“So did you catch any flak from running away with that freak’s body?” Prophet asked. “A little, but I’m sure more’s on the way.”
“How much longer are you gonna be in here?”
“Why? Is someone coming?”
“No. I’m getting sick of breathing ash into my lungs.”
Cole wanted to insist on staying longer but couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to justify it. Before long he realized he was just trying to hang onto one more home that needed to drift away. His phone chirped. He was carrying barely enough things to keep one of his arms occupied when he glanced at the caller ID and said, “Yeah, Rico. What’s up?”
“Please tell me you’re not in Philly.”
“No, I’m in Chicago. Things aren’t too great here, though.”
“You didn’t hear about Philly?”
Cole had spent enough time with the other Skinner to differentiate between the edge in Rico’s voice now and the one that was usually there. Stopping before crossing the threshold out of the building, he asked, “What happened?”
“A pack of Full Bloods tore through the Lancroft place about half an hour ago.”
“A pack?”
“Full Bloods and Mongrels,” Rico said. “That’s what Jessup told me. They killed three Skinners, wounded damn near everyone else, and forced him to level the place.”
“Holy shit? They pushed the button?”
“Sounded like it wasn’t as big a boom as we thought it would be, but it must have sealed off the basement. If you’re near a computer, you can see it for yourself.”
Pressing his elbow against the pocket where his hard drive resided, Cole said, “That might take a while.”
“Where’s Paige?”
“Not here, and she’s not in Philly either. She took off after someone in Miami. Didn’t she tell you about it?”
“Last I heard she was putting Prophet back to work. How’d that pan out?”
“So far so good. I’m supposed to meet up with you. Paige had some things I needed to tell you. Or … you needed to tell me. Everything’s kind of a blur.”
“Not even in your section of the country and still giving orders.” Rico chuckled. “That’s our Bloodhound. You taking the Stripper Subway?”
“She’s got you calling it that too?”
“I was gonna call it the Pussy Pipeline.”
“Wow. The Subway sounds a lot better now. You back in St. Louis?”
“Should be in a few hours. That enough time for you to get here?”
“Yeah,” Cole said. “Is it all right if I bring a guest?”
“Long as it’s not Prophet.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. See you in a bit.” Cole hung up and tucked the phone away. Since Prophet was staring expectantly at him, he said, “Rico says hi.”
Sirens wailed from down the street. When the cruisers flew past Raza Hill, Prophet let out a relieved sigh and asked, “We done here?”
“I guess so.”
They went to Prophet’s van. During the drive to Pinups, Cole scrolled through some websites using his phone. By the time they arrived, he’d gotten his fill of news reports regarding the happenings in Philadelphia. The press seemed to be split as to whether the violence at the Lancroft house was the result of a gang fight or some sort of “fiery dispute between neighbors.”
Normally, trips to strip bars were exciting, magical affairs where all the women smelled like candy and were more than willing to fulfill the degenerate thoughts that drifted through every man’s head. With all the trips he’d been making lately, however, Cole had come to think of them merely as destinations to be reached. This one had some nice scenery, but there were still other matters that needed his attention. Some men’s minds, however, drifted in other directions.
“This place have a buffet?” Prophet asked.
“No time for that. Just head for the VIP section.”
Before he could set the parking brake, Prophet was waved around the building to park in the employee lot next to Paige’s Cav. A bouncer held the door open for them, grinning anxiously and focusing his attention on the bounty hunter.
“So where are you guys from?” the young burly kid asked. Cole’s reply was only, “Cicero.”
“What about you, sir? Are you with the Bears? Maybe the Bulls?”
Although Walter wasn’t a small man, he still had to lift his chin in order to look into the bouncer’s eyes. “Do I look like a basketball player to you?”
“I guess not. It’s usually the athletes that get the special treatment, though. Are you a rapper?”
Shaking his head, Walter strode past the bouncer and caught up to Cole. “I don’t know if that boy’s racist or just stupid.”
“The smile seemed genuine,” Cole replied, “so I’d go with stupid.”
They were greeted by a skinny blonde wearing short shorts, high heels, no shirt, and suspenders that were just wide enough to cover the nipples of her pert little breasts. Her smile was a bit forced and crinkled her face just enough to create a few breaks in her sparkly makeup. “You’re Cole?” she asked.
“Yeah. Where’s Miss Naughtygale?”
“She’s seeing another patient right now.”
“What about the other blonde?”
“You’ll have to be a little more specific.”
“The one with the magic fingers,” Cole said.
That caused the dancer to look at him with renewed interest. “So you’re here for the other VIP room?”
“Now you got it. My friend and I are headed to St. Louis.”
Pausing at a metal door that practically rattled from all the bass thumping from the next room, the blonde said, “Come on in and have a seat. I’ll send someone right over.”
Once inside the main room, the music was too loud for Cole to hear himself think. The blonde didn’t even try to talk as she strutted to a little round table away from the stage, pointed to a pair of chairs and waved toward a group of drooling beer drinkers who sat closer to the stage.
“Think I’ve got enough time for some food?”
“Sure, Prophet. Knock yourself out.”
For the next two hours Cole sat at his table, sifting through various news sites and scanning their coverage of the Philadelphia incident as well as reports of the fire at Raza Hill. When the blonde in suspenders walked by again, Prophet said, “I think she’s sizing us up for the rest of the nymphs.”
“We’ve already been sized up and she’s not a nymph.”
“How can you tell?”
“She’s wearing makeup.”
As if to show the comparison firsthand, another blonde approached the table. She was the one who’d greeted Cole when he stepped into Pinups the first time and she radiated a subtle glow even though not one of the club’s many lights were pointed at her. “I just got finished with a marathon session in the back,” she said. “Should have enough fuel in my tanks to send both of you through now.”
Prophet looked toward a section of the club that was roped off from the main room. It was a collection of couches on a raised platform, surrounded by a veil just thick enough to provide a bit of privacy without sacrificing security. Two young men helped an older one down the three steps leading to the main floor. Judging by the sweat on his brow and the constant heaving of his chest, he was the lucky customer with the deep pockets.
“This’ll tap us out for a while,” she added, “so you might not be able to come back through here right away.”
“Cool,” Cole said without looking up from his phone. “Are we ready to go?”
“Sure thing, sweetie. Come this way.”
Cole stuffed his phone into his pocket, adjusted the flannel shirt he wore over his T-shirt to cover the spear’s harness, and followed the Dryad. At first her footsteps were barely hard enough to tap against the tiles. By the time she’d put on her game face and climbed up to the side stage, however, they knocked like battering rams against the floor. The crowd roared and all three of the Dryads in attendance announced their presence by letting out a chorus of sublime tones from voices that entwined around one another much like the flowing symbols on the arch near the beaded entrance to the VIP section. Crisp green energy crackled. A whiff of fresh air drifted through the room, and Cole waved to the jealous onlookers as he stepped through. Prophet went next and emerged to find himself in another part of the country.