by Morgan Brice
“Did he take real good care of you?” Tracey asked.
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“Shit! You slept with him, didn’t you?”
“It’s…complicated,” Simon replied with a groan.
“Honey, it really isn’t. You do know how sex works, right? Either you had it, or you didn’t. Unless you hit your head and don’t remember, in which case he’s a total creep for taking advantage of you.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake! It didn’t get quite that far.”
“Define ‘quite.’”
“No.”
Tracey chuffed into the phone. “You take all the fun out of things. You’re my best friend. We’re supposed to share things.”
Simon couldn’t help smiling, despite everything. “Maybe so, but I’m also not going to come over to get our nails done together, or braid each other’s hair.”
“Spoilsport,” Tracey teased. “That just means I need to have you over to binge-watch Netflix and drink wine until you tell me everything.”
“Not going to happen,” Simon countered, although more than once, he and Tracey had done exactly that.
“But you like him, right? Really like him?”
“You make this sound like I’m worried he won’t ask me to prom. Yes, I like him. No, I’m not sure it’s mutual. I don’t actually know anything about him. Maybe he’s not boyfriend material.”
“Well, that would be his loss, because you’ll make some man a fine husband,” Tracey declared loyally. “And he’s a shithead if he doesn’t appreciate that.”
“Thanks, I think,” Simon said with a chuckle, finding that Tracey’s steadfast support eased his disappointment, just a little. “Look, I’m all for doing a Netflix night, but I need to get back to work. Just—be careful,” he added. “There’s bad stuff happening, and so watch yourself, okay?”
“I’m not the one who just got shot,” she replied. “So, back atcha. Double.”
During the slow times, Simon searched online to make sense of the hints from that first vision. The Russian words meant “hotel” and “big nose,” which were rather vague, and the images of blue fish and twinkle-lit palm trees hardly helped narrow things down in a town like Myrtle Beach, where hundreds of hotels lined the shore and decorating with fish and white Christmas lights was an obsession.
The Slitter had so far chosen his victims along the main stretch of Myrtle Beach, not in the more upscale reaches of North Myrtle, and not as far south as Surfside. That made sense, Simon thought, because the main drag of the Grand Strand didn’t have the gated resorts of the north or the family-run campgrounds and motels of the south. Central Myrtle Beach was a middle-class Vegas on the beach, minus the casinos: loud, neon-lit, a little out of control and not a bit subtle. The unspoken promise that kept families coming back year after year was that you could go a tad wild here, and nothing bad would ever happen.
Which wasn’t exactly true. While the city’s PR machine tried to keep things quiet, Myrtle Beach had a larger number of missing persons than normal for a town its size. Then again, people came here, drank too much, partied too hard, and made bad choices. Some of those tourists and spring break revelers didn’t get a do-over. Others came here to disappear. Simon had done just that three years ago, and while he hadn’t vanished into a “long weekend” gone bad, he hadn’t hit rock bottom, either. Those who had often rose again only when they floated to the top.
By the end of the day, Simon had a short list of hotels that might match the glimpses from his vision. He had contacts among his Skeleton Crew at some of those hotels and elsewhere who should be working nights, available after he wrapped up the last ghost tour.
Simon felt nervous about walking the Strand alone at night for the first time in years. He had lived in Columbia, a much bigger city, without incident, and he knew enough to stay clear of the less savory parts of town. But if he could narrowly escape being shot just a few yards from his shop on the Boardwalk, anything could happen, anywhere. The new canister of pepper spray that hung from a carabiner on his belt and the small knife in an ankle sheath—a gift from Tracey—reminded him that things were different now.
To his relief, both ghost tours were uneventful, and only two people either canceled or failed to show. Simon found himself much more tense than usual, but the audience seemed just as happy with the experience, and his tips were a bit more than usual. He said goodbye to the last of the tour-goers, watched them disperse down the boardwalk, and then headed for Ocean Boulevard, on a mission.
The Blue Conch Hotel was the first on his list, and Simon wandered into the lobby, hoping he blended in with the guests who belonged there. It was a mid-price, family-oriented property geared to families with children, and as he wandered around the restaurant, bar, and pool areas, nothing in the decor resonated as matching what he had glimpsed in his original vision.
Discouraged, Simon headed back out onto the street, and when he ducked into the Golden Strand Hotel, he had a different agenda. The Strand was one of the grande dames of Myrtle Beach, a hundred-year-old luxury resort that had weathered history and hurricanes and emerged with the faded dignity of an aging movie star. Celebrities for ten decades had graced the Strand’s stage or stayed in her rooms, and their photographs lined the main hallway. Newer, glitzier resorts shouldered into the beachfront on either side, boasting waterslides and swim-up bars, but the Strand harkened back to elegant days and celluloid glamor with a siren call that kept patrons coming year after year.
Despite the grim business that prompted his visit, Simon couldn’t help smiling as he walked into the Strand’s opulent lobby, past the uniformed doorman. The high ceiling with its stained glass dome, the expanse of marble flooring and white columns, and the formal mahogany check-in counter with its crisp-suited staff made him feel like he had walked into another era. His inner history geek and movie buff did a little happy dance until he reminded himself why he was there.
Knowing he intended to stop at the Strand, Simon had dressed up for his ghost tours, favoring a collared shirt and khakis instead of his usual t-shirt and cargo shorts. While the Strand’s staff, not the guests, adhered to an elegant dress code, Simon still felt underdressed as he strode into the intimate bar. One wall opened to a panoramic ocean view. High-backed chairs flocked in faux-velvet clustered around small tables. The huge wooden bar and mirror-lined backbar gave the room the Great Gatsby extravagance of a vanished era.
Simon spotted Michelle from across the room. Her dark hair was swept up in a neat chignon, and paired with striking make-up and her high-collared, retro bellman’s uniform jacket; she exuded cinematic chic. Simon had known her since she came to Myrtle Beach within a few months of his own arrival, but she’d been Michael then, fleeing the Midwest for a chance at anonymity and total reinvention. Desperate questions about her own untrained and sporadic telepathy had brought her into Simon’s shop, and they’d been allies, if not quite friends, ever since.
Simon picked a spot at a distance from other patrons and waited for Michelle to notice him.
“Simon. This isn’t your usual haunt,” she said when she made her way over. He couldn’t tell from her voice whether she was pleased or wary.
“Unusual things are going on,” he replied with a shrug. She got him a rum and Coke without him having to order, and he laid down cash for the drink and a twenty for the tip. “See anything interesting lately?” Anyone else would have mistaken their small talk to be about movies or television, but Michelle looked daggers at him, taking his meaning.
“Fear,” Michelle said quietly, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “Lies and lust and greed and jealousy—the usual,” she added bitterly. Simon wasn’t always happy that the fates gifted him with the ability to speak with the dead and glimpse the future, but he couldn’t imagine trying to live with unwanted peeks into the cesspools of the human mind. “But there was one person—didn’t get a look at the face. Might have been a guy—not sure. With him, the lust and rage was al
l tangled up. And something else—he was looking forward to killing again.”
Simon’s stomach churned. He’d bet a week’s pay that was the Slitter. “Think hard. Can you give me anything about him?”
Michelle looked at him as if he were crazy. “Why do you want to know? You should be running away, not looking for him.”
“Long story,” Simon replied, knowing their time to talk was limited. “Anything?”
“I saw glowing seashells,” Michelle replied.
“Like the Conch Diner?”
She shook her head. “No. Smaller, all different shapes, like a light-up border. The feeling that went with it was awful,” she added, shivering. “Hunger and…anticipation.”
“Thanks,” he said, downing the rest of his drink and pushing away from the bar.
“Stay clear, Simon,” she warned. “Let the right people handle this.”
“You know they won’t,” he replied. “But somebody has to.”
Simon checked out the lobbies of three more hotels along the beach, looking for blue fish and bedecked palmetto trees. There were plenty that had a variation of one or the other, but not a match to what Simon saw in his vision. He had tried to figure out whether the symbols were what Iryena saw at her work, which might indicate the larger hotels, or something from the location where she died, in which case the shabbier, older motels a block or so from the waterfront would be a better bet.
As he walked Ocean Boulevard, Simon tried to keep a lookout on both sides of the street, frustrated that something seemingly so simple could prove elusive. As the crowds moved around him, jostling his shoulders and occasionally requiring a sidestep to avoid collision, Simon couldn’t help wondering whether the Slitter was among them. Twice now he’d been targeted, but not in the killer’s usual method of attack. Was it a warning to back off? Or a message that his time would come?
Gym-tastic’s yellow illuminated sign outshone the streetlights. The 24-hour gym offered locals and tourists the chance to tone up with free weights, cycles, treadmills, weight machines, and more by the month or for a cheap day pass. On other visits, Simon had paused to enjoy the view of toned bodies in sweat-slicked, clinging Lycra flexing and stretching. The gym catered to men and women, but the late-night crowd was usually exclusively male. Those in the know regarded Gym-tastic as a prime spot to work out and hook up, but neither were on Simon’s mind as he walked in, obviously overdressed.
“I need to see your card,” the harried man in the Gym-tastic t-shirt behind the check-in counter said without looking up. When Simon didn’t reply, he glanced at the newcomer. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Nice to see you, too, Marcus.”
“Looking to shape up for the beach?” he asked with an expression that told Simon the man knew exactly what need had brought the tour guide to his door.
“Not exactly.”
Marcus rolled his eyes. “Aw, man. Gimme a break. I’m workin’ here, you mind?”
“Just take a second of your time,” Simon said, glancing at the glass case of accessories for something he might actually use. “I’ll take one of those green t-shirts. Size Large.”
“Buy the black. It’s more your color,” Marcus countered, reaching down and pulling out a black shirt as Simon moved to pay.
“Talk to me,” Simon said, holding out cash, more than the shirt cost.
“You know I don’t control this shit, it just comes to me or not. Mostly not,” Marcus replied, not looking at Simon. His pre-cognition worked differently from Simon’s visions. Where Simon’s gift usually served up a mix of reality and symbolism, Marcus saw snapshots from the future. Simon considered Marcus’s talent to be the crueler of the two since he was burdened with foreknowledge but rarely had enough context to affect the outcome.
“Take your time and count the change, maybe a dollar back in pennies?”
“Screw you.”
Simon gave a wry smile. “Anything for an excuse to keep chatting. What did you see?”
“I saw a blond white girl get real dead,” Marcus said under his breath. “Chin-length hair, pierced nostril, eyebrow and snake-bite piercings. Wore a uniform like some of the hotel maids. Too much blood to be sure.”
“Could you tell how soon?”
Marcus’s dark eyes were haunted. “You want me to dredge up that kind of shit; you need to pay enough for a bottle, not a shot.” Simon slipped him another ten. “I can’t say for sure—you know how this stuff is—but I’d say soon, real soon, if it hasn’t happened already.”
“Anything in the background?” Simon pressed. “Something to help me find her?”
“How is this your problem?”
“It just is,” Simon said.
“Okay, I had the weirdest sense she knew she was broadcasting,” Marcus answered. “Like she had a little bit of a gift, and was scared enough to use it. She blasted a signal, I felt like my head would explode, and it all went dark.”
“So this wasn’t the usual, where your gift only serves up snapshots. You think she contacted you?”
Marcus shrugged. “I didn’t come with an instruction manual. I'm making this shit up as I go, same as you. That’s all I’ve got.” He nodded toward the door as a few more late-nighters headed their way. “Gotta work, man. See ya ‘round,” he added in a tone that told Simon not to come back too soon.
Simon checked his watch as he left Gym-tastic. It was after eleven, but the weekend night meant the sidewalks were crowded and the late-night partygoers hadn’t yet gotten started. He meandered through half a dozen more hotels, finding plenty of lighted palmetto trees and fanciful fish, but none that matched his vision, not even those decorating the pools. And certainly no light-up sea shells other than the giant Conch Diner sign that was a beacon to the whole middle Strand.
He had one more stop before he could go home, a place that definitely wasn’t part of his normal routine. Fox and Hound strip club featured only female dancers, and while Simon had an artist’s appreciation for the form, even the best endowed did nothing to rouse his dick. He’d only stopped in a few times over the years, always to touch base with Cindy, a lithe redhead whose hair color was as fake as her name, but both seemed to suit her.
The club smelled of alcohol, sweat, and sex, but somehow so different from the all-male dance club over on King’s Highway. He wasn’t a regular at Aloha Cowboy either, although he’d admit to having dropped in once and again when the long nights tried his resolve. Both clubs tried for an upscale look and failed, managing instead to match the decorating taste of a pretentious drug dealer.
It hit Simon that the club had redecorated. A new decorative border ran around the main room, different types of seashell cutouts on a metal strip with a backlight. Glowing seashells.
Simon ignored the hint of weed in the air and didn’t have to guess what the rowdy young prep school men in the corner were snorting when they leaned toward the table. He’d never dared try to blunt his gifts with drugs, although a glass or two of whiskey had taken the edge off more than one awful reading or vision.
Simon didn’t have to stretch his imagination to figure that most of his Skeleton Crew had habits, or records, or both, trying to keep their unwanted powers at bay. They were young, haunted by their untrained gifts, wary of asking for help, and even more afraid of coming to the attention of authorities. From the little they confided in Simon, most of them had fled homes that condemned the very existence of their talents, on top of abuse, neglect, or intolerance for any way they didn’t measure up to someone’s bullshit standards. Outcasts and misfits found their final destination at the ocean’s edge just as surely as the rivers that flowed down to the sea.
He settled into a seat in a silver vinyl-covered booth that allowed him to see the stage and audience while keeping his back to the wall. The two dancers borrowed their flexibility from Cirque and their moves from PornHub, which seemed to be a big hit with the rowdy men waving sweaty dollar bills in the front row.
“What’ll you drink?” the server asked
, wearing nearly as little as the dancer, but looking far more bored.
“Rum and Coke,” Simon replied, figuring the bar couldn’t screw it up too badly. “When is Cindy dancing?”
The server’s lips pursed like he’d offered a lemon. “She’s not. Didn’t show up yesterday or today, didn’t call off. So if you want to see her dance, it probably won’t be here after Billy fires her ass.”
Simon leaned back, watching the crowd and ignoring the dancers. I guess that proves, again, that I only play for one team.
“I’m an old friend,” Simon said. “Is she all right?”
The server eyed him like she’d heard the story before, then something in her gaze faltered. “I don’t know. She didn’t answer her phone, and Billy went over to her place, but she wasn’t there. I thought she would have called me or Billy if she needed something, but she didn’t.” Her voice held a combination of worry and abandonment.
“Did anyone report her missing?”
“To the cops?” The server looked at him like he was crazy. “Yeah, that would go over real well. Look, you better finish up and move on. Billy doesn’t like friends and family showing up, you know what I mean?” She flounced away, and Simon knew she wouldn’t be back. A glance toward the bar where she was talking with a brawny guy that might be Billy suggested Simon shouldn’t linger, especially when Billy fixed him with a glare.
Simon knew Cindy a little better than some of the crew. Enough to know that she always worked not just her own shift, but as many extras as she could manage. Cindy might have been in her late twenties or early thirties, but already she worried that she couldn’t compete with the never-ending flow of younger women that got off every one-way bus. She had gotten her GED and was working on an Associate’s Degree at the community college, but in the meantime, she needed cash for the constant nips and tucks that kept her face and body looking youthful.
Cindy’s story was just one of the dirty little secrets of every beach community. Tourists rewarded servers, bartenders, lifeguards, and every other kind of performer for their looks and figures as much as for the quality of their work, and tips were the lifeblood of J-ones and locals alike. News stations occasionally trotted out sad stories about eating disorders, plastic surgery gone wrong, or shooting up to slim down, but budget money never showed up to help those the power brokers considered to be disposable.