“Yeah, Izzy. Evidently she was involved with the Dave Rowan guy in something that Holman seemed highly suspicious of.”
I looked around, aware that I was still pursuing a felon. “Well, keep digging and get back to me.”
As I hung up, I could still hear his voice. “How?”
Rowan had continued through a door into the commercial area and around a counter where three P.O. boxes hung open, one with a key still hanging from the lock. There were wet boot prints there that trailed across the tile-covered floor and out the front.
As I pushed open the door into the silence of the outside, I saw that the tracks were much fresher and more defined, and that now there were two individuals walking. It looked as if they’d taken only one step out and then headed to the right, away from the bar toward the strip club and the scattered trailers belonging to the dancers.
There was a thundering noise growing louder to my left as I headed east on the frontage road, and all I hoped was that it wasn’t a plow coming up from behind preparing to dump a few tons of snow on top of me. The sound became more familiar as it grew louder, and I turned my head in time to see the billowing vortex of snow being swept along behind another Burlington Northern Santa Fe. As it is with mountains making their own weather, the mile-long train drew its own along with it, clearing the road and the surrounding area as it carried millions of dollars’ worth of not-so-hard fuel.
The pair of prints passed the trailers and angled into Dirty Shirley’s parking lot, making a beeline for the back door where I’d first seen the bouncer. I tried it but it didn’t budge, and then I thought about shooting the lock as they do on TV shows like Steadfast Resolution, but in reality, all that ever does is mess up the lock and not open the door.
Still thinking about that name, Izzy, I began the long trudge around the building and eventually got to the alcove that protected the front entrance. Where had I heard that before? I pulled on the door, it opened, and I eased it closed behind me.
It was dark in the interior of the building, and I couldn’t see much beyond some half-drawn heavy curtains that led toward an elevated area. There were a few illuminated liquor advertisements behind the bar that were reflected in the numerous mirrors on the black velvet walls. I stood there for a few seconds, letting my eyes adjust, and thought I might’ve seen something move.
I watched the mirrors and finally saw the end of a baseball bat hovering in the blackness. Unsure from which direction it was reflecting, I figured I had to make a guess. Remembering that the bouncer had led with his right, I decided to move to the left and direct fire to the right, where he’d most likely be.
As mistakes go, it was a doozy.
He was on the left and caught me with the Louisville Slugger. Luckily, it was a glancing blow and I’d dropped my head, but unluckily, I tripped on the shag carpet and tumbled off onto the dance floor. When I hit the ground, the .357 clattered out of my hand and slid across the tile underneath the other platform.
“You know, you really should’ve left off on this one. Not only are you too old for this shit, but you’re too dumb, too.” He patted the wooden bat in the palm of his other hand with a continuous smack. “Now I’ve got to beat you to death, and I was just getting to kind of like you.”
I rolled over and stared up at him. “Where’s the postman?”
“Dave is taking care of business.” He stopped at the step and took a few practice swings. “That’s what we’re all doing, taking care of business.”
I pushed a little away and propped myself against a chair. “And what part of the business are you in?”
He palmed the bat again. “Right now, the tenderizing business.” He stepped down. “USC, huh?”
“Yep.”
He raised the bat. “Well, Trojan, say hello to the Fighting Irish.”
I pulled the Colt Walker from my sling and carefully aimed it at his face. “Fight this.”
He stared at the massive barrel of the vintage firearm.
“I’ve never seen a human being shot with one of these cap and ball jobs, but I’ve heard they about half explode on contact, so not only do you get the primary wound, but bits and pieces of the ball scatter all over you.” I could see him weighing his chances. “But you won’t have to worry about that because before I take another hit with that bat, as my old boss used to say, I’ll spray your brains out of the back of your head like a manure spreader.”
There was a tense moment, and then he lowered the bat onto his shoulder and sighed. “I don’t want to go to prison; I just wanted to get my knee fixed.”
“It might be a little late for that.” I pushed off the floor, keeping the Walker on him. “What’s going on around here, anyway?”
He reached a hand out, but I ignored it and stood on my own, watching his muscles tense in his shoulders as he thought about swinging the bat again.
I shoved the big Colt in his face. “I’m getting the feeling that you just aren’t trustworthy.” I pulled the cuffs from my pocket, tossed them to him, and motioned toward the pole at the center of the stage. “Hook yourself to that.”
He stepped back. “No way, man.”
I lowered my aim at his good leg. “Do it, or you’re going to be rehabbing both of those knees.”
He dragged a chair from one of the tables onto the stage and did as I said, slumping into a seated position with his wrist attached to the chrome pole. “Happy?”
“Give me the bat.” He did, and I sat at another table with the lumber in front of me. “So I’ll ask the question again—what’s going on?”
“My question, exactly.”
The voice that came from behind me was female, sort of, and was accompanied by the sound of a slide-action being pulled back on a 9 mm semiautomatic. I turned and was treated to the sight of the sister of the sheriff of Campbell County and proprietor of the establishment pointing a pistol at me. “Tommi.”
She threw her purse and coat onto the bar and looked at the two of us. “What the hell is going on in here?”
Thor was the first to speak. “Thank God you’re here, Tommi. I caught this guy snooping around and hit him with the bat, but he got the jump on me and cuffed me to the pole—”
I interrupted. “Call your brother; I’m working on a case involving the missing women. Your boyfriend, Dave, the recently deceased bartender of the Sixteen Tons, and the mullet with the mouth cuffed to the pole here are all involved.”
She looked disgusted—then considered him and then me again. “Mister, I’ve done quite well in life knowing what aspects of my business I need to involve my brother in, and which ones I don’t—another thing I’ve fine-tuned is my ability to sniff out bullshit when it’s being shoveled my way.” She came down, sat in the chair across the table from me, and then readdressed her aim to the bouncer. “Now, Thor, you tell him everything he wants to know or I’ll shoot you myself.”
The blond kid pleaded. “Tommi, you don’t understand—”
The 9 mm went off, splintering a hole in the stage floor no more than a yard away from the kid’s foot as he wrapped himself around the pole.
I sat the Walker on the table and cleared my nearest ear with the tip of a pinkie. “You mind telling me when you get ready to shoot that thing again?”
She casually lifted the semiautomatic and blasted another round in the stage a foot away from the kid’s other sneaker, causing him to leap up, overturn his chair, and stand comically behind the chrome pole. She glanced at me. “I might be shooting some more.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Think nothing of it.” She took out a cigarillo and a lighter and rested her elbow on the table in order to sight the pistol on Thor’s private parts. “You were saying?”
The kid was on the verge of crying. “It wasn’t my idea.”
She puffed her cigarillo as if her life depended on it. “Comforting, seeing as how in the couple of years I’ve known you I’ve never known you to have one.”