Dark Hollows

by Steve Frech

  There’s no way she would hurt a dog. No way. No matter how crazy she is, and she has to be crazy, right? She’s gone to these lengths to mess with me; she has to be crazy. But if I’m so convinced that she’s crazy, how can I be certain that she won’t hurt Murphy?

  I’m saved from any further mental torture by the emergence of Derrick Slauson from the side entrance of the building. He turns and starts walking to the neighboring strip mall, which is home to a deli, a liquor store, a Chinese take-out, and a Chili’s.

  Thankfully, he’s alone.

  I hop out of the truck and cross the street. I hastily catch up with him as he reaches for the door handle of the Chinese take-out place.

  “Hi, uh, Derrick?” I ask.

  He stops and turns to me. He looks around before answering, “Yeah?”

  “You work at Royalty Car Rental, right?” I ask, with a thumb over my shoulder towards the building.

  “Yeah.”

  “Great. My name is Matt Becker. Nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand. He regards it for a few moments and weakly shakes it.

  “Hi …”

  “Listen,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

  “… Okay.”

  “Let me buy you lunch?” I ask, holding my wallet open just enough so he can see the multiple one hundred-dollar bills inside.

  He’s interested, but still suspicious. “I don’t eat that much.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s a business thing.”

  *

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting at a table in Chili’s.

  “How long is your lunch break?” I ask.

  He sucks on the straw, downing the better part of the blended beverage the Chili’s waitress delivered less than five minutes ago. “It’s an hour. I’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Great,” I say, over my glass of water. “So, do you like your job at Royalty?”

  He blinks, fighting off the brain-freeze he’s brought on himself. “It’s a job.”

  “How long have you been there?”

  “About a year. Why?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “What’s the favor?”

  “A few days ago, someone rented a car from your place. I’ve got the license plate number. I need you to tell me the name of the person who rented it.”

  He shakes off the brain-freeze. “You’re going to need more than three hundred. I could get fired.”

  “No one’s going to know.”

  “Why do you want to know who rented the car?”

  “That’s my business. You can find out, right?”

  “Sure. I’m just not sure it’s worth three hundred bucks.”

  “Come on. What are you pulling in over there? You’re probably part-time, barely making over minimum wage with no benefits, yeah?”

  He shrugs. “That’s my business.” He takes down the rest of his drink, pleased at his cleverness of using my own words against me.

  “Go easy on those, okay? I don’t want you getting fired for being drunk on the job.”

  “Look, man, I don’t really need this.” He gets up to leave. “So, thanks for the lunch and the mai tais, and you can try your luck with someone else.”

  “Fine, fine, fine. How much would it take to make you ‘need this’?”

  He makes a show of thinking it over, and sits back down. “How many hundreds you got in there?”

  “You’re good, I’ll give you that, but I’m not going to tell you.”

  He mulls the slushy remains of his mai tai. “I’ll do it for a grand.”

  I quickly grab the attention of our server as she passes. “Can I get the check?”

  She nods.

  “Wait. Hold on,” he says. “We’re negotiating, all right?”

  “Negotiations just ended.”

  “You could make a counter-offer.”

  “Here’s my counter-offer—I can go into your work, find your boss, his name is Mr Martzen, right?” The fact that I know his boss’s name unnerves him. “I go in there, and tell Mr Martzen that I asked for a customer’s personal information, and you were willing to give it. Then, you won’t have the money, and you’ll be out of a job.”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t— I was trying to— We’re just talking, okay? We’re cool.”

  The bubbly server returns, drops the check, thanks us, and leaves.

  I open the check presenter, eye Derrick, and return the bill to the table. “I guess we don’t have to go anywhere, just yet.”

  He sighs. “Good.”

  There’s a long moment where we size each other up, waiting for the other to reopen the negotiations.

  I need to get this going, so I’m the first to cave. “I’ll give you five hundred. Final offer. For that, I want a name and an address.”

  He considers it, and nods. “Deal.”

  *

  I lead him out of the Chili’s and to the liquor store next to the Chinese take-out.

  “You’re a smoker, right?” I ask.

  “I quit two months ago.”

  “Well, today, you’re going to relapse.” I take two one-hundred-dollar bills out of my wallet, and hand them to him. “The rest you get when it’s done, okay?”

  He nods.

  I hold the door open and we go inside.

  We’re greeted by the bing-bong of the door chimes. I take him over to the counter and point to the various packs of cigarettes in the display.

  “Pick your brand.”

  “Uh, Marlboro Reds.”

  “One pack of Marlboro Reds,” I tell the clerk.

  She takes a pack and places it on the counter. I pay for them, and push the pack into his chest.

  “How long will it take you to get the records?”

  “I don’t know. Like, five minutes, maybe.”

  “Okay, here’s what you’re going to do,” I say, leading him back outside. “Find the records and write them down on a slip of paper. Then, you’re going to have a nicotine fit, and need to head outside for a smoke break. Is anyone going to question that?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Great. Walk outside and bring me the paper. This will all be over, and you’ll be five hundred dollars richer.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier for me just to text you the name and address, or something?”

  “No. I don’t want any records of this, okay?”

  For some reason, that rattles him. He still has the two one hundred-dollar bills in his hand, but he suddenly looks at them like their used tissues.

  “What’s the problem?” I ask.

  “I’m … I’m having second thoughts.”

  “Derrick, in ten minutes, you’ll be five hundred dollars richer, okay?”

  He still hesitates.

  “I’m kind of in a time crunch, Derrick. I need to know if we’re going to have to go the Mr Martzen route—”

  “Okay, okay, okay. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He jams the cash in his pockets, and heads off in the direction of Royalty Car Rental.

  I watch him disappear through the door, and I begin pacing behind the strip mall, incessantly checking the time on my phone.

  Ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Then thirty.

  I finally stop pacing, and stare at the door to Royalty Car Rental.

  Something’s wrong. He got caught, or he’s not going through with it. I don’t know what it is, but something’s up.

  I curse under my breath and start trying to think of other options. There are none. This is it.

  Thirty minutes becomes forty. Forty stretches into fifty. An hour.

  “Fuck it,” I mumble, and start walking.

  I reach the entrance of the building. I grip the handle of the door and yank it open.

  There’s a reception desk with cubicles arranged behind it. Right away, I spot Derrick, sitting at his desk. There’s a large, windowed office at the back of the room. Through the window, I can see Mr Martzen. He’s talking on the phone, and he d
amn well sees me.

  A charming girl in a button-down shirt, name tag, and khakis, sitting at the front desk tries to engage me.

  “Hello. Welcome to Royalty Car Rental. How can I help you?”

  I glance at Derrick. He’s trying to pretend that he doesn’t see me.

  I point to Mr Martzen, through the window.

  “I need to talk to that guy, right there,” I say, loud enough for the whole office to hear.

  Looking directly at me, Martzen speaks into his phone and hangs up. He steps out of his office and starts walking towards the main desk.

  “Um, sure. I can have Mr Martzen speak to you,” the girl says. “If you’d like to take a seat—”

  “It’s all right, Kelly,” Martzen says, cutting her off, while keeping his eyes on me.

  I haven’t slept in over two days, so I’m sure my appearance warrants caution.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” he asks.

  “Boy, is there ever,” I say, casting a glance over to Derrick.

  Derrick springs from his cubicle, and hustles over to us.

  “Mr Becker,” he says, trying to sound cheerful. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize you when you walked in. I meant to return your call to let you know that yes, I do have that Ford Explorer you were asking me about buying.” He turns to Martzen. “I’m sorry, Mr Martzen. This is Mr Becker. He and I have been in contact about purchasing that 2015 Ford Explorer from us.” Derrick turns to me. “If you’d like, I’d be more than happy to show it to you right now, Mr Becker.”

  I look between Slauson and Martzen. “That’d be great.”

  Martzen is baffled.

  “Right this way,” Derrick says, motioning to the door.

  He leads me out the door and into the parking lot. Neither of us says a word as we head to a corner of the lot and stop next to a Ford Explorer.

  “Well?” I ask.

  “Just keep staring at the car like you’re thinking about buying it,” he says, gesturing with his hands towards the Explorer, like he’s showing it off.

  “What the hell happened?” I hiss. “Do you have the name?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  I wait for him to hand it over.

  “Derrick—?”

  “Why do you want it?”

  I turn to him. “What?”

  “Keep looking at the car,” he says.

  I do.

  “Why do you want the name and address?” he asks, again.

  “I told you, that’s not your business.”

  He bites his lower lip. “It’s just that I thought you were looking for a guy.”

  I don’t reply.

  “We keep scans of the driver’s licenses. I pulled up the records and saw her picture.”

  “So?”

  “She’s pretty.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  He hesitates. “You’re not some sort of crazy stalker ex-boyfriend, are you?”

  “If I was an ex-boyfriend, don’t you think I’d know her name?”

  It wasn’t the answer he’s looking for.

  “Listen, Derrick. I promise, I just want to talk to her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she has something of mine. I have to get it back.”

  He glances over his shoulder towards the building. His frustration builds. He jams his hand into his pocket and pulls out a slip of paper. “Her name is Veronica Sanders.”

  I quickly take the slip of paper from his hand and stuff it into my pocket.

  “What about the address?”

  His jaw hardens. “I’m not comfortable giving you that. I’m sure you have ways of finding that out on your own, now that you have her name. Don’t ask me why that makes me feel better. You say you just want to talk to her? Why should I believe you?”

  “Derrick, trust me—”

  “Trust you?” he snorts. “Why should I trust you? Is your name really even Matt Becker?”

  My hesitation tells him that it isn’t.

  “Yeah … So, her name is all you’re going to get from me.” He produces the pack of cigarettes I just bought for him, takes one out, and stuffs one end in his mouth. He also takes out a lighter, lights the cigarette, and takes a long drag. “I’ll keep the two hundred. You can keep the other three, and I never see you, again. Deal?”

  I nod. “Deal.”

  He takes another long drag, drops the cigarette onto the ground, and crushes it under his heel. He turns and starts walking back to the small, brick building.

  “Thank you for showing me the car,” I call after him.

  He turns. “You’re welcome, Mr Becker,” he answers, while discreetly flipping me off.

  Chapter 10

  Night has fallen by the time I park the truck in the gravel lot.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say from behind the wheel, staring up at the blinking neon sign that casts a sickly glow over the dashboard.

  Whispers

  Cocktails! All Nude! Private Dances!

  Derrick Slauson’s attempt to protect Veronica Sanders had been partially successful. I couldn’t find her home address, but I did find her Instagram account.

  Earlier this afternoon, she posted, “Come see me tonight! Only one dance! Who’s it gonna be?!” It was accompanied by a photo and a tiny url that linked to her place of employment—Whispers Gentlemen’s Club, halfway between Burlington and The Hollows. Veronica Sanders is not the woman I saw last night at the parade. She’s not the one who has Murphy, but she is the woman who posed as Rebecca Lowden, and I need to know who sent her. I’ve got a hunch that she doesn’t know what’s happening, but she’s the only lead I’ve got.

  The Polaroid of Murphy is sitting on the passenger seat. I tuck it into my back pocket, get out of the truck, and start walking towards the front entrance. This place is in the middle of nowhere. I get it. It’s a place where you’re not going to bump into anyone you know who’s not there for the same reason you are. I show my ID to the doorman, who waves me through without looking up from his phone.

  Once inside, I’m greeted by the aroma of stale beer, which reminds of the countless frat houses I used to visit in the days of Reggie’s employment. The lighting is low, and only slightly brighter near the stage. There’s a mirrored ball hanging from the ceiling that slowly twists, casting spots of light over everything and everyone. The music is cranked up to a headache-inducing level. I’ve never been to a strip club before. They’re just not my thing. In my opinion, this is what the internet is for.

  For being in the middle of nowhere, it’s surprisingly busy. There’s not a seat available near the stage, where two women in thongs, high heels, and nothing else dance under the red and blue lights. One is working the pole, while the other seductively crawls to a group of guys sitting next to the stage, who are waving dollar bills. There are two bouncers stationed at either side of the stage, making sure the patrons keep their hands to themselves.

  Veronica’s not up there, so I scan the room to see if she might be behind the bar, or one of the handful of girls serving drinks.

  I’m startled by the tap on my shoulder. I turn to see the doorman smiling at me.

  “You okay?” he asks, shouting over the music.

  “I’m fine.”

  “First time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You can sit anywhere you like. One of the girls will be with you in a second.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Two-drink minimum.”

  “Got it.”

  He goes back to his phone, and steps back outside.

  I find my way to a booth in the corner and slide in. I position myself to keep as much of the place in view as possible, but there are nooks and crannies everywhere. The shadows are almost impenetrable. It’s a place designed for customers to keep their anonymity.

  Next to the stage, there’s an opening to a corridor. As I watch, the group of guys next to the stage head over to the bouncer and flash him some money.
He leads them into the corridor to an open door that’s just in my field of view, and they go inside. A few moments later, a blond girl in fishnets, thong, heels, and pasties over her nipples appears from behind the curtain on the stage, goes down the steps, and heads down the corridor, escorted by the bouncer. He opens the door for her, and she enters. He then stands guard at the door. I’m not entirely up to speed on strip club procedure, but through there has to be the VIP rooms.

  “Something to drink?”

  I snap out of my observations to see a cocktail waitress next to my table. She has flowing black hair, heavy eye-shadow that makes her eyes pop, and a tight corset, which is struggling to contain her breasts.

  “Can I get a Bud Lite?”

  “Sure,” she says, making a note in her check pad. “You know it’s a two-drink minimum, right?”

  “Yeah. They told me.”

  She nods and goes off.

  I turn my attention back to the stage, where the two girls continue dancing. The pounding bass shakes the booth, and my ears are ringing, but my eyes are starting to adjust to the surroundings. It’s easier to keep track of the movements around the floor, but I still don’t see Veronica.

  The song wraps up to cheering and catcalls. The two dancers gather the money that litters the stage.

  A booming, base-distorted voice comes over the sound system. “All right, everyone! Give it up for Amber and Cherie! They’re working hard for you. Show them some love!”

  A few more bills fall onto the stage and are quickly scooped up. The girls blow kisses to the surrounding men and disappear behind the curtain.

  “Don’t forget to take care of your servers! They’re working hard for you, too. Stay hydrated! Keep ordering those drinks! And if you want some private entertainment with any of our beautiful dancers, we’ve got private booths and VIP rooms. Just let Hank over there by the stage know, and he can set that up for you!”

  The bouncer by the corridor raises his hand to indicate to everyone that he is Hank.

  “All right, let’s keep this party going!” the DJ continues. “Next up to the stage is the lovely, talented, smoking-hot Ashley! Give it up for Ashley!”

  A tall, lithe girl emerges from behind the curtain as a new song begins to play. She effortlessly drapes her body around the pole and spins. The patrons surrounding the stage cheer and extend their dollar bills.