Ugly As Sin (16 page)

“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.

Was a time when he would have honed in like a heat-seeking missile on one of these women. Maybe more than one. They would have left the club together, spent the rest of the night doing things to each other that are still illegal in some states. Now he wished he could tear this fucking place to the ground. Spoil everyone’s good time. How dare these people carry on with their petty perversions when a child had gone missing at the hands of one of their own.

One of the orange-skinned strippers approached Nick then, as he was about to step away from the bar.

She pressed her plastic breasts against him, said, “You look like you could use a lap dance, big boy.”

Nick peered past her, over her shoulder, mumbled something about how a dry hump was the last thing on his mind.

“Twenty gets ya one song, baby. Don’t be shy.” Her breath was hot in his ear. It smelled like meatloaf.

“Tell you what.” Nick pulled the photo out of his jacket again, held it in front of her face. “I might take you up on your offer, you tell me if you’ve seen this man.”

She stepped back, pursed her lips as she studied the picture. Her eyes were barely visible beneath her heavy black mascara.

“Sorry, sweetie. Can’t say as I recognize him. But I just started working here last week. Now, about that dance?”

Nick gently pushed her aside, left her standing alone at the bar.

“...matter with you?” she called out after him. “You ugly
and
queer?”

He ignored her.

He considered trying his luck with the curly-haired bouncer next, but the guy was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he had stepped into the restroom to take a piss, or was busy throwing out some drunk who couldn’t keep his hands off the girls. Maybe he was in the restroom
with
one of the girls. And his perm.

Nick cursed under his breath, decided to go look for Leon. He hoped the twenty bucks he had given his companion would prove a worthwhile investment.

Sure. It was probably stuck in some stripper’s sweaty thong by now, and Leon’s copy of the photo had never even left his back pocket.

†

If he had turned to shoot the bartender one last dirty look, Nick would have seen the man pull an iPhone from the breast pocket of his fancy silk shirt.

Had he been close enough, he would have heard the bartender tell someone on the other end of the line what had just transpired.

“—thought you’d wanna know. Watch your back.”

A pause.

“Yeah, he’s still here. I’m looking at the ugly fuck right now. That’s right. Blue Bronco with a broken windshield. Parked out back. I seen him walk in with another guy while I was outside having a snort. Hard to miss this freak, know what I’m saying?”

The bartender stuck a finger in his ear, struggled to hear the voice on the other end of the line.

“Well, that’s perfect. They could tail him as he leaves the club, lead him right to you. He’ll have to take your exit if he’s headed back to Midnight.”

He poured himself another glass of water.

“Hey, don’t mention it. I’m helping out a friend, that’s all.”

He took a sip. But then he sputtered, almost choked on it.

“Five thousand—? Er...of course I can use the money! Tell Mr. Balfour he’s too generous. But he don’t have to do that, Charlie. Really, he don’t.”

A nervous chuckle.

“Of course I wouldn’t wanna insult him! Tell Mr. Balfour I’ll take his money, if he insists.”

†

Nick found Leon in a dark back corner of the club. The skinny meth-head stood with his hands in his pockets, staring up at a blonde dancer who had climbed on top of a table to do her thing. She had big, saggy breasts and a bad overbite, wore nothing but a pair of pink lace panties and silver high-heels. Alice Cooper’s “Poison” rocked the club’s P.A. system now, but she swayed back and forth slowly, as if moving to the beat of a different tune.

“Yo.” A cigarette bounced between Leon’s lips. He squinted at Nick through the smoke, said quickly, “We need to talk.” A nod toward the girl on the table. “This is Claudette. Ain’t she the sweetest thang?”

Nick didn’t say anything.

Leon stood on his tiptoes, shouted to Claudette loud enough to be heard above Alice Cooper, “Darlin’, this here’s Nick, my partner-in-crime.”

Claudette leaned over, almost lost her balance. The table wobbled beneath her.

“What happened to your face?”

Nick sensed no cruelty in her question. She seemed genuinely curious. As if she were merely asking him to explain the metric system, or what clouds are made of.

“It’s a long story.”

“What?” She cupped one hand behind her ear. Nick noticed a tattoo on the underside of her wrist: “JOEY.”

When he didn’t repeat himself, she shrugged, closed her eyes and went back to her off-rhythm dancing. She mouthed the words along with Alice:
I wanna hurt you just to hearrr you screamin’ my name...