moved on to the next group and came away empty again.
Slowly he combed the building, sometimes gagging on the rot around him. They looked, they cooperated passively, a few even smiled, but the story was the same. Lindsey was a nonentity in Hotel Hell.
The building turned icy, the stench stronger as the night winds died, leaving only stagnant chilled air. But noises returned as word passed that the stranger was only showing a picture. A few even came up to him, volunteered to look. Never saw her, man . The sounds grew boisterous—cackles, cries, retching, pissing. After canvassing all five stories, he felt fatigue begin to hood his eyes.
He’d try again next week. There’d be new kids and some old-timers returning to the fold. He put the picture away, heading for the door but stopped suddenly. It was involuntary—a psychic paralysis that froze the muscles of his calves.
He gasped as he stared at her. A moonbeam hit her smack in the face, illuminating her in deathly grays.
The girl’s mouth was agape, framed by lips of orange: eyes dull and lolling. She had it all—the angle of the cheekbone, the point of the chin. But it was the hair—flaming red tresses setting off a pale, freckled face—that made his heart take off.
Cindy!
She was wearing a green sequined halter and an orange mini-skirt. She caught his eye and lowered her lashes. When he didn’t move, she made a funny face, swung out her hip and undid her halter, giving him a full view of voluptuous breasts. Cupping one in each hand, pinching pink nipples, she sashayed over slowly, seductively.
“Twenty-five dollars,” she whispered.
He wanted to kill her.
Blinded with fury which he knew was irrational, he tried to stalk away, but she caught his arm. He turned,threw her against the wall, and slapped her hard, feeling the sting radiate through his hand. He grabbed her wrists.
“I’m a cop, you stupid fuck!”
The animal in her took over. She opened her jaws, hissed, and bit his right forearm through the jacket sleeve. He yelped and released her wrists, but she’d become wild, clawing and scratching, ripping his jacket. He managed to shield his face with his bare arm, but she continued attacking, raking the skin of his forearm. In desperation, he backhanded her, and she went flying across the hallway and into a wall.
Oh shit , he thought.
He started to approach her, but she scrambled to her feet and fled.
His arm was wet, crimson, and shaking. Reaching for a handkerchief and finding nothing, he took off his jacket and tried to staunch the flow.
You stupid shithead , he thought to himself. To let a dumb hooker get you like that. Your daughter is a good kid. Why the fuck do you go looking for trouble when there is none?
He peeled back his soaked jacket. His arm was still bleeding although the scarlet stream had reduced to slow seepage. The flesh had already begun to swell and throb. He had to get out of there.
He saw her out of the corner of his eye and felt he should say something, but nothing came out. It was she who approached him, offering him a roll of bandages. He took it with a nod and began to wrap his wounds.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“I’m sorry I hit you like I did,” he said. “I was just trying to get you off of me.”
“I’m sorry I bit you like I did,” she said. “I was trying to get you off of me. You scared the hell out of me.”
“Where’s a twenty-four-hour pharmacy?” he asked.
“Don’t know.” She pulled out a cigarette. “You gonna arrest me?”
“No.”
“Are you really a cop?”
“Yes.”
“Whacha doing here?”
Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out Lindsey’s picture. The redhead cautiously approached him to take a look.
“Don’t know her,” she said. “How long has she been missing?”
“She’s not missing. She’s dead.”
The girl shuddered. He looked at her and saw a deep red palm print spread across her face.
“I slapped you pretty
Slowly he combed the building, sometimes gagging on the rot around him. They looked, they cooperated passively, a few even smiled, but the story was the same. Lindsey was a nonentity in Hotel Hell.
The building turned icy, the stench stronger as the night winds died, leaving only stagnant chilled air. But noises returned as word passed that the stranger was only showing a picture. A few even came up to him, volunteered to look. Never saw her, man . The sounds grew boisterous—cackles, cries, retching, pissing. After canvassing all five stories, he felt fatigue begin to hood his eyes.
He’d try again next week. There’d be new kids and some old-timers returning to the fold. He put the picture away, heading for the door but stopped suddenly. It was involuntary—a psychic paralysis that froze the muscles of his calves.
He gasped as he stared at her. A moonbeam hit her smack in the face, illuminating her in deathly grays.
The girl’s mouth was agape, framed by lips of orange: eyes dull and lolling. She had it all—the angle of the cheekbone, the point of the chin. But it was the hair—flaming red tresses setting off a pale, freckled face—that made his heart take off.
Cindy!
She was wearing a green sequined halter and an orange mini-skirt. She caught his eye and lowered her lashes. When he didn’t move, she made a funny face, swung out her hip and undid her halter, giving him a full view of voluptuous breasts. Cupping one in each hand, pinching pink nipples, she sashayed over slowly, seductively.
“Twenty-five dollars,” she whispered.
He wanted to kill her.
Blinded with fury which he knew was irrational, he tried to stalk away, but she caught his arm. He turned,threw her against the wall, and slapped her hard, feeling the sting radiate through his hand. He grabbed her wrists.
“I’m a cop, you stupid fuck!”
The animal in her took over. She opened her jaws, hissed, and bit his right forearm through the jacket sleeve. He yelped and released her wrists, but she’d become wild, clawing and scratching, ripping his jacket. He managed to shield his face with his bare arm, but she continued attacking, raking the skin of his forearm. In desperation, he backhanded her, and she went flying across the hallway and into a wall.
Oh shit , he thought.
He started to approach her, but she scrambled to her feet and fled.
His arm was wet, crimson, and shaking. Reaching for a handkerchief and finding nothing, he took off his jacket and tried to staunch the flow.
You stupid shithead , he thought to himself. To let a dumb hooker get you like that. Your daughter is a good kid. Why the fuck do you go looking for trouble when there is none?
He peeled back his soaked jacket. His arm was still bleeding although the scarlet stream had reduced to slow seepage. The flesh had already begun to swell and throb. He had to get out of there.
He saw her out of the corner of his eye and felt he should say something, but nothing came out. It was she who approached him, offering him a roll of bandages. He took it with a nod and began to wrap his wounds.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
“I’m sorry I hit you like I did,” he said. “I was just trying to get you off of me.”
“I’m sorry I bit you like I did,” she said. “I was trying to get you off of me. You scared the hell out of me.”
“Where’s a twenty-four-hour pharmacy?” he asked.
“Don’t know.” She pulled out a cigarette. “You gonna arrest me?”
“No.”
“Are you really a cop?”
“Yes.”
“Whacha doing here?”
Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out Lindsey’s picture. The redhead cautiously approached him to take a look.
“Don’t know her,” she said. “How long has she been missing?”
“She’s not missing. She’s dead.”
The girl shuddered. He looked at her and saw a deep red palm print spread across her face.
“I slapped you pretty
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