Read Online Dead on the Island by Bill Crider - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Bill Crider
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had
nothing but five pink spikes running down the middle of his
skull.
I looked around a little more. It wasn't
easy to see because I could almost feel my eyeballs being pushed
back into their sockets by the sonic force of the music that was
blasting at me from the stage. It was almost as if the bass player
were strumming my right and left ventricles along with the strings
of his guitar.
The headbangers went in for spandex tank
tops and heavy leather wrist bands studded with metal. They also
wore fingerless gloves with even more metal studs. Many of them
wore thick leather belts that seemed to be strictly decorative,
since they didn't fit through any visible loops. Some of the belts
held what looked like M-I cartridges, and some had dangling loops
of brass. One woman had on an outfit that was made entirely of
small metal spangles, most of them smaller than a dime. She was
wearing black boots that came almost to her knees and had a skull
blazoned on the fronts. Nearly everyone had tattoos.
Everyone was a lot younger than I was, and I
looked very much out of place in my sweatshirt and jeans, but no
one seemed to mind.
Amyl and the gang finished up in a frenzy of
reverb and feedback. When the music stopped, it was several seconds
before I could hear anything at all. Then the dull rumble of
conversation, the click of beer bottles, and the scraping of chairs
became audible, even though there was still a distant roaring in my
ears.
I didn't see anyone who looked like the
owner, so I continued to survey the crowd. I was looking for the
narc. I figured that in any place like this there were lots of
funny-smelling cigarettes to be smoked, and maybe even a line or
two of Bolivian happy dust to be inhaled. Therefore there would be
an undercover cop in every now and then just in case any of the
boys or gals got together enough money to make a really heavy
buy.
Of course the heavy buy would never take
place because by the time he walked in from the door to a seat,
everyone in the place would have the narc spotted for exactly what
he was. It's a knack they have.
I didn't have the knack, though, it not
being really necessary to my survival, but it still didn't take me
too long at that. He was sitting at a table with a girl in electric
blue spandex, the tank top scarcely concealing her generous
breasts. I was afraid that if she stood up and shook, the shimmer
would blind half the patrons despite the low level of light in the
club.
I made my way over to the table, carrying my
half-full beer bottle. "Mind if I join you?" I said.
The guy didn't look too happy, but he
growled what I took to be an affirmative answer. I hooked an empty
chair with my foot, pulled it out, and sat.
If anyone asked me, I couldn't really
explain how I knew he was a cop. The hairstyle was a little too
studied, maybe, the clothes a little too carefully cared for, the
eyes a little too secretive and hard.
"Great band, huh?" I said.
"Damn straight," the girl said. She was
drinking Lone Star, too, out of a bottle. She took a pull and set
it down solidly on the table to emphasize her remark. The cop
didn't say anything.
Over on the bandstand, the lead singer was
announcing that it was time for the band to take a break. That was
a break for me, too, since I would be able to hear what the two at
the table had to tell me.
If they told me anything at all.
We sat there for a few seconds, looking at
one another. "I was wondering if maybe you two could do me a
favor," I said. If the cop had come there often, he might have seen
Sharon Matthews, or Terry, and he might come closer than anyone
else in the place to admitting it.
"Maybe," he said. He sounded like he might
have gravel in his throat.
I took the picture of Sharon out of my back
pocket and slipped it onto the table. It was no longer in its
folder. "Ever seen this girl?"
The girl's eyes flickered, but the cop's
didn't.
Another few seconds of silence passed.
"Well?" I said.
"Maybe," the cop said.
I took out
nothing but five pink spikes running down the middle of his
skull.
I looked around a little more. It wasn't
easy to see because I could almost feel my eyeballs being pushed
back into their sockets by the sonic force of the music that was
blasting at me from the stage. It was almost as if the bass player
were strumming my right and left ventricles along with the strings
of his guitar.
The headbangers went in for spandex tank
tops and heavy leather wrist bands studded with metal. They also
wore fingerless gloves with even more metal studs. Many of them
wore thick leather belts that seemed to be strictly decorative,
since they didn't fit through any visible loops. Some of the belts
held what looked like M-I cartridges, and some had dangling loops
of brass. One woman had on an outfit that was made entirely of
small metal spangles, most of them smaller than a dime. She was
wearing black boots that came almost to her knees and had a skull
blazoned on the fronts. Nearly everyone had tattoos.
Everyone was a lot younger than I was, and I
looked very much out of place in my sweatshirt and jeans, but no
one seemed to mind.
Amyl and the gang finished up in a frenzy of
reverb and feedback. When the music stopped, it was several seconds
before I could hear anything at all. Then the dull rumble of
conversation, the click of beer bottles, and the scraping of chairs
became audible, even though there was still a distant roaring in my
ears.
I didn't see anyone who looked like the
owner, so I continued to survey the crowd. I was looking for the
narc. I figured that in any place like this there were lots of
funny-smelling cigarettes to be smoked, and maybe even a line or
two of Bolivian happy dust to be inhaled. Therefore there would be
an undercover cop in every now and then just in case any of the
boys or gals got together enough money to make a really heavy
buy.
Of course the heavy buy would never take
place because by the time he walked in from the door to a seat,
everyone in the place would have the narc spotted for exactly what
he was. It's a knack they have.
I didn't have the knack, though, it not
being really necessary to my survival, but it still didn't take me
too long at that. He was sitting at a table with a girl in electric
blue spandex, the tank top scarcely concealing her generous
breasts. I was afraid that if she stood up and shook, the shimmer
would blind half the patrons despite the low level of light in the
club.
I made my way over to the table, carrying my
half-full beer bottle. "Mind if I join you?" I said.
The guy didn't look too happy, but he
growled what I took to be an affirmative answer. I hooked an empty
chair with my foot, pulled it out, and sat.
If anyone asked me, I couldn't really
explain how I knew he was a cop. The hairstyle was a little too
studied, maybe, the clothes a little too carefully cared for, the
eyes a little too secretive and hard.
"Great band, huh?" I said.
"Damn straight," the girl said. She was
drinking Lone Star, too, out of a bottle. She took a pull and set
it down solidly on the table to emphasize her remark. The cop
didn't say anything.
Over on the bandstand, the lead singer was
announcing that it was time for the band to take a break. That was
a break for me, too, since I would be able to hear what the two at
the table had to tell me.
If they told me anything at all.
We sat there for a few seconds, looking at
one another. "I was wondering if maybe you two could do me a
favor," I said. If the cop had come there often, he might have seen
Sharon Matthews, or Terry, and he might come closer than anyone
else in the place to admitting it.
"Maybe," he said. He sounded like he might
have gravel in his throat.
I took the picture of Sharon out of my back
pocket and slipped it onto the table. It was no longer in its
folder. "Ever seen this girl?"
The girl's eyes flickered, but the cop's
didn't.
Another few seconds of silence passed.
"Well?" I said.
"Maybe," the cop said.
I took out
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