Creekers. Part 10

"None taken," Phil laughed. "It's the last thing I want to be, too, but I don't have much of a choice at the moment."

Her gaze moved absently to the window. "It's the town, you know? It's so slow and desperate and backwards. It's depressing. The minute I get a decent job, I'm out of here."

"I know just what you're talking about, believe me," Phil related, but at once he felt dried up. He'd said the same thing to Vicki, hadn't he? No way he was going to work in a nowhere town like this. He was too good for Crick City. And now Vicki was a prost.i.tute and Phil was- The thought didn't even need finis.h.i.+ng.

"How long have you been working for Mullins?"

"A little under a year," she said. "He's a decent man, if a bit ornery, and he offered me the dispatch job when he heard I was looking for something to help me through school. He knew my parents when they were alive."

Better not ask about that, Phil told himself, though he did note their commonality. "So you grew up here, too?"

"Yeah," she said despondently. "My father was on disability; he got shot up in Viet Nam. My mother worked lots of odd jobs to get us by, but it just seems the harder she worked, the harder things got."

There seemed to be a similar variation of the same story for just about everyone around here: poor people struggling just to make it, and never quite succeeding. Phil had been too young to really even remember his own parents-but the tale was the same. He could tell the coversation was draining Susan; her l.u.s.ter was gone, her bright-blue eyes not quite so bright now. He struggled for something more upbeat to talk about, but nothing came to him until he remembered that she seemed enthused about guns and cop talk in general.

"What do you know about Cody Natter?" he asked.

She pushed her plate aside, leaving the fries. "Not a lot. About the only place he's ever seen with any regularity is Sallee's. He owns the place now, you know."

"Yeah, Mullins mentioned that. Don't you think that's weird?"

"Sure it's weird. A guy like Natter? No visible income, no bank account. I don't guess that Sallee's sold for much, but still, you have to wonder where he got the cash to buy the place."

"I'm even more curious as to why?"

"I have to agree with Mullins," Susan said. "An out-of-the-way strip joint like that is the perfect contact point if you're networking dope. Last year Mullins had the Comptroller's Office audit him, but the guy's books were picture perfect. No way we can nail him on taxes. I don't know how he did it."

Phil didn't care. "I don't want to get him on tax fraud or ill-gotten gains; I want to bust him for manufacturing and distribution."

"Then you're going to have to have solid evidence linking him to his lab, which'll be tough," Susan reminded him, "and finding the lab itself will be plain impossible."

"Why?"

"Natter's a Creeker; his lab's got to be up in the hills. You ever been back there? It's a mess. You're talking about three or four thousand acres of uncharted woodlands. There are roads back there that aren't even on the county map grid. Finding Natter's lab will be like looking for the needle in the haystack, or try ten haystacks."

She had a point, and Phil was no trailblazer. "Yeah, but maybe one of his people will spin."

"Don't hold your breath. Natter's people are all Creekers, too; they're never gonna talk, first, because they're all terrified of Natter-he's like their G.o.d-and another reason they'll never talk is simply because most of them can't. Let's just say you catch one of them dealing dust; no judge in the world will accept their testimony. Why? Because technically they're all r.e.t.a.r.dates-they're legally mentally impaired."

Phil frowned. She was right again. "But what about Natter himself?" he raised the issue. "You ever talked to the guy? He's sharp as a tack. He's smart, he's well-read, he's articulate. I wouldn't call him mentally impaired at all."

"Phil, be real. The guy's a Creeker, he makes Frankenstein's monster look like Tom Cruise. You get him into court on shaky testimony, all the guy's gotta do is play dumb and the judge throws the whole thing out. The only way you're gonna get Natter is to bust a bunch of his point people or bag men-people who aren't Creekers-and get them to testify. You're gonna have to make a positive link between Natter and known PCP dealers. At least Mullins has you on the right track. Staking out Sallee's over a period of time, getting a line on Natter's out-of-town contacts-that'sthe only way you'll be able to get Cody Natter on a distro bust that'll stick."

Phil saw no point in telling her that the whole idea was his, not Mullins'. But she was right on all counts. This would probably wind up being as complicated as any of his PCP cases in the city, if not more so since the circ.u.mstances were so atypical. "I still want to find that lab, though," he muttered, more to himself. "No judge will argue with hard photographic evidence."

Susan's expression turned bemused. "What, you think you're gonna get a picture of Natter at the lab?"

"Why not? It'd be an open-and-shut case."

"Never happen, Phil. Natter's way too smart for anything even close to that. He's probably never set foot in the lab, you can bank on that."

Phil grumbled. Again, he knew she was right. Yeah, this sure ain't the city, he thought. On Metro, he'd been one of the best narc cops on the force, but his expertise felt like a white elephant now. Everything was different here; things worked different ways. This was another world "Phil!" Susan was suddenly whispering. "Look!"

He glanced up from the remnants of his hash and eggs. Susan was gazing fixedly out the window. Along the shoulder of the Route, a teenage boy and girl were walking, both dressed in little more than rags. Both had s.h.a.ggy heads of dirty black hair, and they ambled along unsteadily, even crookedly. The boy wore rotted workboots, while the girl was barefoot, oblivious to the shoulder's sharp gravel. In the bright, hot afternoon sun, they looked like bizarre ghosts.

"Creekers," Phil uttered under his breath.

"G.o.d, I feel sorry for them," Susan remarked, still staring out. "Talk about getting a b.u.m deal from life."

Phil gulped. Her observation made him at once feel selfish; in all his reflection upon his own problems, here were two kids with real problems. They walked at such a distance that he could discern little of their physical features, but even that was more than enough. The boy's neck appeared twice as long as it should, which caused his enlarged head to droop to one side, while the girl didn't seem to have any jaw at all, and though her left arm looked normal, her right was grievously shortened, the hand sprouting from the elbow.

"I wonder how many of them there are?" Phil said.

Susan's gaze never strayed off their backs as they grew tiny beyond the bend.

"Who knows?" she answered.

Ten.

Back in Black, Paul Sullivan thought along with the pounding juke music. Right now this hotter-than-h.e.l.l redhead was dancing up a c.o.c.k-stoking storm on stage. Big t.i.ts, like a Penthouse Pet, and legs that looked a mile long. Vicki Steele, her name was. He and his buddy Kevin Orndorf just got off a bag run out near Waynesville; Krazy Sallee's was the perfect place to drop a few beers after a sale. It was also a good place to meet their partners and point men, talk some quick business and make arrangements. Of course, they'd never actually sell the product here-that'd be crazy. Paul and his people, after all, were big time runners, not dime-baggers. Kevin himself was a little cranked up; he'd lit up a dust roach in the parking lot and he was hopping. Paul had lit up himself, but just a toke; he didn't want the s.h.i.+t turning his brain to mush. Just a quick hit once in a while.

The joint was packed. This redhead on stage was pure f.u.c.king dynamite, the best bod he'd seen in the house all night. Wonder how much a gal like that'd cost, Paul's thoughts strayed. Couple hundred at least. Maybe five.

But it would be worth it.

"Too bad they gotta wear them f.u.c.ked-up g-strings here," Kevin postulated, stroking his goatee. "Bet she's got a s.n.a.t.c.h redder than a pit fire."

"And them t.i.ts?" Paul added. "Christ. You could hang your hat and coat on 'em."

"Be right back, partner. Got's to drain the love-snake." Kevin drunkenly rose, then wended through the jammed aisles. The music was so loud it seemed to swell Sallee's old plank-wood walls. Strobe lights throbbed to the beat, along with the redhead's sultry dance moves. Her firm, big b.r.e.a.s.t.s jiggled as those long legs traipsed across the stage. Dollar bills fell like confetti...

Man, she could tease the c.o.c.k out of the Pope's pants just with her smile, Paul theorized. What I wouldn't give for just a half hour with that piece of pie.

Not that he could complain. Darleen, his current squeeze, was tough stuff, and almost had a set of t.i.ts to match. And she could get down on the rod like Sandra Scream in them p.o.r.n films he watched sometimes on card night. But, Christ, there was so much out there... For a guy to confine himself to one girl, well, that was like going to McDonald's every f.u.c.king day and having a Big Mac. Every now and then a fella might want some McNuggets or a fish sandwich.

Right?

The music compressed in his ears; he could barely hear himself think, not that Paul Sullivan ever needed to think all that much. He lit a Lucky and looked up. Kevin, clearly half s.h.i.+t-faced, was talking to some creepy looking kid by the john door. That dumba.s.s better not be trying to move any dust here, Paul fretted, but then Kevin disappeared into another door off to the side, while the creepy kid hung out another minute, then went up the stairs.

"Hey, what's in that back room?" he asked the waitress when she came along. Typical beat redneck mama, probably dropped eight kids by the time she was thirty, and now she looked fifty.

She emptied a clogged ashtray and asked, "You want another Carling?"

"Yeah," Paul said. "And what's in that back room? I just seen my buddy go in there."

"Pinball machines," she quickly replied. "You said you wanted another Carling, right?"

"Right."

A half hour later, Paul was getting drunk, and Kevin still hadn't come back. Pinball machines? He ain't into that s.h.i.+t. Never been. The redhead had long since finished her set; some skinny tattooed brunette-who looked pretty drunk herself-had replaced her and was now feebly dancing to some ba.s.s-ripper by Motorhead. Sheets of cigarette smoke wafted before the lit stage; at one point, the brunette lost her footing and fell down, which brought a burst of laughter. This was getting dull; Paul wasn't even looking at her. He didn't like tattoos on women, and this gal in particular wasn't dancing for s.h.i.+t anyway. And- Where the h.e.l.l is Kevin?

It was almost last call, plus they had a run in the morning. Havin' to drive the first runs themselves was a pain in the a.s.s, but it seemed like every time they hired some new drivers, the f.u.c.kers disappeared. Scared off, he figured. Kids, most of 'em. Come to think of it, a lot of point people had run off lately, too. Can't find good people fer s.h.i.+t...

Just as Paul was about to get up and go find his partner, Kevin appeared at the door by the john and headed for the table. He seemed antsy with excitement when he sat down, or maybe it was just the dust he'd toked. His goateed grin leaned forward. "Man, you won't believe what they got back there, partner! They got-"

"Pinball machines," Paul didn't let him finish. "Big deal."

Kevin's Orndorf's broad, goateed face ticked in a moment of perplexion. "Pinball machines? What'choo talkin' about? What they got, they got another stage, and more dancers. Thing is, though, the girls back there are Creekers."

"Creekers?" Paul expressed his own perplexion. "Stripping?"

"Yeah, man. You wouldn't believe, it's great!"

Great? He couldn't figure what could be great about a bunch of Creeker women dancing in a strip joint. He'd seen Creekers plenty of times; they were inbred, deformed. Had heads that looked like balloons and lopsided eyes. "Man, are you nuts? Them Creeker girls are ugly as all h.e.l.l. They got faces on 'em like pigs."

"Not these, man. These girls are hot, let me tell ya. They're a little f.u.c.ked-up, sure, but they're still lookers." Then Kevin, his face still lit up in some arcane thrill, put his half of the tab down on the table. "Here's dough to cover my beers. I gotta go."

Paul's face pinched. "Go where?"

"I'm buyin' me one."

"You've got to be s.h.i.+tting me!" Paul thought he might puke up his eight Carlings right there at the tabletop. "You're payin' for a Creeker wh.o.r.e?"

"Yeah, man," Kevin t.i.ttered. Suddenly, the wicked, pumped-up smile within the sharp goatee made him look like a redneck version of Lucifer. "They got one gal-you ain't gonna believe it! She's got four t.i.ts..."

"Aw, man," Paul complained, "you can't be doin' s.h.i.+t like that. We got a big drop to make in the morning,"

"I'll be there, man, don't worry." Kevin rubbed his broad hands together in some perverse glee. "I can't wait to get me a piece of this b.i.t.c.h. See ya in the mornin'."

Paul frowned after him. Kevin went out with that kid he'd seen talking to him earlier, who Paul guessed must be a Creeker too, on account of the funny-looking head. And... Did the kid have two thumbs? It looked like it. Ain't that the dumbest s.h.i.+t I ever heard, Paul thought, and drained the foam out of his last Carling. The juke cut off then, the last dancer stepping drunk off-stage to not much applause, and the house lights went on. "Last call!" shouted the barkeep, a thin balding guy in a T-s.h.i.+rt which read Shut Up And Do Me. "Order up or get out!"

I'll get out, Paul decided. He was, after all, a drug dealer possessed of a professional sense of responsibility. Got a big drop tomorrow, got to get up early. Ain't got no time to be f.u.c.kin' around with wh.o.r.es. Sometimes he just couldn't figure Kevin out. The guy was a wild man. And who the h.e.l.l would want to f.u.c.k some deformed Creeker girl with four t.i.ts? Now that redhead, Paul surmised. That's different, that's natural. But...a Creeker? That kind of kinky s.h.i.+t just wasn't Paul's speed...

Paul shuffled out through the thinning crowd. Headlights swarmed the parking lot as one pickup after another started up and pulled out. The hot night seemed static; the big blinking KRAZY SALLEE'S sign winked off. The moon peeked over the tree tops just past the ridge, an ugly, cheesy yellow like the color of his daddy's skin when the old f.u.c.k had checked out from pancreatic cancer. Paul got into his own truck and idled out of the lot. He looked around for Kevin's truck but didn't see it anywhere. Guess he's already gone, him and his Creeker wh.o.r.e with four t.i.ts.

And Paul Sullivan was right about that. Kevin was gone, all right.

Kevin Orndorf was gone forever.

For the next week, Phil did pretty much the same thing: he'd maintain a visual surveillance of Krazy Sallee's-in plain clothes, and in his own car-until after closing, snap a few pictures, and log every tag number in the lot each night, for a future cross-reference. Then he'd change into his police uniform, and finish his night s.h.i.+ft in the department's patrol car. Routine police work in Crick City was unsurprisingly dull, but at least this stake-out operation each night helped breakup an otherwise gruelling 12-hour s.h.i.+ft. On a few occasions he'd caught glimpses of Vicki Steele, leaving Sallee's with Natter in the mint Chrysler Imperial. But at no time did he witness Vicki or any other woman engaging in any parking-lot prost.i.tution. Still, though, the snapshots Mullins had reluctantly shown him continued to stick in his mind...

Between rounds, he'd hang out at the station and shoot some bull with Susan, whom he was beginning to like. She seemed made from a different mold, not a typical Crick City woman at all, but enlivened to pursue an education and career that would one day take her away from this place. (And he hoped she had better luck than he had.) The variety of her intellectual facets intrigued him; she was very smart, she knew a lot about lots of things, yet she clearly possessed a persona which transcended her bookishness. She was sa.s.sy, opinionated, even hot-tempered at times; when they disagreed on a particular topic, she wouldn't hesitate to be in his face about it. Phil admired that.

He also admired her looks. She's beautiful, it occurred to him every time he'd come in for a coffee break. She struck him as idyllic in a way; her beauty-a very real, una.s.suming, and unaugmented kind of beauty-made her s.h.i.+ne in his eye. How do you crack a woman like this? he wondered almost constantly. He'd asked her out three times, and three times she'd politely declined, citing her evening cla.s.ses would not permit it. Perhaps Phil was paranoid, but it felt to him as though she liked working with him, but had no desire to date a munic.i.p.al cop. He could only hope he was wrong.

Chief Mullins remained typically oblivious, chewing his tobacco, chugging atrocious coffee, and bellyaching about anything that suited his redneck fancy. He never seemed to ask much about what was going on, but this was typical Mullins: as chief he didn't expect to have to ask, he expected to be told, and in all honesty, aside from a few SRO's and traffic citations, Phil had nothing to put on the so-called "blotter."

But after his second week on the job, Mullins did indeed ask one morning: "So how're things going with your stakeout?"

"All right, I guess," Phil answered, transferring his surveillance notes to an official log. "Too early to get a decent read on things just yet."

"Yeah?" Mullins seemed to grumble, pouring the black ichor he thought of as coffee. "I thought you were supposed to be moving on this."

Phil frowned up from the desk. "I am. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know."

"b.u.g.g.e.r Rome. This is Crick City. You making any headway out there or just gandering your ex-girlfriend through the binocs?"

Sometimes I could kill him, Phil thought. "Chief, I'm doing this the way we talked about. I'm logging the plates of the regulars so we can eventually get a decent cross-reference. Things like this go slow."

"Yeah?" Mullins packed a wad of Red Man, then chased it with coffee. "Too slow if you ask me."

Phil all but threw his hands up. "All right, boss. You're the one who wanted me to check out this PCP net in town. You think I'm doing this wrong, then tell me how to do it right."

"Don't bust out into tears yet, Phil. I didn't say you were doing it wrong. I just said you're taking too much time."

"Yeah, well, like I said, Rome wasn't built in a day," Phil repeated and got back to his writing.

"You're right, it took a thousand years, which is fine for Rome. But I ain't got that kind of time myself. You sure you're not stalling a little?"

This time Phil's frown creased his face. "Stalling on what, for G.o.d's sake?"

"Well, you're sitting out in Sallee's parking lot every night, writing down tag numbers like a good little boy, sure. But don't you think it's time for you to get a move on? I mean, how many tag numbers can you write down before your hand starts to hurt?"

Phil leaned back in the chief's office chair, arms smugly crossed. "Chief, save us both some time, will ya? What are you implying?"

"Implying? Me?" Mullins chuckled, scratching his formidable belly.

"Yeah, you."

"Well, maybe I'm merely suggesting that it's time for you to move on to the next step. After all, this whole procedure was your idea."

"Fine. The next step. What have you got in mind?"

"See? You are stalling. You've got enough tag numbers, Phil. You're staking the lot in your POV, you're in plain clothes, and n.o.body knows you're back in town, and even if they did, n.o.body would remember you anyway. It's high time, ain't it?"

Phil still didn't know what the chief was talking about. "High time for what, Chief? For the Yankees to win the pennant?"

"No, high time for you to get your a.s.s into Sallee's and check things out from the inside."

"Sure," Phil agreed, "but don't you think it's still a bit early for that?"