Spree (19 page)

And got in and started it up and pulled away.

“Holy shit,” Jon said to nobody in particular, and pulled out after the pickup.

“Nolan,” Jon said into the phone.

Nolan’s voice came on, tinny: “What?” The sounds of the restaurant/club, now open for business, were a muffled presence in the background.

“I’m tailing the pickup truck.”

“Good. I’ll toss the room.”

“No! Nolan, it isn’t Comfort driving! He isn’t even in the goddamn thing.”

“Who is?”

“Some girl.”

“Some girl.”

Jon was having trouble keeping up with the red pickup, zooming along up ahead of him on the one-way that was Harrison. “She must be about seventeen. I just got a glimpse of her, is all. Good-looking. Great ass.”

“Reddish-blond hair?”

“Yeah!”

“He has a daughter. She was just a little kid when I saw her. It was years ago. She was cute.”

“You think this is Comfort’s daughter?”

“Probably.”

“What should I do?”

“Just what you’re doing: follow her. She may be headed for where they got Sherry.”

“Do you think so?”

“Follow her. Call me when you got something.”

“Nolan—”

“Give it your best shot, kid. I’ll be waiting.”

The phone clicked in Jon’s ear; then he put it back in its bed on its black battery pack. He was right behind her, as they headed down the oneway of Harrison toward Davenport, the vast North Park Shopping Center whizzing by at their right (never say “whizzing” to a guy who has to pee). She was moving fast. Speeding, actually. For a moment Jon wondered if she’d made him; but he didn’t think that was the case. He could see her up there, looking straight ahead, no discernible rear view mirror glancing, no turning her head to look behind her.

He allowed a couple of cars to get between him and the pickup, but she was traveling too fast for that to work without losing her. He had to keep his speed up. Which was just swell, considering he had a .38 in his pocket. He pulled the ski mask off. Comfort’s daughter—if that’s who this was—didn’t know him from Adam. Why risk being a guy in a ski mask with a gun in his pocket stopped by a cop for speeding.

At the foot of Harrison, she turned left onto River Drive. Soon she pulled into the riverfront parking lot near the Dock, a fancy seafood restaurant, and the Loading Ramp, a nightclub in an old remodeled warehouse adjacent to the restaurant. He cruised by her, as if looking for a parking place, just as she was getting out of the car, a strawberry blonde, hands tucked in the short pockets of the denim jacket, which was much too light for this cold, to which she seemed oblivious; she had a nice tight little ass encased in denim paint. She wore red spike heels. Yow.

Jon saw her go in the big wooden door of the Loading Ramp, and then he pulled the van into a parking place not far from her pickup, but not next to it. He called Nolan.

“I’m going in there,” Jon said.

“And do what?”

“I’m not sure. Talk to her.”

“Better keep your distance.”

“Trust me on this, Nolan.”

“Jon—”

“Sometimes I know what I’m doing.”

“Take the gun.”

“I was planning to. I always take a gun into heavy-metal bars.”

Which is what the place was; the sounds of Motley Crue were blaring forth from speakers left over from when this joint was a disco, and down at the far end of the smoky barely converted warehouse, a band, five skinny males in heavy-metal war paint and sparkly skimpy clothes, was preparing to play a set. They were called Hellfyre and Jon had heard of them; second-raters all the way.

He had paid at a caged window, coming in, and had been carded, which now that he was getting into his mid-twenties actually sort of pleased him. Drinking age in Iowa was nineteen, so the possible Comfort daughter was either of age or had a fake ID.

Getting a close look at her, as she sat at the bar, a beer and a smoke before her, he figured it was a fake ID. This was a kid. She had the denim jacket off, slung over the back of her high-backed bar-stool, and she wore a yellow RATT T-shirt under which nice high handfuls poked, and her hair was a long and teased and heavily sprayed mane, and she was smoking a cigarette, apparently from the pack of Camels before her; but this was, nonetheless, a kid. With her cute features, big blue eyes, pug nose dusted with freckles, Kewpie-doll lips: a kid. She didn’t yet have the hard look the nineteen-year-old girls in this place did. The crowd was blue-collar all the way, guys in Skoal painter caps and scuzzy work clothes (the latter signifying unemployment) and girls in tight slacks and revealing tops and lots and lots of eye makeup.

The bar was a squared-off area at the back, and beyond it were tables and dance floor and stage; at the left and back a balcony surveyed the smoke and darkness. The place was about half full. Okay Wednesday night business, bar-band veteran Jon thought; typical.

He sat next to her.

She looked at him, noncommittally, looked away, sipped her beer, smoked her cigarette.

There had been no recognition in the look at all; Jon was quite relieved.

He said: “You ever hear these guys before?”

“Hellfyre?” she said. She had the faintest southern accent. She’d be from Missouri, if she was Comfort’s daughter; and sometimes you ran into a bit of a southern accent down there.

“Yeah,” he said. “Have you heard ’em before?”

She was a very cute kid; she was the kind of cute kid you think you’ve met before, Jon thought, even though you haven’t.

“Yeah, I heard ’em.” It was a nice voice, sultry and childlike at once. “They play down where I come from, sometimes.”

“You’re not from here?”

She shook her head. “I come from Missouri.”

He risked a grin. “Does that mean you’re going to show me something?”

She smiled back, warming to him; she had small, childlike teeth, very white. And her pink tongue licked out as she said, “Time will tell.” The slight southern lilt made the words sound great.

Fuck, could this little vision be a
Comfort
?

“I just love heavy metal,” she said.

“Yeah, uh, me too.”

“What’s your favorite heavy-metal band?”

“Hard to choose. What’s yours?”

“I like that band Spinal Tap. They had a special on HBO. But I can only find one of their records.”

“Uh, that’s a satire, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Good band.”

“I like all kinds of music, though. Except country and western. My daddy listens to that all the time and I could just barf sometimes.”

“It’s not my favorite, either. I’d like to buy you a beer, when you’re through with that one.”

“Why not? Say. Don’t I know you?”

He slipped his hand into the deep pocket of the navy coat; the handle of the .38 felt rough and cold.

“I do know you.” She was pointing her finger at him, waggling it at him, and pointing her nipples at him, too; he was pointing the .38 at her from within his coat, though she didn’t know it.

“Isn’t your name Jon?”

“Why don’t we just leave here quietly,” he said, his gun poking at the pocket; but she didn’t seem to see that.

“You played with the Nodes!” Her face lit up like Christmas. She squealed like he was the Beatles. “You’re the organ player!”

His gun hand went limp in his pocket; something like relief coursed through him.

She leaned over and looped her arm in his.

“Don’t you remember me? I’m Cindy Lou.”

“Cindy Lou . . .”

“Cindy Lou Comfort. But maybe you didn’t catch my name. Year or so ago, in Jefferson City? It was at that place out on the highway.”

Shit. It was coming back to him.

She touched her hair. “I had my hair all cut off, then. During a break, you and me sat in this little dressing room under the stage and kissed and stuff.”

He’d felt her up. He’d felt up Cole Comfort’s daughter. Cole Comfort’s underage daughter.

“I remember you, Cindy Lou,” he said, his mouth dry, his dick erect.

“Is that a pistol in your pocket,” she grinned nastily, “or are you just glad to see me?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I think that was a good idea you had,” she said.

Hellfyre began playing “We Ain’t Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister.

“What was that?”

“Leaving here quietly.”

And they did; her arm around his waist and his around her shoulder.

13

CINDY LOU
just couldn’t believe her luck. Running into the keyboard player from the Nodes! She loved that band; when she heard they broke up it made her sad. They’d always played a lot of oldies and some new wave and even a little heavy metal. And they jumped around on stage, and the guys were really cute. Especially that keyboard player. He reminded her of Duane, from the seventh grade, who popped her cherry. He was a little blond hunk, too.

They stepped outside into the chilly air, walking side by side, arms around each other. You could smell the river. You could see it too, moon dancing on the little waves. Real romantic, Cindy Lou thought, surprised at herself, surprised she could get it up after last night. But she put that out of her mind.

“Where do you want to go?” Cindy Lou asked.

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Holiday Inn.” She paused, then added, “With my daddy. He’s here on business.”

“I see.”

“We better not go back there. He doesn’t even know I’m out.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. He’s been keeping me cooped up at that motel, and finally when he wasn’t looking I just took the pickup keys and went.”

He led her to a sky-blue van.

“We could just climb in back of there,” she said.

“We could. It’s not fancy, but I got some blankets back there.”

She smiled, hugged his waist. “This used to be your band’s van, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

She pulled away from him, traced her finger on the side of the van. “You can almost see where your name used to be. The Nodes. You guys were real good. What happened to that girl that sang with you?”

“Toni? We were still in a band together till recently. She’s up in Minneapolis playing in one of Prince’s groups.”

“Really? That’s cool! That Prince guy is so sexy.”