Edward Lee - Creekers

“It ain’t, but a buck’s a buck.”

Eagle laughed. Phil paid his tab—a wopping six dollars—and walked out to the lot with his childhood friend. Gravel dust flurried as countless pickup trucks idled toward the exits.

“Must’ve been a bummer, huh?” Eagle said.

“What’s that?”

“You know. Walking into the joint and seein’ your ex up on the stage doing a strip routine.”

“It was no big deal,” Phil lied. “I’d heard she was working here. She still looks good, I’ll tell you that.”

“She’s the hottest ticket in the joint these days,” Eagle informed him. “But she really took a nosedive since you left town.”

“What do you mean?”

“Forget it, man. Let’s just say that she’s into a whole lot of shit that you don’t want to hear about.”

Yes I do! Phil wanted to yell. But he held back. Eagle was just the kind of information source Phil needed to get a line on the underside of the town. It was best not to press the guy, better to slowly cultivate his trust. Besides, all Eagle probably meant was Vicki’s plummet into prostitution, which, thanks to Mullins’ photographic enlightenment, Phil already knew about. I hope that’s what he means, Phil thought. What could be worse than that?

“Gotta get rolling,” Eagle said. “Got an early job tomorrow, hanging rock in Millersville.”

“It was great seeing you again, Eagle. You hang out here much?”

“Most nights. Let’s get together soon and shoot the shit.”

“Will do. Take care of yourself.”

They forked off. Eagle got into a beat-up Chevy four-runner—Phil memorized the plates, an occupational instinct—and filed out of the lot. How weird. Phil hadn’t given Eagle Peters a thought since the dreams had recurred, and now here the guy was in the flesh. And what had he meant about getting into trouble up north? And that stuff about Vicki—could Eagle have been implying that she was into more than just roadside trick-turning, or was Phil just being paranoid?

I’m being paranoid, he insisted to himself. He got into the Malibu, started it up, and sat a moment. So much gravel dust rose in the lot he could barely see, just as too many thoughts cropped up in his head, too much marauding him at once, from too many tangents: Mullins’ PCP case, Eagle, Susan, the Metro sham, and, of course, Vicki.

Vicki…

…she’s into a whole lot of shit that you don’t want to hear about…

“God,” he muttered. This was no good at all. He’d only had two beers, but he felt drunk in drenched images. Her dance routine ground in replay in his mind, like a lewd, overbright film loop—garish strobe lights pawing at her flawless body, her red hair a shimmering dark fire about her sleek shoulders, and the large breasts—which he’d once caressed in total love—displayed on her chest like prime raw meat in a butcher’s case…

Bait, no doubt, for her new trade.

“Yeah, the hottest ticket in the joint, and I used to be in love with her.”

He felt pathetic, a putz, a wimp. Pining over a relationship that didn’t work. But—

Why didn’t it work?

Because of me, he thought. She’s a stripper and a whore now…because I abandoned her in this shit-pit of a town.

He flicked on his headlights, prepared to pull out and head back to the station. But through the mist of dust, he spotted Cody Natter’s big maroon Chrysler rumbling up to Sallee’s entrance, and out of that same entrance Vicki Steele emerged, high heels at the ends of her long legs, a skin-tight blue sequin dress tight as frost about her body. She leaned over, was about to get into Natter’s car, then she paused. Erected herself. And turned around… Through the gray dust, she stared. She was staring right at Phil’s headlights. Phil’s heart sank. More dust rose in the wake over another pickup truck, and when it eventually cleared, Vicki, along with Natter’s long dark-scarlet car, was gone.

— | — | —

Twelve

Phil came in off his shift at about seven a.m., to take care of the night’s paperwork and, much more importantly, to get the coffee brewing before Chief Mullins came in at eight. Susan hadn’t asked him how things had gone at Sallee’s when he’d come back to the station last night to change back into his uniform; perhaps she sensed his mental disarray.

What a night…

The entirety of his shift was haunted by thoughts and images of Vicki Steele.

He tried to clear his head, and sat at Mullins’ big desk to finish off his DOR, but then he noticed the sheet of paper on the blotter. MISSING PERSON’S REPORT, it read; somebody named Orndorf had been reported missing by somebody named Sullivan. “Hey, Susan,” he called out. “What’s this missing person’s report here on the chief’s desk?”

Susan, from her commo cubby, answered rather snidely, “It’s…a missing person’s report.”

“Funny. I mean, what’s the scoop? You know either of these guys?”

“Nope.”

“How’d this guy Sullivan look?”

“Like a typical creep. He came in about an hour ago, filed the report because he said he hadn’t seen his buddy Orndorf in several weeks.”

Phil’s eyes scanned down the sheet of paper. “Why’d he file it here? These guys don’t even live in Crick City.”

“Yeah, but the last place Orndorf was seen was in our juris. At Krazy Sallee’s as a matter of fact.”

Sallee’s? Hmmm. But why should Phil even care? Nine times out of ten, a missing persons was nothing. The guy probably owed a bundle in alimony or child support, so he blew town and didn’t tell anyone. Happened all the time.

He went back to his DOR, but still, something was bothering him. Eagle’s words: She’s into a whole lot of shit that you don’t want to hear about.

“Hey, Susan,” he called out again. “Do me a favor and run a rap check on Vicki Steele, will ya?”

Did she actually chuckle? “Checking out the ex, huh?”

“Don’t break my chops. Just do it, okay?”

“All right. Give me a minute.”

Phil waited, tapping Mullins’ blotter with a pencil-end. From Susan’s cubby, he heard computer keys clicking. Then:

“Nothing,” she said when her terminal responded.

He tapped the blotter some more, thinking. “Run a check on Eagle Peters,” he said next.

“Who?”

“Eagle Peters. Long time resident, he might be into something. His real first name is James.”

Another flurry of clicking keys. Probably nothing on him, either, he supposed.

“He might be into something, huh?” Susan came back a minute later. “This guy’s got three outstanding traffic warrants, three suspended sentences, and four narcotics busts.”

“You’re kidding me. Eagle?”

“Yeah, Eagle. And that’s not all. He served three years on a five-year sentence in Clay County Prison.”

Phil fell silent, tapping the desk more rapidly. This information left him partly excited, partly disappointed. But it wasn’t for another moment that the most pertinent question of all occurred to him.

“The jail stint—that was narcotics?”

“Yep,” Susan answered. “Possession, transport, and intent to distribute.”

“To distribute what?”

“Your pet peeve. Synthetic phencyclidine.”

PCP. Paydirt.

Phil sat a moment more; now he felt geared up. Eagle would be the perfect schmooze. He didn’t know Phil was a cop, plus they were childhood friends. If Eagle was in deep, he could lead them right to Natter…

“Hey, Susan?”

“Yeeees,” she groaned.

“Do me a favor and run raps on these guys too, Orndorf and Sullivan.”

“You know, whenever we run a rap check through the county mainframe, the department gets charged.”

“I don’t care,” Phil almost snapped. “Just run the raps…pretty please.”