon guffawed, eyeing the gathering with amusement.
We stuck out like sore thumbs that had been covered in gasoline and lit with a flamethrower. In between the eighties retro outfits, priests, princesses, and witches mixed it up with pirates, celebrity doppelgangers, and other costumes whose meanings were lost on me. I counted ten different versions of zombie ranging from gaunt to cadaverous. And all of them drank and partied, danced and talked, and were having themselves one helluva night.
“Oh, ain’t this a sight!” Deacon chortled.
A thick veil of wispy, gold-flecked smoke filled the interior, reminding me of incense. Bright, multi-colored lights flickered and flashed throughout, creating a disorienting strobe effect. Halloween decorations littered the floor and ceiling, some with light and sound. The temperature was several degrees warmer as well, a sudden change from outside. As we moved deeper into the nightclub, the air tasted strangely familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
“There,” Deacon shouted to be heard, breaking into my thoughts. He pointed to a side staircase to our left leading up to the mezzanine. “The girls said their table was upstairs.”
“Weren’t they down on the dance floor?” I asked.
I felt lightheaded, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand. What was happening to me? Was Deacon feeling this too?