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NEWMAN OPENED THE door to the strip club like we were just customers. No one stopped us, or yelled, Cheese it, the cops, or really seemed to notice us at all. The interior of the club was so dark that even after we took off our sunglasses, it still took time for our eyes to adjust. At least there was no entry platform like in some bars where you were silhouetted against the light while you were blind to the room. That moment in some bars seemed like an invitation to get shot, but that was just my cop paranoia working overtime, sure. I’d never actually been attacked while standing and waiting for my eyes to adjust in a club, and today was no different. I still felt better when we could see well enough to move farther into the dim interior.
There was a dancer on the stage wearing a shiny G-string and those clear plastic heels that so many strippers seem fond of. Jean-Claude had banned them from Guilty Pleasures. He thought they looked cheap. I just thought they looked uncomfortable, but then so did most of the heels that dancers wore. The dancer was barely moving to the music, as if just showing up onstage topless was enough to get customers to throw money at her. It wouldn’t have been enough at Guilty Pleasures, but then, Jean-Claude helped his dancers put together acts for their routines. Some of them even had special choreography. If you were going to just gyrate to the music, your moves had to be athletic, well-done, and at least on time to the beat. The woman holding on to the pole in the middle of the stage was managing none of the three. Guilty Pleasures had really spoiled me for strip clubs.
The dark, faded interior of the club also made me miss the brighter, more upbeat atmosphere of Guilty Pleasures. Maybe if more owner-managers had started out as dancers, they’d pay more attention to the details, too. The bar was to the right as you entered the club, and the man behind it was inches taller than Newman, so at least six feet five or six. He was also twice as broad as Newman, and most of that was shoulder spread. He smiled at us like he meant it and said, “Bar’s open, and we have some daily specials. What’ll it be?”
I saw scar tissue on his knuckles as he handed us the menus. He’d either started as a bouncer and worked his way over to bartender and waitstaff, or he was a man of many talents. Since his fist was the size of my face, I’d try to make sure his talents didn’t get aimed in our direction.
Newman flashed his badge discreetly. “We just need to speak with one of your dancers briefly.” He smiled as he said it.
I just stood there, doing my best to look harmless. I’m usually pretty good at that, though admittedly the guns, blades, and body armor made it harder. Most people wouldn’t see all the gear on me, but the bartender flicked a gaze in my direction that let me know he’d noticed.
He kept smiling, but his eyes went cooler and considering. “You got a badge, too?” he asked.
I got mine out and showed it to him. He tried to touch it or maybe my hand, but I moved just out of reach.
“I’m just trying to get a better look at your badges, that’s all.”
I kept my badge out where he could stare at it.
He made a face like he’d tasted something bitter. “Preternatural marshals. You must be at the wrong place. We don’t let monsters dance here.” He said monsters like it was a dirty word.
I felt myself stiffen and knew that my face wasn’t friendly anymore.
The bartender noticed, because he said, “We have a right to hire who we want.”
“Of course you do,” Newman said, his voice lilting and cheerful. He’d turned and seen the look on my face, so he was playing good cop to my grumpy cop.
I’d try not to go from grumpy to bad, but I couldn’t promise. It would depend on how much the bartender pissed me off and how cooperative he was. I’d worn a badge long enough. I’d handle the prejudice in exchange for enough information.
“She doesn’t think so. Do you, girlie?” the bartender said.
“First, don’t call me girlie. Second, we just need to talk to one of your dancers, that’s all.”
“I could call you a ball-busting bitch if you’d prefer.”
I looked at Newman. “I’m being nice here, right?”
“For you, very nice,” he said, and smiled.
I frowned at him but turned to aim it at the bartender. “Let’s try this again. First, I have not even begun to bust your balls yet. When I do, you’ll know it. Second, we’re just here to ask a few questions of one of your dancers about an ongoing hunt. You haven’t even asked which dancer we want. Makes me think you already know. Are you just pretending to be prejudiced against the monsters because you’re really on their side? Are you a closet groupie of the supernaturals there . . . What’s your name again? I mean, I could call you racist douchebag, but that seems rude.”
“Fuck you. I’m not coffin bait.” It was a very rude term for people who dated vampires. I’d been called that and worse over the years.
“Oh, you’re a fur banger. Do you have a preferred type of wereanimal, or do you like them all?”
He flushed, big hands gripping the bar so tight that his skin mottled. I couldn’t be sure over the music, but I thought the polished wood gave a little whine of protest as if he was going to break off a piece of it. God, he was strong for a human.
“You fucking bitch.” The bartender’s voice was low with the dump of testosterone from his anger.
It was almost too easy to piss him off. He was livid, and I could feel his anger around him like an aura. Maybe the rage filled his aura like it was a balloon, and all I had to do was prick it and let out all that anger, and then I could feed on it. The moment I thought that, I knew I needed real food. How long had it been since breakfast? Shit.
“Now she’s busting your balls,” Newman said.
“What?” The bartender looked at Newman as if he couldn’t follow the conversation.
“Marshal Blake told you you’d know when she was really busting your balls. Well, she is. See the difference?”
“Get the fuck out of here, both of you.”
