I made my way to the bar, gathering a couple of scary looks from the few straight women in the place, and jealous glances from the men. I settled in on a sturdy-looking bar stool and ordered a pitcher of Bud. The barchick brought a glass with it, but I believe in conservation, so I conserved energy and time and drank straight from the pitcher. It went down smooth, and I ordered another one to follow it. With my whistle properly wet, I started looking around for leads. With only two bars in town, anybody that looked drunk and upset was likely to have been in Trixie's last night. Drunks in small towns are professionals, they don't take nights off for anybody or anything. The trouble was gonna be making sure these folks were upset because they almost died in a fire instead of upset because some other woman in sensible work boots picked her favorite karaoke number.
Halfway through the second pitcher, my Bluetooth headset crackled to life. "You found anything out yet?" Skeeter asked. He sounded tired, and I figured he and Uncle Father Joe had been arguing about exactly how useful I was to the operation again. I'll admit that I'm a pain in Skeeter's ass, but I'm also the biggest dude he's ever met and the only dude crazy enough to go chasing after anything that goes bump in the night. Uncle Father Joe is our boss, the Catholic Church's SouthEastern Extranormal Anomaly Elimination Specialist. He's also a bona fide priest, and Skeeter's uncle besides. So not only does calling him Uncle Father Joe make it sound like he's some kind of inbred hick, it's true.
"No, Skeeter, I ain't found nothing yet. I ain't even got a buzz yet."
"You don't have to be drunk to hunt, Bubba."
"Yeah, but last time I went hunting sober was that mall thing, and we know how that turned out."
"Yeah, you cost the church a hundred grand in charity and a nun renounced her vows to follow Phish on the road and become a tantric sex therapist."
"I think she'll go far in whatever that sex thing is you said. She was hot for a nun."
"Drink up, and turn on the button cam I gave you."
"I forgot what button it is."
"It's not in a button, jackass. That's just what it's called. The camera is in your belt buckle."
"So I'm really gonna look around with my johnson?"
"Well, that's what you do most of your thinking with, so why not put the rest of the investigation down there, too?" I didn't have a snappy comeback for that one. Skeeter's way smarter than me, so I usually have to resort to gay jokes, or black jokes, or gay black jokes, or Catholic gay black jokes. But since I'm Catholic too those don't always work out so good. I decided to let him win this round since I'd already pissed him off once today.
"I see something, Skeeter." I finished my pitcher and ordered two more, along with three glasses.
"What do you see?"
"Them girls in the corner look a little out of place." Three girls were clustered around one table, all of them looking like they'd never line danced before. They all kinda looked like they'd never danced anywhere there wasn't a pole before. I turned around and thrust my belt buckle out at them so Skeeter could get a good look. This got the attention of the redhead, who looked up and down every inch of me and gave me a sly grin.
"What looks out of place about them, Bubba?"
"They looked at my junk, Skeeter, and that ain't happened much since I got here."
"Your junk is not the first place everybody looks when they meet you, Bubba, no matter what you might think."
"No, it ain't the first place, Skeeter. But most chicks get around to it eventually. They all want to know if a dude this big and tall is big and tall everywhere if you get my drift. But not the ladies here. They are not interested in anything Little Bubba might have to show them."
"And you think the girls at this table are?"
"Well, one of them just waved me over, so it's a start." I picked up the pitchers and the glasses and made my way over to their table. A short chick with a buzz cut and a two-foot rattail bumped into me and bounced off like she'd hit a wall. She whirled around, fists up, but when she saw her eyes level with my belt buckle she just nodded and said "sorry" before returning to her boot scootin'.
"That was impressive." The blonde chick at the table said as I pulled up a chair. "I've never seen Candy bump into anyone and apologize before."
"I'm bigger than most anyone, I reckon. Besides, I didn't want to start nothin' with her. My daddy always told me never to hit a lady."
"You could punch Candy a dozen times and still obey your daddy, son." The third girl, a black chick with skin the color of a York Peppermint Patty said with a laugh. The other two laughed with her, then they all reached out for a glass and I was pouring beer.
"I'm Bubba. And who might you ladies be?"
"We might be about as much ladies as Candy over there," the redhead snapped back, and her friends howled. She held out a delicate hand and we shook. "My name's Ruby, this blonde bimbo's Felicity and our Nubian Princess here is Erlene."
"Dammit, Cynthia, I told you I was changin' that to Nairobi!"
"Well I think Nairobi's a stupid name. And your name's been Erlene ever since we started."
"But with the club burnt to the ground I could have a fresh start. Maybe even dance in one of them topless-only clubs in Columbia or Spartanburg."
I raised my hands before the girls started getting into a fight that I didn't have near enough dollar bills or chocolate pudding to properly appreciate. "Hey, hey. I don't care what y'all wanna call yourselves. Far as I care, you can be Larry, Curly and Moe." I pointed to Felicity, Ruby and Erlene in order of their Stooge names. "I just need some info. I reckon y'all were all working last night?"
"Of course," said Larry, er, Felicity. "It was Friday night, one of the best nights of the week."
"Anything out of the ordinary happen?"
"You mean outside of our livelihood getting burned to the ground?" Erlene drained her beer in a long gulp and refilled her cup from the pitcher.
"Yeah, I mean outside of that. Were you three the only dancers working?" They all glanced around without answering, which was all the answer I needed. "Who else was there?"
"We didn't say nobody else was there!" Felicity snapped. "You keep on asking all these nosy questions and I ain't gone give you that private dance we were talking about."
"We weren't talking about no private dance. Besides, I got a thing for redheads." I gave Ruby my best horny stare, and she actually blushed. I consider making strippers blush my greatest super-power. It's just a little bit better than being able to drink a whole pitcher of beer without stopping for breath. "Now who else was there."
Felicity looked around, then leaned in towards me. "Sapphire was the other girl working. Her boyfriend got into a thing with one of the customers. Tiny had to throw him out."
"Lemme guess. Tiny is the bouncer and is a really big dude."
"How did you know? Do you know Tiny?" Ruby asked, completely sincere. Her stock fell a bit in my eyes, but her boobs helped keep it above water.
"No, but I've been around a bit. The biggest guy in the room is always called Tiny. Little people think it's funny." I hoped my tone made it clear that I didn't. I've been called Tiny. Once. "Where can I find Sapphire?"
All the girls looked around nervously before Erlene answered. "I don't know. She used to have a trailer out on Highway 9, but I think she moved."
"What's her real name?"
"What do you mean?" Ruby looked genuinely puzzled.
"Well, I reckon her real name ain't 'Sapphire' any more than y'all are really named Ruby, Felicity and Erlene. So what is her real name?"
"You mean some girls use fake names when they dance? I never thought of that. My name really is Ruby, my mama named me after her great-aunt." The other girls nodded, and I decided that I couldn't sleep with Ruby after all. Banging a stripper is one thing, but banging one that's too dumb to use a fake name just seems unfair, like taking candy from a baby or something.
I stood up, drained my pitcher and motioned to the other one. "Y'all enjoy that beer. And good luck findin
g new work. I gotta go find Sapphire."
I was halfway to the door when Ruby caught my arm. She pressed herself up against me, big fake boobs hard lumps against me, like a pair of baked potatoes pressing into my stomach. I looked down into her doe-like eyes, all full of hope and completely devoid of thought. "Please, Mr. Bubba, find out who burned down the club so Trixie can open the place back up. I don't know what we'll do if we can't dance. I quit that mail-in pedicure school after two lessons, and Felicity sure don't want to go back to work with her daddy at the tire store."
I smiled down at her, or to be honest, I smiled down at her rack and said "I'll do what I can, Boobie. I mean, Ruby." Then I picked her up by the waist and kissed her in the middle of the dance floor. Husky women in steel-toe boots did the electric slide all around us while a skinny boy-shaped chick sang a K.T. Tunstall song in the background, but the world fell away for a minute in the glow of neon beer signs and a disco ball with all but six mirrors busted. I set Ruby back down and turned to go to a round of applause from the entire bar.
"Well, that was romantic." Skeeter chirped in my ear as I got into the truck.
"Well, I figured I might as well give her something to tell the girls at the nail salon about next week. Now what do you know about Sapphire?"
"Well, as you might imagine, strip clubs aren't too particular with their employee records. In fact, most of the girls are considered independent contractors, and aren't really employed at all. They just come in, set their own rates and tip out a portion of the fees to the house at the end of the night. So I've got nothing from the cub records on anybody named Sapphire."
"Well, how are we gonna find this girl?" I had the truck in gear, but with no idea where to go, I slid it back into park and sat there, staring out the windshield while Skeeter did his magic.
"Have faith, big boy, have faith. I checked bank records for women who routinely deposited large amounts of cash on Mondays, since Friday and Saturday nights are their big-money nights."
"You can look that kind of thing up?"
"Well, it ain't easy, but yeah, I can figure it out. I've got names and addresses for your three new drinking buddies, and they really are named Ruby, Felicity and Erlene."
"Yeah, I didn't think she was smart enough to lie to me. But I don't need to find them, I need to find the other chick, Sapphire."
"Well, she's obviously the smartest wheel on the car, because she did lie about her name. Sapphire's real name is Gwen Price, and until recently she lived in the proverbial van down by the river."
"What proverb is that from? I read Proverbs, and I don't remember nothing about no vans."
"God I need to get you to watch something other than ESPN and the Playboy Channel on television."
"I do! I watch Raw and Smackdown. But what does that have to do with finding this Gwen chick?"
"Nothing, Bubba." Skeeter sighed. I could tell he was on another one of his "Bubba is a moron" kicks, but I had all the guns so I figured better to be stupid and armed than a scrawny genius with a Cheetos fetish.
"So where is she?"
"Apparently last week she closed her accounts at the bank, bought a dually Ram pickup with cash and cut off her water, power and sewer service. I'd say she's getting ready to skip town."
"Looks like whatever Sapphire was running from found her before she made it out of Dodge. Any idea where she is now?"
"I tracked her cell phone to a motel a little east of town on 176. What passes for a security camera in the parking lot shows a truck that matches the one she bought in the parking lot, and they have a blonde woman registered as Dolly Parton."
"Skeeter, I almost hate to ask this question, but I'm going to anyway."
"Go ahead, Bubba."
"Is all this hacking and tapping and tracing stuff legal?"
"Legal? Probably not, but since we work for the Church, it must be righteous, right?"
"You realize you're asking a man whose top five restaurants are all strip club buffets?
"You might not be the authority on righteous, huh?"
"I know a righteous buzz when I get one. I know a righteous concert when I see one. And I know a righteous ass-whooping when I deliver one. So sure, I'm a righteousness expert. And I reckon we're about as righteous as the next church-sanctioned monster hunters. Good enough for you?"
"I can deal. But you might better gear up. That dude at the fire looked like he was ripped to pieces, so whatever's chasing this chick, it's pretty badass."
"That's alright, Skeeter. I know a little bit about badass, too." I put the truck in gear and headed out to the motel. The drive was only about ten minutes, and I was pulling up in front of the creatively named Highway 176 Motel. It was a strip of rooms in an L-shape with a gravel parking lot and an office at one end. I parked my truck next to a beat up old Ram dually that looked like it had spent most of its life pulling a horse trailer. It had a camper top with one of the back windows busted, so I snuck a peek inside. There was a couple of blankets piled up in the bed of the truck, like something had been wrapped up back there. There was also a couple of streaks of something I thought was probably blood. I tried to get an image to Skeeter, but couldn't hike my belt buckle up enough for him to see through the camera. After a couple minutes of dry-humping the fender I gave up and went to the office.
The manager looked like Norman Bates' nerdier kid brother, complete with greasy combover. He hurriedly shoved something under the counter as I walked in, and I figured I'd interrupted his afternoon meditation on Miss January. "C-can I help you?" he stammered as I walked up and leaned both meaty hands on his counter. My mitts were about the size of his head, and the closer I leaned in, the more he shrank back. I was a little worried about what might happen when I actually spoke to him, but I didn't have much choice.
"I'm here to see Miss Parton. What room is she in, please?" I smiled, but he shook even more. Sometimes my smiles are mistaken for growls, it might be the long beard. I've thought about braiding it, but I'm not sure that would come across as any less threatening.
"I-I'm sorry, s-s-sir. We don't give out that information. It's c-c-c-c-company policy."
I slid a twenty across the counter. "I don't think anyone needs to know about it but you and me."
He didn't even touch the twenty. "And Miss Parton. Her manager said specifically that she was not to be disturbed."
I added a twenty to the one already laying there. "Manager? Miss Parton isn't traveling alone?"
He still didn't touch the money. "No sir! You can't expect a big Hollywood star like Miss Parton to travel alone. Her manager made all the arrangements, and left instructions that she was not to be disturbed."
"Instructions" meant a bigger bribe. I was running out of twenties, and didn't really feel like pissing around with this kid anymore, so I put Bertha, my Desert Eagle pistol on top of the forty bucks and said "I don't think his instructions were meant for me, son. You see, I'm Miss Parton's head of security, and she asked me to meet them here. Now where is she?" I went for my most intimidating lean, which made the sleeves of my t-shirt slide up to show off even more of the tattoos across my arms.
The kid went pale but stood his ground. "I'm real sorry, sir, but I can't give you that information. If you'd like to call their room from the house phone over yonder, maybe they can tell you what room they're in." I was impressed. Not many 120-pound weaklings can stand up to a looming giant at their desk. I put Bertha back in her shoulder rig and left the kid the forty bucks.
"Good job, son. I'll be sure to tell Miss Parton you did everything you could to protect her privacy." He grinned a greasy little smile and waved as I walked out the front door.
Skeeter clicked on in my ear as I walked briskly down the row of doors. "And now what, you kick in every door until you find this girl?"
"Nah, she's in 109."
"How do you know that, Bubba?"
"Sometimes you forget that I'm not just a pretty face, Skeeter. There's a brain hidden inside all this beauty, too. And I'
ll tell you what, mister, it hurts to only be seen for my good looks and never be respected for my intellect!" I was laying it on thicker than Tammy Faye's eyeliner in 1987, but Skeeter wasn't buying.
"I don't see you for your good looks, jackass. I see you for your firepower and sheer bulk."
"Oh. Well, that's okay then. There was only one key missing from the rack behind the kid. It was for room 109, so I figure that must be where our girl is holed up." I made my way to Room 109, stood off to one side of the door and knocked. "Housekeeping!" I yelled in my highest-pitched voice.
"We don't need anything, thanks," came a wavery female voice.
"She sounds scared, Skeeter. I think whatever tore up the dude at the club must have her in there." I headed back towards the truck.
"What are you doing?" Skeeter asked. "I know you're not leaving her in there with that whatever-it-is."
"Oh Hell, no. But I also ain't going in there with just one gun. I might be big and ugly, but I ain't stupid." I opened the rear passenger door of the truck and flipped up the back seat. Bolted to the floor of the truck was my secret toolbox. I punched in the combination, and my own little armory opened up for business. I pulled out half a dozen different magazines for Bertha, sliding them into different slots in the shoulder rig. I had hollow-points loaded in the gun, but I loaded up silver bullets, holy water bullets, white phosphorous bullets, garlic bullets, wooden bullets (which are a lot harder to make in a fifty-cal round than you might think) and cold iron bullets in case of fairy critters.
Scattered, Smothered and Chunked - Bubba the Monster Hunter Season 1 Page 8