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“Yeah, we met the other day. I was just wondering if he was around.”
The man looked slightly disappointed and rubbed his face with the back of the hand that was holding the remote. “Well, Jason don’t spend too much time here,” he replied. “He’s usually at the clubhouse.”
Izzy pictured the world headquarters of the He-Man Woman Haters club, of which this man was probably president.
“Oh,” she said, and stuck out her bottom lip to emphasize her apparent disappointment.
The man grinned at her. “Aw, don’t get too upset, sugar. I’ve got some time ‘fore I have to be in to work. You could stay—and see where Jason learned all his smooth moves.”
Izzy felt like shooting him, but it would only slow her down.
“What’s your name?”
“Cindy Lou.”
“Who?”
She bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t laugh. “Cindy Lou. I met Jason the other day. But I didn’t get his number,” she said vaguely.
“Well, he might be at Maria’s later tonight. Or at the clubhouse, you never know.”
She nodded as she peered behind him and into his kitchen. He had a black leather cut slung over a chair. Izzy couldn’t make out the club name on it, though. Just a few z’s. “Well, bye,” she said, turned, and quickly walked away.
“See you around, Cindy Lou!” he cackled and Izzy just knew the old bastard was looking at her ass as she headed back toward her car. It was an annoying, but necessary, part of the job.
She slid into the front seat of the Charger and searched for Maria’s on her phone. It was on the other side of town, near the railroad tracks. She gunned the engine and took a sharp left. The crappy neighborhood gave way to a nice downtown area, tree-lined with older low-slung buildings that were freshly painted. It had more of a small-town feel than Denver’s skyscrapers, but it didn’t seem claustrophobic. She found Maria’s bar on the south side and rolled slowly past. A few Harleys were lined up out front of the dark building. A few pickups were scattered in the gravel lot. A biker bar. If it was anything like the bars in Denver, it catered to a roughneck crowd that was loud and boisterous.
She cruised down the street and spotted a motel that had certainly seen better days. But it was only a short drive from there to the bar and so Izzy decided it would have to do. Plus, she was keeping a tight rein on her funds and this place couldn’t charge more than a quarter a night—not if they had any integrity at all. She pulled up to the shuttered main office and headed inside. The lobby smelled like acrid cigarette smoke. In the middle of a cloud of noxious fumes sat a withered old lady, Marlboro in the corner of her mouth, fixated on The Price is Right. Izzy only hope was that the price of a room was the same.
The woman’s head swiveled to the door and she gave Izzy a lazy once-over. Izzy strode to the counter. “I need a room for the night,” she said.
The woman smirked. “The whole night, or just an hour?” she cracked.
Izzy was about to lay into her, but she realized she was wearing fire-engine lipstick at five o’clock in the evening and her tits were practically falling out of her shirt. She tugged the material back up toward her neck. “The night,” she repeated and plunked down some cash from her wallet.
“My cut’s twenty,” the woman informed her as she slid Izzy a key.
“Your what?”
The lady gave her a cool look. “Twenty,” she repeated. “Per john.”
Izzy took the key, spread her palms over the counter, and leaned in. “Lady, it doesn’t matter if I have the entire male population of Rapid City come through my room. I ain’t giving you Jack Fucking Shit.”
“Now, look,” the woman protested.
“No, you look. I paid for the room. I’m using the room. And it’s none of your fucking business what I do in it. You got me?”
“My cut’s twenty!” the lady screeched.
Izzy leaned in closer, ignoring the smoke that, truth-be-told, was burning her eyes just a little. She gave the woman a hard stare. “Come and get it,” she said in an icy tone.
The woman reared back and stared at her. Her mouth was open so far that Izzy thought the half-smoked Marly would fall out and onto the floor. From the looks of the place, it would stay there a long time if it did. She swiped the key off the counter, pivoted on her boot heel, and strode for the door.
Her room wasn’t much better than the lobby. The smell was a little less putrid. The bed was made, but there was no way Izzy was getting in between the sheets. She left everything in the Charger and parked it right outside the door. She pulled the most recent photo of Jason Paul that Jeter’s mother had given her out of her pocket and studied it. It was unlikely that Jeter himself would show his face in public for a while. But Jason might be found, if he didn’t know anyone was looking for him.
