Killing America's Sweetheart: A Natalie Miller Mystery (9 page)

“Sorry to let you down. This is my outfit for the evening. Anyhow, where the hell did you get all that stuff?”

“Online
. There’s this really cool self-defense website where you can get practically anything. Besides I normally carry the pepper spray, rape whistle and stun gun. You know how many sexual assaults there have been in Bike City lately?”

I shrugged my
shoulders; I wasn’t up to date on all the crime going on over there.

“A lot. Since I leave the library after 9pm most nights, I make sure I’m prepared.”

A librarian by day, martial art ninja by night.

Karen thought it would be a good idea to take her black Prius along for the stakeout. Her reasoning was that it’s super quiet and black, so it wouldn’t attract attention. I however thought my piece of shit Corolla would have blended into the ghetto area much better. Still I decided it was wise not to argue with the woman
who was packing the weapons.

The super silent Prius crept into the dark industrial area known for drugs, prostitution and gang violence. As we drove down the near deserted streets
, Karen started to look increasingly nervous.

“Maybe we should have brought your car,” she said with a shudder as we passed burnt out cars. The street looked like a
cemetery for cars past their prime.

“What’s up with all these cars?” she asked, licking her lips.

“I read in the paper that a lot of stolen cars are being dumped here, along with other people just abandoning unwanted vehicles,” I informed her. Karen looked at me and gulped.

As we
made our way closer to The Bombay Inn, the decrepit cars faded as the main attraction came into view, Pussy’s aka The Pussy Cat. Of course the seediest motel in town backed right up to a strip club. As you can imagine, the idea of bringing an adult entertainment establishment into such a small town was not an easy sell. However, when the economy tanked and the city was nearly bankrupt, the idea of being able to generate revenue won. That’s not to say there isn’t the occasional Holy Roller out there protesting with signs, but for the most part it’s been accepted, or maybe left alone is a better description.

Tonight it looked as if the club was pac
ked. Being so close to I-5 helped tremendously, as the parking lot was filled with big rigs and plenty of lifted and muddy 4x4 trucks. Karen parked at the far end of the parking lot, which afforded us a great view of the inn.

“Okay, now what?” Karen asked as she turned off the ignition.

“I think it might be a good idea to go over to the office and see if we can find out if Damien is actually here. No sense in sitting around all night when he might not even be here.”

I have never actually been to T
he Bombay Inn before. Sure I’ve driven past it hundreds of times, but I never stepped foot on the property. As we approached the building I could see that it was definitely in need of some renovation. That, or some gasoline and a match.

When we arrived at the office door, I noticed both Karen and I paused. The door looked absolutely gross. I’m talking la
yers of unidentified substances. I smiled at Karen and she returned with a gesture that read, after you.

I used my sweater sleeve and pulled open the door. We walked in to a very retro
1970’s looking lobby. Green linoleum flooring that was in dire need of cleaning and a brown Formica counter top with wood paneling along the walls. The desk was vacant, but there was a post-it note that read, “Ring for service.”

Karen looked at the bell, winced and lightly tapped it.

A moment later a young woman, probably in her early twenties came out from the saloon doors behind the counter.

“Yeah?” she asked with a sniffle. Her eyes looked red and glossy and her nose chapped. She had bleached blond hair which was greasy and her overly done eye makeup was old and crusty. She was a petite girl, but looked more on the emaciated side. Her stained white halter top reveled thin boney arms. When she brought one arm onto the counter, I
spied what appeared to be track marks. Yep, she was clearly a user. My time in rehab and common sense helped me to make that determination.

“Uh, I was wondering if you could tell me if someone was
staying here.” I asked.

She snorted and replied, “Shit, there’
s a lot of people here.”

“Yes, but we’re looking for someone in particular, his
name is Damien Fields?” I said.

She looked us up and down hard, trying to size us up. Of course we looked completely out of
place. Karen in her SWAT outfit, complete with full utility belt and me in my gray knit sweater and jeans, did not look the part for this establishment.

“Are you
guy’s bounty hunters or something?” she asked.

Karen and I glanced at each other. Of course she would think that with G.I. Jane standing next to me.

“No, we’re not law enforcement,” I replied shaking my head.

“Well
, then I don’t have to tell you shit.”

I signaled for Karen to move closer so we could confer in private.

“How much money do you have?” I whispered.

“What? I don’t know maybe $20?” she replied surprised.

“Well check!” I hissed looking at the impatient desk clerk and smiling.

Karen felt in her back pocket and pulled out a small wad of cash. She definitely had more than twenty.

Carefully she handed me one Andrew Jackson and I stepped back up and laid it on the counter.

“What’s this for?” she asked with attitude.

“Just a little something for your trouble,” I told her.

“Look, I saw that bitch with a roll of cash. I ain’t talking unless I get at least $60,” she replied firmly.

“Forty,” Karen said.

“Hey, this ain’t M
ake a Deal bitch! If you keep this up, I’ll raise the price.”

“Fifty,” Karen barked.

I eyed Karen, wishing she’d just shut up and pay the girl.

“Oh, well now it’s $80,” the desk clerk said folding her arms to her chest.

Karen was about to negotiate again, but I cut her off.

“Just give her the money!” I snapped.

Karen pulled out her pocket of cash and handed me $80 dollars, which I laid on the counter. I nodded to the girl to start talking and she quickly scooped up the money and placed it inside her bra.

“Good thing you listened to your friend, or we’d be at $100 right now,” she said to Karen.

“Okay, so what can you tell me about Damien Fields?” I asked impatiently.

“Well for starters, he’s not listed und
er his real name. He checked in under Clark Kent. I almost laughed at him because he acted like he was someone famous or something. I know he used to be on that soap, I used to watch it in high school. But he’s a long ways from L.A. I didn’t feed into his little ego though. He paid in cash for two weeks. So far he’s been fairly quiet, but there have been a parade of chicks going in and out of his room. Guess he’s still able to play the celebrity card to get some.”

“So, he should be checking out soon, right?” Karen chimed in.

“Yeah, he has a few more days left.”

“Do you know if he’s in his room right now?” I asked

“Naw, he left a little while ago. I think I saw him walk over to Pussy’s. They’ve got a pretty good dinner buffet there.”

Of course. Nothing like a nice quiet dinner at Pussy
’s.

We walked back to the Prius and I could see the relief in Karen’s face that her beloved hybrid Earth saver was still intact.

“What should we do?” Karen wanted to know.

We stood next to the Prius, mesmerized by the large hypnotic sign of a hot pink cat with the
establishment’s name flashing brightly. It was like a beacon calling us home.

We entered
Pussy’s amidst pulsating music. The lighting was low and the air looked smoky. Inside we saw a dancer on the stage wearing nothing but a G-string, which could also double as dental floss. Apparently there were no female patrons this night, so as you can imagine, we attracted quite a bit of attention.

Greasy
men with white collars undone, trucker hats and plaid shirts looked up from the gyrating star to us. Immediately we felt uneasy.

“What are you
two fine lookin’ white girls doing here?” asked a slick looking Hispanic man with a bit of accent.

I rolled my eyes. I may not be 100% Mexican, but it’s the culture I identify with most
, thanks to being raised by a single mother. I don’t look like a traditional Mexican woman. My skin is fair and my hair is a medium shade of brown. So because of this, many assume I’m just a “weda”.

“Uh, we’re looking for the buffet,” I said loudly over the music.

The man looked at us and smiled.

“Hey, Marco! These ladies are here to eat Pussy’s buffet,” he yelled to his friend.

Marco came closer and surveyed us appreciatively.

“You two like to eat pussy, huh?” he asked licking his lips.

Karen looked at me and gulped and I quickly began looking around for a way out. When I glanced behind me, I could see two more guys, apparently part of our kindly gentlemen’s party surrounding us. We were trapped.

A man behind me reached up and twirled my hair.

“Que bonita,” he said as I moved out of his grasp.

“I like the sexy cat
burglar, very hot. I like tough chicks,” Marco replied to Karen.

“You know, I think we’ll just go ahead and hit the In-N-Out instead,” I said
pulling Karen closer to me.

“Oh, I don’t think you two are going anywhere,” hissed one of the men behind us.

Desperately I looked around the club to see if there was anyone who’d help us. There were a lot of heads who turned our way, but no one looked ready to take the foursome of men on. We were on our own.

“Look, we don’t want any trouble,” Karen pleaded.

“Senorita your biggest mistake was coming in here, now you have trouble. This is our club, and we make the rules here,” Marco informed us, nodding to the men behind us. One of them roughly grabbed Karen from behind.

“Hey, let go of me!” Karen yelled
.

With p
anic setting in, I looked around for anything to defend us. Beer bottles and glasses lay on tables too far out of my reach. That’s when I looked over at a struggling Karen and her waist. Quickly I grabbed the pepper spray and gun from the holster.

“Shit!” cried one of the men.

“What are you going to do white girl? Shoot us?” laughed one of the men.

“Hose us with hair spray?” yelled another.

I aimed the gun toward the man who had Karen roughly in his arms.

“Let go of her!” I barked.

“Ooooh!” they yelled mockingly.

I knew Karen told me
the gun was unloaded, but I raised it in the air and pulled the trigger. I fully expected nothing to happen and look like a total asshole, but completely surprised when it expelled a loud bang!

Plaster and parts of the ceiling came
raining down on us and people went running for cover.

“Gun!” cried the club patrons and they began making a mass exodus out of the club.

Our macho foursome went running as well, and I took the opportunity to grab Karen and run for our lives.

“What the fuck!”
I yelled at her as we booked it full speed toward the Prius.

“I can’t believe you pulled the trigger!” she cried nearly out of breath.

“You told me it wasn’t loaded!” I yelled back.

“I only told you that because I know you get uncomfortable around guns!”

She was right. I didn’t like them; the fact that they could kill someone really freaked me out.

We finally arrived back to the c
ar when Karen beat me to the passenger side.

“What are you doing
?” I asked panting.

“You drive, I’m too freaked out!” she cried.

I looked behind us and saw a couple of men who looked like our would-be violators. I didn’t need to be told twice as I unlocked the car and jumped in. Quickly starting up the little hybrid queen, I peeled rubber out of that parking lot, narrowly missing a few fleeing club goers in the process.

“Be careful!” Karen yelled.

I was too focused on getting us out of there to listen. I’m pretty sure the Earth friendly car had never been handled in such an aggressive manner before.

When we finally pulled up to my apartment complex, my adrenaline began subsiding and the reality of what happened began to set in.

“Fuck,” I said quietly as I parked the car at the curb. My hands were shaky as I took them off the wheel.

“That escalated pretty quickly. I never thought you’d grab the gun,” Karen replied softly.

“Why the fuck did you bring a gun, let alone a loaded one!?”