by James Newman
“There is that,” Leon said.
†
Nick made a quick detour across town first.
“Sit tight.” He left the engine running. “This will only take a minute.”
Leon sank down in his seat, gave his idol a sarcastic salute.
Nick knew it was a long shot, but he had driven to the Polk County Sheriff’s Department hoping that Sheriff Mackey might supply him with a hard copy of the video capture shown on the news. Better than walking into the club empty-handed, asking if anyone had seen a stocky middle-aged dude with thinning salt-and-pepper hair. That undoubtedly described ninety percent of the Skin Den’s clientele on any given night.
The station was quiet, the building empty save for three lonely souls. A Latino woman pushed a mop around the foyer while her little boy hunched over a handheld videogame. Sheriff Mackey sat behind his desk, nursing a headache with a bottle of Tylenol and a can of Diet Coke.
When Nick told the sheriff that he hadn’t expected to find him so easily, Mackey said, “I’ve forgotten what home looks like. Probably why I’ve been through two divorces, working on my third as we speak.” He tore a low-quality reproduction of the freeze-frame from the drugstore video—the scowling burglar in his fancy suit, gripping a crowbar in one hand—off of a cluttered corkboard. He made two copies on the department’s Xerox machine, handed them over without pressing Nick too hard about why he wanted the photo. It was obvious Mackey had a million other things on his mind. And perhaps he had decided that he would take all the help he could get, at this point.
Twenty minutes later, the big man’s Bronco rattled and quaked as it cruised down the interstate. The sky had taken on a surreal orange hue with the coming of dusk, as if the region and all of its inhabitants were prehistoric bugs stuck in an enormous block of amber. On the Bronco’s stereo, Sunnyland Slim sang “The Devil Is a Busy Man.”
Beside Nick, Leon stared out his window like a misbehaved student on his way to a visit with the principal. Every so often he tapped two fingers on his jittery knee in time with the music.
“Nervous?” Nick asked him.
“That’s one word for it,” said Leon. “Another way to put it is I’m scared to fuckin’ death.”
“I’d bet this is the first time anyone’s had to twist Leon Purdy’s arm to get him out to the strip club.”
“Never went to one lookin’ for a dude who’s supposed to be six feet under.”
Nick sped up to pass a minivan. In the thickening darkness on either side of the highway, fireflies danced in the summer heat like the blinking eyes of otherworldly voyeurs.
Leon slid a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his jeans, didn’t ask permission to light up.
Nick glanced over at his twitchy passenger again. “Can I ask you a question, Leon?”
“What’s that?”
“Have you ever thought about getting clean?”
Leon blew smoke out through his nose, took three quick puffs on his cigarette before tossing it out the window as if he had never wanted it to begin with. “It’s too late for me, hoss.”
“Bullshit. It’s never too late to try.”
“I tried. This one time. It didn’t work out so good.”
“What happened?”
“Used to have this pit bull. His name was Ron Perlman. Like the guy from Hellboy, and that Sons of Anarchy show. I love that dude. I loved that fuckin’ dog. He was older than dirt, and he was blind in one eye, but he was a good dog.” Leon paused, licked his chapped lips. “One night last winter it was snowin’ real heavy. I let Ron Perlman inside the trailer so he wouldn’t freeze to death. But...I fucked up. I went to take a piss...and that’s when he got hold of it.”
Nick said, “Jesus Christ, Leon.”
Leon’s eyes grew wet as he remembered: “I came back in the room, he was lyin’ on his side. He was shakin’, wheezin’, pukin’ all over the place.”
“He ate your dope.”
“The whole bag. I took him to the animal hospital across town. I knew he was dyin’ fast, but he was still breathin’ so I hoped they could save him. He died in my arms right there in the waiting room. Docs figured out what happened, called the law. They busted me for animal cruelty—like I would ever hurt Ron Perlman on purpose! To make matters worse, they found a bag o’ crank in my back pocket that I forgot I had on me.”
Nick shook his head.
“Next mornin’, Sheriff Mackey comes to see me. He brings this drug counselor geek to my cell. Says he’ll drop all the charges if I promise to talk to the guy.”
“That was really decent of him,” said Nick. “You accepted his offer?”
“I went to see him a few times. But it only lasted through the winter.”
“He could have helped you. Why didn’t you stick with it?”
“That counselor fella, I didn’t like him too much.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t care for the way he looked at me. Like he’d never seen anything so sexy. I told him Leon Purdy don’t swing that way. But he kept callin’ me and callin’ me. Said he only wanted to help. Yeah, sure—he wanted to help himself right into my tight lil’ butthole!”
Nick said, “It must have been your charm. Your way with words.”
“Maybe.”
Nick sighed. Wondered how he had gotten himself mixed up with this bizarre little man. And why, stranger still, he actually liked the guy.
“I got one for ya,” Leon said. “What’s the difference between a crackhead and a tweaker?”
“I give up.”
“A crackhead steals all your shit. A tweaker steals your shit then helps you look for it.”
That earned a chuckle from Nick. He punched Leon on the arm like two guys who had been buddies forever.
“Ouch,” said Leon.
They rode on toward Tryon as the last rays of sunlight died on the horizon. The Bronco’s tires hummed on the asphalt. Nick flicked on the vehicle’s headlights as he passed a semi with the logo BATESVILLE CASKET COMPANY on its side. He tried not to think about signs and omens. Had never believed in such bullshit anyway.
After a few minutes of silence between them, Leon fidgeted in his seat. He said, “Can I ask you a question, hoss? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. Just somethin’ I been wonderin’...”
“Go ahead,” said Nick.
“You ever think about gettin’ revenge for what them fuckers did to you?”
“What?”
“Them psychos that took your face. You ever fantasize about breakin’ into wherever they are now, smashin’ their heads against the wall till there ain’t nothin’ left but jelly?”
Nick’s grip tightened on the wheel. “I used to. Not anymore.”
“I wish I could get five minutes alone with them fuckers. I’d hold ’em down, spit in their eyes! Like you used to do when a match wasn’t going your way.”
“I didn’t really spit in anyone’s eye.”
“I’m just sayin’. That’s what I’d do. For you.”
Truth told, while Nick had learned to control his rage—accept the things in his life that he could not change, blah, blah, blah—he still wondered on occasion what it would feel like to have his way with the fiends who stole his face. Was a time when he got hard thinking about it. These days, though, such thoughts were fleeting when they came. Even if he’d wanted to act on such fantasies, what was he supposed to do—book a flight to Texas, somehow disguise his six-foot-nine, three-hundred-pound frame and stroll through the front gates of the Sharon James Asylum for the Criminally Insane to confront Rebel Yell and One-Arm any time he felt the urge?
He decided to change the subject: “Did you talk to Sophie much?”
“Nah. I dropped by Eddie’s place to score, she was always in her room. And when she wasn’t, Eddie gave me the hairy eyeball.”
“How do you mean?”
“One time her and her mom was headin’ out just as I was walkin’ up to do some business with Eddie. I asked
’em how they was doin’, just makin’ polite conversation. Eddie got up in my face, and he said, ‘Don’t talk to her, asshole. You ain’t got no reason to ever talk to her!’ I thought at the time he was talkin’ about his old lady, but I’d spoke to Melissa before. Later on I realized he meant the kid. I might be a lot of things, but I ain’t no short-eyes.”
“What about Eddie? Do you think he might have been?”
“Short-eyes? I don’t know. But I don’t think so.” Leon leaned forward in his seat, peered through the windshield. “You wanna take this next exit. We’re almost there.”
Nick whipped the Bronco over into the right lane, behind a tractor-trailer hauling a trio of yellow forklifts.
“Eddie always seemed super-protective of Sophie,” Leon said. “Like he really cared about her. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what got him killed that night.”
“Funny,” said Nick. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“No shit?”
“I don’t think those men were there for Eddie. I think they came for Sophie. He got in their way, so they put him down.”
“What did they want with her, though?”
“That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet. But I will.”
Neither man said anything else on the matter as Nick steered the Bronco up the exit ramp. At the crest of a steep hill, they came to a Stop sign riddled with BB pellets.
“There she is.” Leon pointed straight ahead, to a nondescript building on the other side of a two-lane highway.
“That’s it?”
Nick gunned the engine, shot across the road and onto a small lot cramped with perhaps twenty other vehicles. The blacktop was cracked and pitted with potholes deep enough for a grown man to lie down in. The club itself was a small brick building painted forest green with a brown metal roof. The only hints as to what transpired inside were the muffled thump of loud rock n’ roll, a neon “Miller High Life” logo in one tinted window, and a sign out front with an arrow that was designed to blink on and off but tonight it just glowed dimly: HOT GIRLS/NO COVER.
To the right of the Skin Den sat a smaller building, this one with boards nailed over its doors and windows. Looked like it might have been a service station at one time. A crooked, hand-painted sign had been erected out front of that place as if in some last-ditch effort to preach to the patrons of the nudie bar next door. It read: UNGODLY MEN GIVE THEMSELFS TO FORNACATION & PURSUE STRANGE FLESH! (JUDE 1:4).
Nick circled the lot once before backing into a space at the rear of the club, next to a shiny black semi.
He turned off the Bronco’s ignition, cracked his knuckles. Dabbed at his right eye.
“Let’s do this.”
His door screeched open.
Leon followed his hero’s lead. As they made their way across the lot he devoured his filthy fingernails as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
†
As they stepped through the front door of the club, their senses were assaulted by flashing lights, pounding music (currently thumping on the club’s P.A. system: “Living Dead Girl”), and the heady smells of beer, cigarettes, and sex.
It was the kind of building that appeared larger on the inside than the outside had suggested. There were two main stages located on opposite sides of the room from one another. On the left, two bored-looking dancers gyrated together to the appreciative cheers of their audience. One of the women had a tattoo on her hip that might have been a majestic phoenix draped in flames, but from a distance it looked like somebody had puked on her and she hadn’t gotten around to wiping it off yet. On the stage to the right, a dancer with pale skin and short black hair vied for the attention of the thirty-or-so men in the room, alternately squeezing her tiny breasts together or making them bounce up and down. Only a shaky old man in a rumpled brown suit seemed impressed with her performance at the moment.
Another trio of topless women worked the floor, weaving through the raucous crowd, offering lap dances. Two of them appeared to be identical twins; they sported big 80s-style hair, enormous fake breasts, and orange tans that could only have come from a can.
Nick wasn’t sure whom he found more pathetic: the women who exposed their bodies to strangers for a few lousy bucks, or the men who emptied their wallets for the right to briefly ogle them.
At the back of the room was a long black bar. Behind it stood a thirty-something bald guy wearing a red silk shirt, black leather pants, and a scowl that suggested he was waiting for an excuse to stab someone. Through the thick clouds of cigarette smoke that hovered over the heads of the Skin Den’s clientele, Nick spotted a beefy bouncer dressed in black. He appeared to be the only one on duty. He was a stone-faced young man with curly blond hair that didn’t fit his tough-guy image. He lingered in a dark alcove between two doorways closed off with velvet curtains, presumably the establishment’s “V.I.P.” rooms.
One thing Nick found surprising as he made his way through the club was that no one had turned to eyeball him. The bartender had given him a sideways glance or two upon first noticing him, as if hoping the big man with the disfigured face didn’t crave a drink; otherwise Nick might have been invisible. He doubted it was because of his sunglasses or the hoodie pulled over his head. With so much naked flesh on display, he could have stalked through the Skin Den in his old Widowmaker getup, carrying a gore-streaked battle-axe, and only the bouncer would have paid him any attention.
The heavy metal song segued into a bass-heavy hip-hop tune.
“So what’s the plan?” Leon yelled in his ear.
“I’m gonna start at the bar,” said Nick. “You talk to the girls.”
“Twist my arm, hoss.”
“Still got your copy of the photo?”
“Yep.” Leon patted his back pocket.
“Take it out, show it around.”
“Okay. By the way...you still buyin’?”
Nick pulled out his wallet, thumbed through it. Slapped two ten-dollar bills into Leon’s palm.
“Don’t spend it all in one place. Remember why we’re here.”
†
“Jack and Coke.”
“Six bucks.”
Nick paid. The bartender got his drink. It was heavy on the flat cola, light on the watered-down whiskey, just as Nick expected.
“So, fella...talk to you for a minute?”
The bartender pretended not to hear him. He had already turned to focus his attention on a muted television behind the bar. Two lightweights were beating the shit out of each other in a bloody UFC match.
Nick pulled out the photo of the man from the drugstore. Slapped it down on the bar.
The bartender didn’t even glance at it. He drew himself a glass of water, drank like a dude who had been crawling through the desert for days in search of sustenance.
Louder this time, Nick said, “This won’t take long, friend. I just need to know if you’ve seen—”
“I ain’t your friend,” the bartender grunted. “And I’m trying to watch the fight.”
Nick noticed the way the other man avoided looking him directly in the eyes. When he spoke, he peered at a spot somewhere near the top of Nick’s head. Nick resisted the urge to run a hand over his buzz-cut, to wipe away whatever the bartender was looking at. He also resisted the urge to climb up on the bar and piledrive the son-of-a-bitch into that stainless-steel sink.
To Nick’s left sat a clear glass jar labeled TIPS. It was empty save for a handful of loose change and a dead spider curled up at the bottom. He wondered if that was why the guy was so pissed off at the world—because his tips jar went largely ignored.
Nick finished off his Jack-and-Coke in two swallows, slammed the glass down on the bar. He removed his sunglasses.
Finally, the bartender turned back toward him.
“Yep,” said Nick, “I’m still here.”
The bartender glared at him. Or, rather, at that spot on top of Nick’s head.
Nick glared back. He tapped the photo between them with one big finger.
“Tell me if you know this man. Word is, he’s a regular.”
“No way you’re a cop with a mug like that,” said the bartender. “You some kinda private dick?”
“Nope,” said Nick.
“What’s that make you, then?”
“A guy, looking for another guy.”
“What did he do to you, makes you wanna find him so bad?”
“I have reason to believe he took something of mine. I aim to get it back.”
The bartender drank more water, looked toward the TV again. The match had ended early; while the ref checked on the unconscious loser, the winner strutted around the ring with his gloves held high.
“I see a lot of people in here. Truckers pulling in, wanna drink a beer and watch some split-tail for a couple of hours. Most of ’em I don’t ever see again.”
“Like I said, I hear he’s a regular. Anybody would recognize him, it’d be the fella pours the drinks. Just look at the picture.”
The bartender obviously didn’t appreciate being told what to do. Especially by some disfigured freak in an old gray hoodie, looked like he should have been digging through the dumpster out back in search of his next meal.
“If I look at your photo, will you fuck off?”
“Gladly.”
He snatched it off the bar.
The change in his expression was subtle. If Nick blinked he would have missed it. But there was no doubt in his mind...
The bartender recognized the guy in the picture.
He let it drop back down on the bar too quickly, sounded too sure when he said, “Never seen him. He don’t come in here.”
“You’re sure about that?” asked Nick.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” The guy was so full of shit he was swimming in it. “Tough luck. Hope you find your man.”
“Thanks,” said Nick. “I plan on it.”
The bartender feigned interest in the TV again, but when he saw that his fighting show had been replaced by an infomercial he decided now was a good time to start counting the money in the cash register.
Nick put away the picture. Rose from his stool. Leaned against the bar and watched the dancers for a minute as he pondered his next move.