Bull's Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #3

Chapter 21

Zandra's companions return to the Jeep with knowing grins and a sack of food from the restaurant. Even the stone-faced Jo can't help but blush.

Probably from the heat of the grease.

"Didn't feel right to use their facilities like that and not buy something," Vince says as he chomps through a hamburger. He holds an uneaten half out so Jo can nibble on it, then turns to Zandra. "We've got plenty of cash. That was really fucking stupid."

Yeah, I know.

"Good to hear it," Zandra says, her composure regained after another David sighting. "Maybe you could spend some on a pack of smokes so we can get going."

"Bad for your lungs. Worse for your hack," Jo says. "Should switch to chew. Way better for you. And, yes, I agree, that was really fucking stupid. Don't do it again."

So says the speed freak.

"Just laying the fear down. I got what I needed either way, and now we're where we are," Zandra says, as if the obvious needed highlighting.

It usually does. How simple would things be were it not for the human lens?

"Yeah, about that. Where is where we need to be now?" Vince says.

Zandra expects such a question, but she's been struggling with the answer. There isn't much to go on.

But if I know one thing about shitheads, it's that they like to brag. Even when they're broke or completely fucked, they'll come up with a way to brag about something to pump up their egos. Where is the one place a loser with a bit of cash can feel bulletproof? More importantly, what's open right now? Don't feel like camping out in this Jeep.

"Chubby's," Zandra says, nearly choking on the syllables.

"Chubby's? What's that? A buffet?" Vince says.

"Sort of. For meat," Zandra says. She rubs her palms together. "Strip club. It's off 29 a bit, near Stanley. We hurry, we can make it."

They get to Chubby's in plenty of time, although it's a little late for optimal parking in the dirt lot. The place is always packed, thanks to its anonymity on an undeveloped stretch off the highway and its reputation among those who drive for a living. The "TRUCKS WELCOME" sign is almost as large as the one that reads "Chubby's." With its log cabin aesthetic, it could easily pass for yet another buffet. Even five minutes inside would leave someone with the same impression. Food has to be the main feature when performers are both too hard and too easy to find.

Zandra doesn't go inside. This time, she stays in the Jeep while Vince and Jo scout out Chubby's for a man with scars on his face. It shouldn't be too hard. The cliché of a low-lit strip club doesn't apply to Chubby's. There's no use in hiding scars here, cesarean or otherwise.

Jo and Vince are better suited to Chubby's anyway. Zandra feels quite content confirming what one of her clients from years back told her about this particular parking lot.

"The truck drivers aren't too stingy with us, but the guys that look like youth soccer coaches don't want to spend too much money in case their wives get suspicious. So we even it out. If they've got a dent near their knuckle on their left ring fingers, we know there's probably a ring in their car. We'd work in teams. There's a spotter who watches the parking lot and breaks into cars to get the rings. Inside, the dancer would keep the guy from leaving. Made a lot of money that way."

Zandra won't stop the "spotter" a few cars away hunched over in a black hoodie. She will, however, roll the window halfway down and wave.

I see you.

The spotters, Zandra's client had said, were the performers phasing out of the adult entertainment business. They tended to be older, not that the clientele ever cared about age. For being in the sticks, Chubby's has a surprisingly progressive view of who should be nude and who shouldn't.

The wave doesn't get the spotter's attention, but the cash Zandra fills her fingers with does. After she finishes up at the car, the spotter's curiosity leads her to the Jeep.

"What?" she says from a few feet away. The upper half of her is standing inside the haze of the TRUCKERS WELCOME sign, outlined by dull, yellow lights.

Zandra rolls the window down the rest of the way for a better look and says, "You look familiar."

It's a lie, but it's also something Zandra assumes the spotter is used to hearing from the regular pricks inside Chubby's.

"Go inside if you want a dance," the spotter says, her face obscured in darkness.

So she's been at Chubby's for a while. Good. This person is primed. The closer you work to the edge, the more superstitious you get. Sailors. Pilots. Military. Sports. Chubby's.

"I need something, but it's not what you think," Zandra says. "I'm wondering if you've seen someone. A man. Scars on his face."

The spotter says, "A guy with scars on his face? Sure. Yeah. I seend 'im. Now pay up."

Zandra is prepared for a lie, but not the knife that appears in the spotter's hand. The blade is large and a little bent. It's had a busy night.

I've got something better than a knife.

"Come now, child, that's no way to treat someone who can help you," Zandra says.

"Help with what?" the spotter says.

"I know all about Gavin, child. I know what he's done to you," Zandra says.

The spotter's knife falls to the dirt as her shoulders slump.

Got her.