Part 11 (1/2)
”h.e.l.l no. Why don't you just admit it, you're stalling. You don't want to go in there 'cos-”
”Because why, Chief? Because I know I'll run into Vicki? Is that what you're driving at?”
”Well, yeah,” Mullins said, and spat into his ubiquitous paper cup. ”I think you're a little bit chicken to run into her again. Christ, you dumped the poor girl like a load of heavy diapers.”
Phil simmered in his seat. ”I did not dump her, Chief. And keep in mind I've been a cop for over ten years. I do know how to keep my personal past separate from my job.” Phil felt convinced of this, but he also felt...a sudden distant queasiness. ”You want me to go in there, Chief. Fine, I will.”
Mullins packed a pinch more Red Man into his jowl-if it was tobacco, he chewed it: snuff, leaf, plugs. ”Glad to hear it, Phil.” Then he spat a big one. ”Get your a.s.s in there tonight.”
Eleven.
”What are you nervous about?”Susan asked behind her Motorola station base.
”I'm not nervous,” Phil a.s.serted. He'd just changed into his street clothes in Mullins' office, then came out to the commo room. It was just past midnight.
”Not nervous, huh?” Did she smile? ”Looks to me like you're about to tinkle in your jockey shorts.”
”How do you know I don't wear boxers?” Phil quickly changed the topic. He changed it, he knew now, because he was nervous, and he also knew why.
Evidently so did Susan. ”It must be the girl, huh? Vicki what's-her-name, your ex-fiancee?”
Phil seethed. ”No, it is not. Christ, can't Mullins keep his mouth closed about anything?” He shuddered to think what else the dubious chief had told her.
”Did you really dump her 'cos she wouldn't move?”
”No, I did not! Jesus!”
”Don't get whipped up. I was just asking,” she said, adjusting the frequency modulator on the radio. ”And if you don't mind my saying so, you make a great-looking redneck.”
”I've never been more flattered.” But he supposed she was right. Tight, tapered Levis over pointed s.h.i.+t-kicker boots, a big buck knife on his belt, and a black-and-red flannel s.h.i.+rt. It astounded him how the societal contingent colloquially thought of as ”rednecks” insisted on wearing flannel s.h.i.+rts even in the middle of summer. He'd also slicked his hair back with Score.
”Look at the bright side,” Susan added, cueing her mike once. ”How many guys actually get paid to sit in strip joints?”
”Hmm, you're right. It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it. Might as well be me. Anyway, I'm out of here. I'll be back around two.”
”Wait, wait,” she was suddenly complaining. She got up from behind her console. ”Don't you know anything about redneck fas.h.i.+on? You've got to show some hair.”
”Pardon me?”
She walked right up to him, so close he could smell her herbal shampoo. Phil was six-feet even, while Susan stood about five-seven. He looked down at her, instinctively noting the lean compactness of her body, the sudden proportion of her waist and hips, and the stunning white-blond hair. In the small ”v” of her blouse, he spied a breast satcheled in a plain beige bra. The simple, beautiful image nearly shook him.
Then she began unb.u.t.toning his s.h.i.+rt.
”What, uuuuuuh,” he asked, ”what are you doing?”
”I told you. You have to show some hair. It's the redneck's version of a tie.”
”Oh,” Phil replied.
She unb.u.t.toned his s.h.i.+rt all the way to his solar plexus, then fluffed it out some. ”There, that's much better,” she said. ”Now you look like a true Crick City redneck.” Her eyes thinned momentarily, and her mouth turned up in the slightest grin. ”Nice pecs, too. If you don't mind my saying so.”
Jesus, he thought as she went back to her commo cubby. ”That's all? Just nice?”
”Get out of here,” she said, laughing.
Nice pecs. Well, he thought. He hadn't touched a barbell in five years, but at least Susan's remark, even if she hadn't been serious, offered him a welcome diversion during the drive. He realized, most fully now, that what Mullins had accused him of this morning was absolutely on the mark. I'm a f.u.c.king nervous wreck, he admitted after parking in Sallee's dusty gravel lot. And he realized two things more, just as fully: Vicki's going to be in there, and she's going to see me.
He left his off-duty Beretta locked in the glove box; the last thing he needed was some, drunk redneck spotting his piece printing in his pants. And there was another consideration: Vicki knew that Phil had worked for Metro; he had a phony line all planned about a new job-a non-police job. Another thing he didn't need was everybody in the joint knowing a cop lurked amid the clientele. That would blow the whole stakeout right then and there.
KRAZY SALLEE'S, the high roadsign blinked as he disembarked. His boots scuffed gravel as he traversed the lot. Lurid light bathed him in the entry; a bull-faced bouncer gave him the eye at the door, then let him pa.s.s through. Phil expected thunderous-and awful-heavy metal or C&W. Instead he walked into a half-full bar full of similarly flannel-s.h.i.+rted 'necks talking over tables flanked by beer bottles and ashtrays. I thought this was a rowdy stripjoint, he reminded himself when he took note of the empty stage. Loud music and near-naked women were what he had prepared himself to be in the midst of. What he found instead was a lethargic gathering of good old boys shooting the s.h.i.+t over bottles of Black Label and Schmidt's.
No one seemed to notice him when he scouted the floor; he tried to make it appear that he was looking for someone. The only thing he was looking for in reality was a seat. Sallee's layout hadn't changed an iota from what he remembered. Cheap tables packed around makes.h.i.+ft aisles, a carpet of crushed peanut sh.e.l.ls and beer slime, warped wood walls with tacky upholstered booths in back. Every possible beer-ad-plaque hung in evidence: Budweiser mirrors, Schlitz wall lamps, Michelob neon squiggles, a Killian's mural, and an illuminated Miller clock. What else hung in evidence was a s.h.i.+fting-and nearly living-wall of cigarette smoke. Phil had never taken up the habit, but he suspected he'd be getting more tar and nicotine just breathing the air here than chaining a pack of Camels. Next time wear a gas mask with your flannel s.h.i.+rt, bud.
He wanted an inconspicuous seat from which to observe, but then the barkeep, a thin blond guy wearing a Jeff Dahmer T-s.h.i.+rt, waved him over. ”Plenty of seats up at the bar, brother.”
Good enough, Phil thought. At the bar corner he wouldn't be obvious. Another thing he knew he had to do was order a beer, despite his being on duty. When working undercover in a strip joint, ordering Pepsi didn't emphasize one's credibility.
Only problem was, Phil hated American beer.
”Heineken,” he said.
”Ain't got it, brother,” enlightened the keep. ”We're all Americans here. You want your money to go to Holland? What they ever do for you besides balk out of World War Two while your daddy was probably getting his a.s.s shot at by the Waffen SS.”
”Bottle of Bud,” Phil fairly groaned.
”Comin' right up.”
Phil glanced up at the TV mounted high at the back corner of the bar. He wondered what the Yankees were doing but saw only dismal pro wrestling on the color screen: a black guy and a big blond schmuck suplexing each other to a slavering crowd. When the keep brought his Bud, Phil asked, ”How about switching on some baseball? The Yanks are on tonight, hopefully whipping the s.h.i.+t out of Baltimore.”
”What, grapplin's not good enough for ya? It's the all-American sport.” The keep seemed offended by Phil's suggestion. He gestured toward the screen. ”We got Ric Flair tusslin' with Bruce Reed here, brother. You'd rather watch the Yankees?”
Don't make waves, Phil warned himself. ”Oh, s.h.i.+t, man, I didn't realize it was Bruce Flair. Keep it on, man.”
The keep frowned. ”That's Ric Flair, brother. He's only been heavyweight champ ten friggin' times.”
”Yeah, yeah, Ric Flair. Best black wrestler in the sport.”
The thin keep frowned again. ”Reed's the black guy.”
”Right,” Phil faltered. ”It's been a while since I've caught any...grapplin'.”
The keep slid away, leaving Phil feeling like a horse's a.s.s. Can I help it I don't know who Ric f.u.c.king Flair is? Right now, on the TV, Mr. Flair seemed to be getting his clock seriously cleaned by the black guy. But then Phil noticed the obvious incongruity: both wrestlers looked like they had three-pound rockfish stuffed in their trunks. Either those guys both have ten-inch d.i.c.ks or they're big fans of Idaho potatoes.
So this was what rednecks did? Hang out in strip joints with no girls on the stage and watch wrestling and drink Budweiser? There must be more to life than that. ”Hey, man?” Phil flagged the keep again.