Damnation Street

42.

Weiss stepped up onto the porch and pushed into the brothel.

The House of Dreams and Joy was a dark tavern. Cheap paneling on the walls, a string or two of Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling. Horseshoes and metal cowboy cutouts hung here and there. There was a poster of a woman's lips. There was a painting of a naked woman on the bathroom door.

In front of him, two steps down, there was a sort of lounge, sunk deep in shadow. He could make out a tattered green sofa, some stuffed chairs, a pool table in an island of light. There were a couple of bikers playing pool.

There was a bar to his right. A hardcase cowboy was dealing beer from bottle to glass. A TV on the shelf behind him played Monster Garage, no sound. The mirror was rimmed with more Christmas lights.

By the jukebox nearby, there were a couple of high round tables. Three ass-crack truckers, maybe four hundred pounds apiece, were sitting on stools at one of these tables, surrounding a pitcher of beer, clutching mugs. There was a small dance floor just beyond them, a raised platform with a metal pole for strippers. There was a whore there now, moving sleepily to the country music. She wore jeans cut off just under the crotch and a sparkly halter top. She was blond and not half bad looking, but no one paid any attention to her. She kept her clothes on. She kept her face expressionless.

A woman approached Weiss as he let the screen door slip shut behind him. She was in her fifties, short, with a pinched, gnarled, and pleasantly vicious face under a curling red wig. She was wearing a colorless skirt and a dull brown cardigan. She had implants that made her breasts jut out from her like a pair of footballs.

"Wow, you're a big one," she said. "All right, let's line up for the gentleman, girls."

She gestured, and from the shadows in the lounge, the figures of women began to emerge, began to come forward toward the light where Weiss was standing. He caught the glinting of their eyes. He saw the drifting filmy fabric of their robes.

He didn't like the setup.

"If you don't mind, I'll have a drink first," he said. "I'll be at the bar." "Sure. Suit yourself." The woman gestured again, and the girls sank back into the dark corners.

Weiss sat at the bar. The cowboy slapped a Rock in front of him. Almost at once, one of the girls appeared on the next stool over. That was more like it, one on one.

She was a little creature, with mouse-brown hair and the pale, eager face of a vampire. She was wearing a sheer nightgown with a black bra and panties underneath. She was trim but flabby around the middle, he noticed. She'd had a kid at some point, maybe a couple of them.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Eden."

"I bet you are," Weiss said pleasantly. He raised his glass, smiled down at her, going through the motions.

Eden went through the motions too, leaning forward, moving her hand onto his thigh. But now that she saw him up close, she caught sight of the cop in him. He could tell from her eyes. Their expression changed. They grew watchful.

"I'm looking for Kristy," he told her. "I was here awhile back and we had a real nice party."

Eden pretended to believe him. "Kristy's partying with a guest right now," she said.

Weiss shrugged. "No hurry. I can wait."

She lifted her chin. "Let me see if I can find out when she'll be ready for you."

She slipped off the stool. Holding his beer, he looked over his shoulder, watched her black panties move as she receded into the shadows of the lounge. Something was wrong, he could feel it. The girl was too smooth, as if she'd been waiting for him, as if she'd been told what to say.

Weiss sat at the bar, on edge. His eyes moved, taking in the lounge, the dancing girl by the table, the ass-crack truckers knocking back their mugs of beer. He didn't know what he was looking out for, but he was looking out for something. Everything seemed okay, though.

Slowly, he faced front.

The cowboy barkeep brought a broken pool cue whipping around at his head.

The cowboy was tall and lean. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt with buttons the color of pearl. The sleeves were rolled up high. He had ropy muscles in his forearms. He had meanness carved deep into the lines of his face. He struck with sinuous speed.

But Weiss was keyed up, ready. He saw the blow coming. He moved fast too, dodging back on his stool, his hands flying up at his sides. The pool cue hissed past his nose. It hit the glass in his hand and shattered it, sending a spray of yellow beer into the dim bar light.

On reflex, Weiss slashed with the broken glass in his hand. The shard ripped through the flesh of the cowboy's forearm like a knife ripping canvas. The cowboy snarled and jumped back. He crashed into the shelf behind him. A red line sprouted between his wrist and his elbow. The pool cue dropped from his shaking fingers.

Weiss lunged over the bar at him. He grabbed a handful of the cowboy's hair with his right hand and yanked him forward. With his left hand gripping the cowboy's neck, he shoved him down with all the strength he had. The cowboy's face smacked into the bar top with a heavy, liquid thud. The impact crushed the cowboy's nose. Blood squirted over the polished wood. The cowboy shuddered. He became a dead weight in Weiss's grip. Weiss released him. The cowboy slid off the bar and dropped to the floor.

Weiss turned quickly. Was there anyone else? It didn't look like it. The truckers were watching him from their table. One of them scratched his chin. Another drank his beer. The girl on the stage behind them had stopped danc- ing and just stood there, expressionless as before, while the country music played.

In the lounge, at the pool table, in the island of light, one biker leaned on his stick, frowning in Weiss's direction. The other knocked the nine ball into the far corner.

Weiss let his breath out. His hand stung. He glanced at the mess of it. The broken glass had lanced the web between thumb and finger. The blood was rolling out of the cut. It covered his palm. He looked around for a napkin or a bar towel, something to stanch the flow. But now a movement in the shadows caught his eye.

It was the madam, the woman with the red hair and football tits. She was peeking out of an office door near the entryway. She had a phone at her ear.

"Ah, shit," said Weiss.

He pushed away from the bar, his stool scraping over the floor. He came around the end of the bar until he could look out the window. Sure enough, two more cowboys had just come out of the Western saloon-style brothel across the street. They were striding through the rain toward the House of Dreams and Joy, kicking broken pavement and mud with their pointed boots.

Weiss moved fast, heading deeper into the shadows.