What was submitted.
19:43 Feb 23 2008
Times Read: 806
Chapter 1.
West nodded to the security guard by the door. He had just handed in a dossier to some rich media mogul, complete with photographs which proved that his twenty-seven year old wife was not only screwing around on him, but she was doing it with three other men and doing it on film. The fat bastard had just smiled and handed him his check, he didn’t so much as flinch as West had handed him the photographs.
The job had earned him $10,000, the standard $1000 a day and a bonus $9000, to buy his silence. The photographs were evidence enough to guarantee a cheap divorce, but that would never happen. It would be cheaper to pay the bitch a settlement, even if it ran into the millions. The bad publicity alone would cost the empire tens of millions. Easier and cheaper just to pay the bitch off and have her killed. He had turned down that part of the job, but he didn’t doubt she would be dead before weeks end. Odds-on the rent-a-cop by the main entrance would do it for a few hundred pegged onto his paycheck.
He’d do it, she’d be dead and then someone else would get tapped for the murder. It didn’t matter who, just so long as someone took the fall.
West fingered the envelope hidden in the lining of his coat, he had copies of some of the more graphic photographs just in case they got the bright idea to trip him for the murder. The fact that he had all but sentenced that woman to death didn’t bother him, she wasn’t worth the guilt. What bothered him was what would happen after her death. The money she would have received from the divorce will no doubt be donated to some children’s charity. Donated by the man that paid a measly few hundred to have her killed and they would both appear as saints, everyone would overlook who owned the charity.
It would be under the Italian leather wing-tips of the 33 building, almost everything was on this side of the city. The sooner he got back to Scrub town the better, the money there was just as bloody, if not more so, but at least the money didn’t pretend to be clean. You knew where you stood in the Scrub and more often than not you knew when someone was coming for you. If someone wanted you dead they walked up to you with a blade, not a smile. Sometimes there were shootings, non-locals usually, most of the Scrub handled their business up close and personal, blades were personal. That was why West carried a .45 .
Blades were scary but they weren’t very practical. West understood the mentality of the Scrub, they wanted to look you in the eyes as you died. It was all tied into the local juju, a mix of early Vundun and a form of Eastern European Demonology. Most of the big players in the Scrub claimed to be some form of Cleric, or Farseer. For the most part they were just small time hoods. It was all crowd control of course, keep the population scared of you and they did what you wanted, if they didn’t then the Cleric sent some voodoo after you.
West had no interest in stealing an enemy’s soul, dead was dead as far as he was concerned. He didn’t openly fight the Clerics, he still had to work and live out of the Scrub, but he didn’t buy into it and they left him alone, alone enough that he could do business without paying protection. Occasionally they would approach him to track someone down for them. Once he’d asked why they didn’t just use magic to find them and he’d been told that not everything in magic, could be fought with magic.
West had taken the job and found the guy, an end of the pier bookie that had skipped town with a weeks’ takings. The fact that he had been dead when West found him was of no interest to the Cleric that had employed him. He’d been told to just report the location and leave, don’t stay to watch, just leave. The rumour around the Scrub was that it had been a zombie that had taken the money and left, and he was only playing dead when West had found him. No-one could play dead like a zombie. The Cleric had supposedly eaten his soul for the betrayal. He’d seen the corpse, the bookie had been shot twice through the heart, not a very magical way to kill a zombie.
West did most of his business in the Scrub, but every now and then the money of the 33 came in handy. It wasn’t cheap to operate out of the Scrub. You had to pay up with the right people. West still didn’t have to pay protection but every lead you got didn’t come without a payment and if it did, you’d have to pay for it later, sometimes with more than money and that’s where the Clerics came in. But as bad as it was, it was home.
West paused in the lobby of the building and looked back at the listing boards. 33 floors of legitimate business, 33 floors of shady business and the last 33 floors were the elite of the 33. Three sets of 33, it was almost as if it was planned that way, it was the perfect model for the city. A third of the people, always on the bottom worked hard and legal, the third above them owned most of everything and skimmed off the top, nothing too illegal but not clean. The final third however, the ones that ran things, they were the ones that owned those that owned the city, they were the ones to be careful of. They were the ones that hired people like West.
Placing a cigarette between his teeth West turned and walked towards the floor to ceiling plate glass doors. Outside it was raining hard, the water was obscuring most of what was going on but still visible was a small group of people huddled together in a door way, an orange glow illuminating their faces. West turned back into the building, no smoking signs were posted along the edges of the lobby. West laughed to himself , it said something about the mentality of the 33 that the signs were polished marble and gold embossed yet the man that had handed him his check had been sucking on an $80 cigar. No law was too important for it not to be bought.
West struck a match with his thumbnail and inhaled. He watched the flame dancing between his fingers, it was getting harder to find the kind of matches that didn’t require the box to light so every one was to be treasured. As the flame neared his fingers West closed his eyes and inhaled, he held the match tightly between his fingers. Resting his head against one of the many no smoking signs West looked to the security booth. They wouldn’t hassle him, they knew who West was working for. The match finally burned down to his nail, West waited a few more seconds then he killed it. Outside the points of light huddled together trying to escape from the rain, several rotated towards the lobby, the lowing eyes visible in the flowing glass, behind them, in the darkness, the smokers appeared as gaunt, hollow eyed skeletons, their features shifting and warping in time with the streetlights.
West turned to face the window, reaching inside his coat pocket he pulled out the pack of cigarettes, the points of light following his every move. West held the dying cigarette between his fingers and the fresh one between his teeth. The rain didn’t show any signs of slowing and he wasn’t in any hurry, maybe he could finish this pack before he had to go out into the rain to get his car. An hour later West pulled up behind his building in the Scrub, something was drawing a crowd. Mostly just average Scrubs, but he noticed the crowd thinned around the middle. Obviously a Cheval had claimed ownership of the find. West stepped from his car and turned to face the crowd, leaning against his door. The crowd was about twenty strong, most of its basics were civilians, about fifteen in all. The last five comprised of the Cheval and his muscle.
West strode towards the crowd. As he got closer he could see the Cheval sitting in the front seat of a convertible one arm hanging over the side, three of his thugs sitting in the back watching the crowd. Their blades were out, that was never a good sign. On the plus side the Cheval was only Ánibal. As West drew closer Ánibal looked up, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face.
“Hey West, you like the new wheels?”
He spoke with a slow, deliberate drawl, his face set in a confident grin. He was obviously enjoying his conquest.
“Very 33 Ánibal, who did you have to cut to get the claim?”
West smiled to himself as he saw the confidence slip from Ánibal’s face. He had never liked the fact that West knew his real name and he really didn’t like the fact that he didn’t know how West had found out. He had been born Aníbal Cole, and had been going by Cole ever since 10th grade when someone had dared to call him Annabelle. Ánibal had smashed a bottle in the kid’s face. No action was taken by the school or the child’s parents, Ánibal was the son of a Cleric that had all but owned the Scrub fifty years ago. Now the best Ánibal could manage was a hired blade.
“Fuck you West, I didn’t have to cut no-one, found it square.”
West raised an eyebrow, and nodded towards the steering wheel,
“So why is there blood on the dashboard?”
Ánibal’s eyes flicked to the Italian leather, apparently he hadn’t noticed the blood before now, he stiffened behind the wheel, his shoulders pressed hard against the seat, trying to get away from the blood without loosing face. In the Scrub blood had power, Ánibal didn’t.
“Hey man, I told you. I found it square, was like
this when I found it.”
Ánibal was the Cheval for one of the Scrubs many Clerics, a hired goon, someone that would break someone’s legs simply because he was told to. If he had been a real threat he wouldn’t just be someone’s stooge. West reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, then he reached lower for a match. West shook the packet and then looked down. The rain had stopped just as he had finished his second smoke, there were now three left in the pack. The match flared in the darkness between West’s cupped fingers. Speaking with the cigarette between his teeth West bent towards the match,
“What say your old man if he saw you up for a car?”
Ánibal’s face went blank, his father had been a threat, the Houngan for the Scrubs, the head Cleric. He would have run the entire Scrub underground and Ánibal would most likely be sitting in some high-class suite near the 33, not sprawled across the front seat of a blood stained, stolen Cadillac. If he had been alive. As it was now the Cadillac was the best he could do.
“Watch your mouth West, I told you, found it square, you don’t got nothing on me.”
Ánibal’s thugs moved through the crowd either side of West, it was all for show, Ánibal wouldn’t move on West. Not outside his own building, he was too far from home. It was a show for the hangers-on. They got the point. The crowd thinned, leaving West and Ánibal alone, except for the thugs.
“Ok, we’re alone, you can drop the act. Who’s wheels?”
Ánibal slumped behind the wheel, his fingers loosening their grip on the leather. He turned his head to look at West,
“I don’t know, someone told me it was here, I came to have a look.”
West rolled the dead match between his fingertips before placing it back into his pocket.
“How long has it been here? It wasn’t here when I left last night.”
Ánibal shifted his grip on the wheel,
“Look West, I told you. I don’t know any more than you, I got here ten minutes before you showed up.”
Ánibal sat behind the wheel, arms rigid and head down, West had the upper hand but Ánibal still had his thugs and he may just be desperate enough to try something.
West took a drag on the cigarette, burning it down to the filter,
“Ok,” he said as he exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around his smile.
“Ok, maybe you should take the car and get that blood cleaned before it stains the leather.”
Ánibal glared at West, the leather creaking under his fingers before reaching down for the ignition.
“You’re a dead man West.”
Two of his thugs jumped into the back seat. The other two moving to stand between West and the car. West dropped his cigarette and ground the his foot into the cement. Looking up from the damp filter under his shoe, he watched the last thug climb into the back seat.
“Save your threats Ánibal.”
Ánibal looked up, the confidence had returned to his voice,
“Oh it’s not a threat West, it’s a guarantee.”
Ánibal slammed his foot down on the accelerator the tyres screeched and echoed around the empty lot as Ánibal spun the car out into the street. Maybe he had taken a risk goading Ánibal like that. As the last sounds of Ánibal’s conquest faded into the unseen Scrub a few heavy drops landed on West’s shoulder, the rain obviously hadn’t finished with the city yet, it could never clean the streets but at least some of the bloodstains would have faded.
West forced the door open. Once inside the hallway West kicked a pile of yellowing newspapers into the corner where the rain had come in through a cracked window. Hey, this was the Scrub, if you wanted doors that didn’t stick and roofs that didn’t leak you lived somewhere else. West looked from the pile of wet papers to the dust on his hands. Maybe he had been in the 33 too long, for a second the dust almost bothered him. Everything in the hall was coated with a layer of dust, hell, everything in the Scrub was covered in some kind of dirt, even the people. The only thing outside of his office that West ever bothered to clean was his door, complete with frosted glass inlay. He had laughed when he had first installed the door, it all felt too cliché.
But he had removed the door and didn’t get a single job for a month. On a hunch he had put the frosted glass back and made $5,000 within two weeks. Apparently people don’t want to hire someone without the trademark frosted door. He had resisted putting his name or a magnifying glass on the door it would seem like he was trying too hard. West started the long walk towards his office, half way to his door he stopped.
There were some marks in the dust, another reason West didn’t bother to clean the hallway, it was cheaper then a security system. West froze his footprints from earlier were scuffed as if someone had tried to erase some footprints which had overlapped with his. West hadn’t asked Ánibal why he was in this part of the Scrub, more specifically why he was this close to West’s building. West looked back, there was the remnants of a circular indentation on the rotted wood by the door, the kind of mark made by expensive high heeled shoes and an unfamiliarity with the signs of damp rot. Now that he knew to look for them West could see the little indentations in the dust appearing at regular intervals down the hallway. More concerning were the footprints that had followed the indentations, they were obviously made by someone who knew enough to follow the path West usually followed to his office. Stick to the left side of the hall until you reach the junction box, then change to the right side of the hallway. Old wiring didn’t mix well with leaky windows.
If only they had known that West was a Size eleven. The person that made this second set of footprints was close to a size ten, to anyone else the footprints would have looked all but identical, but not just anyone could live in this part of the Scrub. West survived here because he was careful. Whoever it was they were professional enough to make an attempt at covering their tracks, so they must have heard him force the door open, but that didn’t mean that they knew it was him. Silently West cursed Ánibal and drawing the envelope from inside his coat he walked up to his door.
He could hear someone sorting through the contents of one of his shelves. Suddenly there was a flash through the frosted glass. Whoever was looking over the place had just found his matches, and it was really getting hard to find them. Ducking back from the window West slid the envelope under the door and waited. Inside there was the sound of a chair creaking, someone had noticed the envelope. West eased his back against the wall, keeping a hand on the doorknob. Someone was walking forwards to pick up the envelope, in a few seconds they would be close enough to the door. The footsteps stopped and West made his move. He turned the doorknob and rose to his feet moving forward into his office, his free hand drawing his .45. The young woman on the other side of the door stood in the middle of the office, her eyes fixed on West’s gun, by her feet the smiling face of a young, soon to be dead woman stared upwards. As the rest of the photographs slipped from the envelope the young woman looked from the .45 pointed at her heart to the photographs at her feet, their sordid tableau spreading out across the floor.
*********
West placed his .45 in the drawer and settled back into his chair. The woman sitting on the opposite side of the desk had watched his every move,
“I’m sorry about that, but I wasn’t expecting company.”
West tried to smile but her eyes were still glazed over, a veil of tears threatening to fall.
“It is ok Mr West, my sister doesn’t like guns, that’s all.”
West looked to the figure tucked away in the corner, sitting with one foot dangling over his knee, a lit cigar in his hand, as if sitting in his favourite chair. He had introduced himself as Lapore.
“Who does Mr. Lapore, but are you sure you have come to the right place? You know I’m not directly involved in the Clerics Business.”
The shadow of Lapore leaned forward, placing his interlocked fingers on his knee, the glow of the cigar clenched in his teeth reflecting in his eyes.
“But that is why we came to you, we do not want to draw any unnecessary attention, keep it between the family, and yourself of course.”
West glanced back at the woman, if they really were brother and sister Lapore didn’t seem to think much of having a gun pointed at his sister.
“Ok, I’m listening.”
Lapore settled back into the chair,
“Ok Lenore, you may tell your story to Mr. West.”
At this, some life seemed to flow back into the woman's eyes, however before she got to her story she caught the look on West’s face.
“Is there a problem Mr. West?”
Her voice was hollow, dead, it was a stark contrast to her porcelain skin that, although pale was obviously alive and now that she was addressing him West could see that there was something behind those eyes that had not been there before she had spoken.
“Oh no Ms. Lapore, please continue.”
Lenore’s eyes narrowed,
"Yes Mr. West, my name is Lenore Lapore, I see you find it as amusing as my brother does, however what he didn’t tell you is that Lenore is my middle name. My real name is Rose, short for Rosaline.”
She paused as if the name was supposed to have some meaning to him. When it was obvious that West was going to offer no further comment she continued,
“Rosaline, the woman that Romeo dismissed so as to follow Juliet, another fact that my brother will never let me forget.”
She looked back over her shoulder as she spoke and West could imagine how many times this conversation had been played out between rival siblings. Mr. Lapore’s voice could be heard from the shadows,
“Ever to play the part Lenore, and the wish to be the Jilted lover, nevermore.”
As West watched a smile snaked its way across Lenore’s pale features, her lips contorted into the kind of smile that held back years of resentment towards an older brother that had delighted in the torment of the younger and weaker around him, including his sister.
“As you can tell Mr. West, my brother is well versed in my suffering and savours a fresh audience, such as yourself to recite it to.”
West looked to Mr. Lapore, he simply smiled and mimicked a bow from his sitting position, a hand rolling forward towards his audience, the cigar smoke somersaulting through his fingers.
“Well perhaps if you told me why you came here I would better understand his cryptic taunting.”
Lenore turned to face forwards once again, her hands resting in her lap, the veil of tears had again returned to her eyes but it had not managed to extinguish the look of disdain she had showed him earlier.
“We, I, am here to ask you to help in locating someone close to the family, close to me.”
She lifted a slim hand to her face as if to wiped away a tear but she merely brushed aside a stray hair.
“Three days ago my fiancée went missing, we were supposed to be married today. And before you say anything yes we have contacted the police but only with the report of a disappearance, we did not supply them with the Lapore name.”
West looked back to the brother, he was running a finger along the arm of his chair and flicking away imagined particles of dust, obviously he was not concerned for the fate of his sisters fiancée.
“Well there is not much I can do for you that the police can’t Ms. Lapore, they have resources that I simply don’t have access to.”
Before West could say more Lenore stood and emptied her purse onto his desk. West looked at the pile of neatly wrapped bills that were now tumbling towards him.
“Ms. Lapore it is not simply an issue of money,”
but before he could finish his sentence Lenore cut across him with a scathing laugh.
“Not a matter of money, Mr. West if there is one thing we know about you is that it is always a matter of money.”
West leaned back in his chair as she continued.
“We know why you chose to work out of the Scrub even though you think those of us that follow its ways are stupid, you were not simply chosen at random, we came to you for a reason.”
West sat back in silence, moments before this woman had been on the verge of tears, a meek, helpless porcelain doll. Now she stood before him and the blaze that had been behind her eyes had spread throughout her entire body, her pale skin now glowed in the dim light. She stood looking down at him her red lips a sneer of contempt, her slender figure was poised, something had risen up within her and she was directing it all at West. Before she could say anything more a tanned hand was placed on her shoulder and was guiding her back into her chair and the fervour she had gathered was ebbing away.
“My sister and I have come to you for help Mr. West, not to attack you, whether you choose to accept our offer or not, all we can hope to do is convince you of our need.”
West reached into the drawer, aware that Lenore’s eyes, although not as bright as they had been were following his hand, and there was now a new look behind those eyes, fear. West took out the packet of cigarettes and patted a pocket for a match. West knocked aside the stack of money as he reached for the little case that held his matches. Lapore chuckled as West exhumed a spent match from the case.
“I am sorry Mr West but I seem to have left my lighter in the car.”
West dropped the match into an ashtray,
“Its not a problem,”
West placed the match against the edge of the desk and looked at Mr. Lapore.
“Besides, didn’t you know that a cigar is always best lit with a match instead of a lighter.”
“Some of the new ways are better then the old ways,” said Lapore shrugging.
“As I was telling your sister, it is not simply a matter of money, I simply don’t have the same resources the police would to investigate a disappearance, I don’t have the man power to do searches. Of course, if you were to tell me why you couldn’t trust the police with your name and the details of the case,”
Lapore’s eyes reflected the glow as West struck the match against the desk.
“Maybe we could come to an agreement.”
Lapore’s grip visibly tightened on his cigar , Lenore simply stared at the match in West’s fingers. West knew why they had come here, he was a guy that worked out of Scrub Town, a guy that worked for the highest bidder, someone that didn’t file a lot of paperwork and ask his clients too many questions and most importantly a guy that worked in the areas the police couldn’t or wouldn’t.
“Very well Mr. West, but I must ask you to keep what you are about to hear between us, it is after all family business.”
West stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray, a fresh line of smoke faltered then spun to join with the several others snaking their way up from the remains of the previous seven cigarettes. The last thirty minutes had been a recital of lineage, each branch of the family tree budding off to form vines of enemies and secrets, each twisting around the other until the entire family were rivals. West rubbed the bridge of his nose and grimaced towards the lights above,
“Ok, so what you are telling me is that there are people out there with a reason to hurt you, but with no reason to hurt your sisters fiancée, other than to watch your reaction of course.”
Lapore, who had finally introduced himself through the family lineage as Hector Lapore, the eldest son in one of the Scrubs oldest families, had started to pace the office as the family line became more and more tangled with that of its own enemies. He was obviously making an effort to recite the lineage in as favourable a way as possible, making sure to polish the proper ancestors while tarnishing the ones who have fallen out of favour with the family. Some were due to poor choice in marriage but most were simply loosing the power struggle to an adversary, or a relative. As for Lenore she had taken Hectors’ place in the shadows, she was watching her brothers pacing, her perfect stillness and porcelain skin gave the impression of a doll, sitting silently in the gloom, her eyes catching the reflection of the dim lighting, two perfect spheres of light followed his every move. The only evidence there was more to her then her eyes was the slight curve
to the shadows. The movement of her every breath made her seem more alive, yet her faceted stare made her seem unearthly. West was still looking into the shadows when her stare slowly drifted until it was directed at him. At first she didn’t seem to notice their exchange, her eyes hidden in the darkness seemed to stare right through West. However as soon as it became clear to Hector, her eyes softened and her lips parted in a slight smile.
“It would seem that Mr. West is just as interested in your lineage as I am.”
Hector stopped his pacing and turned to face West.
“I am telling you information that you may well find useful if you accept our assignment and yet you are day dreaming and ogling my sister.”
Lenore’s hands snaked around Hectors shoulders as she came to stand behind him, West looked back to the corner, he hadn’t noticed her move. As she spoke her figure emerged from the darkness, the shadows seeming to flow around her as they retreated back to the gloom. A sultry smile still lingering on her lips she turned to West.
“Now now brother, Mr. West had a busy night, judging from those photographs.”
She spoke slowly, every word spoken with the intent to caress.
“Besides, he knows it all already, couldn’t you see it in his eyes, he was simply humouring you.”
Hector obviously had been too engrossed in his account of the family history to notice that West had spent much of the time blowing smoke rings and playing with a spent mach.
“I wouldn’t say I knew it all, but no-one can work out of the scrub without hearing the name Lapore. Besides, I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Before Hector could respond Lenore had moved from behind him and was drawing an envelope of her own.
“All the information you could possibly need is in here, along with contact details for myself and for my brother.”
West leaned back in his chair, the match falling from between his fingers as he took the envelope.
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
Lenore smiled as she turned to leave,
“But it is only a matter of time Mr. West, do not fool yourself, we both know more than we are letting on. You know my family better than you wish us to know and in turn we know that you do not have that high a price.”
With that she was gone, Hector simply looked after her but did not make a move to follow.
“I assume we will be hearing from you soon Mr. West, now if you’ll excuse me I have business of another sort to attend to.”
West watched Lenore as she waited by the door until Hector came up behind her and forced the door open. She looked back, once, but not at West. West looked to the envelope in his hand, beneath it lay the scattered pile of bills that Lenore had dumped onto the table, something told West that the money was Hectors idea while it was Lenore that had suggested they bring the envelope. West sat down and pushed the money to one sire before opening the envelope. Inside West found a list of names and addresses, many of them located in the Scrub along with one or two from the 33. Most of them were unknown to West. There were some that everyone in the city recognised, including the man West had given the original copy of the envelope which still lay on the chair where Hector had flicked through them while waiting for Lenore calm down. West had made a point of counting them as Hector paced the office, it wasn’t unusual of the families of the Scrub to use blackmail to get what they wanted. If there was one thing they were quicker to resort to faster than their Voodoo mumbo-jumbo it was good old fashioned blackmail.
After all it was a popularity contest, the family that controlled the largest number of followers had control of the Scrub and there was always a need for front line eyes and ears. The only reason the Clerics stopped approaching West for information on their rivals was that West had told them he wouldn’t take sides and he didn’t take bribes. Everything was above board and legal, and most importantly expensive. West knew he was pricing himself out of their game but it was the easiest way to stay out of the
crossfire and off their target lists. He had managed until now to avoid the larger families but Lenore was right, West couldn’t turn down this job, most of the missing person cases related to the Scrub families turned out to be inside jobs. The rival families would announce their targets, make it public knowledge so that it was all the more impressive when they finally managed to take them out. This was done too quietly to be the work of a rival family, that was no doubt why Hector had gone to such trouble to give West an extensive history of the family lineage, he couldn’t come out and accuse his own family of the disappearance, especially not with Lenore standing right there. She of course knew that the odds were good that it was a member of the family, but she had to play the part, for the family. That would explain her hostility towards Hector. Well he had all but accepted the job, they would expect some information soon, but for now all West was interested in was getting some sleep, and another packet of cigarettes, Hectors speech had finished off his last pack. West ran a finger down the list of names that Lenore had given him, one of the names listed was Abraham Sabell.
Sabell was one of West’s regular contacts, he owned a bar in the heart of the Scrub, The Red Stones. The rumors that surrounded the place kept most of the non-locals away, of course there were a few thrill seekers that would come into town looking for the Vundun hot spots. Most of the ones that were directed to The Red Stones took one look at the neighbourhood and left for relative safety of The 666 Bar. It made no difference to them that the numbers 666 had nothing to do with the Scrub religions, they only came there so they could say they had been to a Vundun bar. Those that stayed in The Red Stones for more than an hour were usually the ones that would end up in the paper the following week. The story was always the same. Some yuppie troupe would arrive in the Scrub and they would ask the locals where the best Voodoo bar was The honest Locals would direct them to The Red Stones Bar, those that knew the game would just send them straight to The 666 Bar. Usually the large neon 666 outside the bar was enough to draw the crowd in, but of course they were the ones that got home safe, or at least alive, there were always a few muggings. But every few weeks there would be one who wanted the authentic scene, every report was the same. The friends would report that the missing person told them they were going to that stones bar. Just to go in and look around, you know, see the real stuff and maybe have one drink. But only one and they would be back to meet up with them later. They
rarely came back.
Sabell would fill out the police reports and when an out of towner would go missing he would give an interview for those who still thought the disappearances were news it never went any further than that. Sabell would say that they came in, ordered a drink and then chickened out before the floor show started. The police didn’t even bother to interview the locals anymore, nobody would have seen anything and the persons body was never found, even if they cared there was nothing to go on, even the Scrub cops needed evidence. West knew that Sabell was involved in at least a few of the disappearances but he trusted him when he said that he wasn’t involved in all of them, he had no reason to lie. It was only eight in the morning, the bar would be open, but Sabell wouldn’t be behind the bar until about seven. He was there seven nights a week, but only after dark, during the day no real patrons showed up. West was sure that he could get some answers from the day staff, and at the very least buy some more cigarettes. West grabbed his coat and slid an arm into the sleeve. Before he lifted the
second arm he felt a weight in his pocket. Reaching into the pockets he pulled out the packet of cigarettes he had had in the 33 building. With his unexpected guests he had forgotten they were there, he looked, he still had three left. West decided that it would be better to wait until Sabell was there. After all, he was the bars main attraction.
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