Gaudy pink neon flooded the inside of the car. Cigarette smoke twisted through it like dispossessed spirits trying to find their way home, wore the vulgar lighting like brief flashes of embarrassment as it faded away.
Scott took another pull from his smoke, then sipped from the stale coffee that'd been sitting in his cup-holder for too long. If the smoke was embarrassed and the coffee stale, well, Scott was both of those things himself.
Being parked outside a tacky gay bar squatting in a cul-de-sac in the ass end of Vegas was bad enough, but having to be here for almost three days straight was worse. He'd been treated to the sight of leather-clad musclemen leading smaller men in masks around on leashes, men dressed in
entirely
too tight clothing, drag queens, people in dog masks... the works.
He didn't have a problem with gays, but he always wondered why they had to let their sexual orientations take over their entire lives. He'd mused on it being some form of membership in a group being taken too far but refused to spend too much time dwelling on it.
Fact is, no matter where else he was? He was also very close to the end of this case. The kid, some nineteen-year-old math, chess, something prodigy, was being held in the bar somewhere. He'd been able to scam some financial and zoning records from the local city hall by hooking up the secretary in the records office with a baggy of coke and a very expensive whiskey. Then he'd hooked up with her.
The memory tugged at the corner of his lips. Been a good night, that.
He pulled the photos out of the glove and glanced at them for what felt like the thousandth time. An older man featured on the first. Looked to be about sixty, big gold earrings in nose and right ear., head shaved smoother than black ice. Bright blue eyes on him, strange for a Black man. He'd be easy to spot, since he was also apparently something like six and a half feet tall and if the rumours were true, still into body-building at his age. Ran the club, always wore Armani. Name of Bobby.
The second guy had long, stringy hair that looked like he washed it in lard every day. Big nose, pointed features, and a sort of rabid intensity that told you he'd probably try to bite you in a fight. Supposed to be some sort of muscle for the big guy, which was weird. He wasn't supposed to be that big. Went by Paul, but they had some sort of nickname for him.
The third photo was the kid he was being paid to find. Small, thin, slim little guy, thick glasses, pimples. Some features proportionate, others strangely large--ears and nose, mostly. Dull brown eyes. Scott had never liked nerds, but hey, if someone paid enough then he didn't mind pulling out of wherever he was.
He put the photos back into the glove and took another drag from his dying smoke before casting a hazel eye out toward the club again. He had to blink several times to adjust to the flashing neon signs which pulsed in an oddly rhythmic way. He was conscious of the time, as anyone on a prolonged stint of waiting tended to be. It was nearing 2330hrs and that meant things were about to get busy.
Indeed, a lineup was starting to build at the entrance as a collection of freaks filtered in from the early fall night. Scott saw some costumes he wasn't sure had any place under an open sky, but he supposed that the cool weather allowed your average weirdo some freedom with what sorts of things they could put on. Shiny, almost garbage-bag-like material on some. Head to toe leather on others. Dog masks, horse masks, things swinging from people's arses, fishnets, too much skin showing, high heels on feet that shouldn't be in heels... his lip twisted in mild disgust.
He was scanning the slowly accumulating group when he saw a figure that had him sit up like a cord had yanked his spine straight from on high. His divine intervention.
A kid was standing at the rim of the crowd, back pressed against a nearby brick wall. (S)he? It? Them? Were smoking a cigarette in a long, elegant holder. The thing was, the kid didn't look like the photo... but at the same time, they did. Scott tried to focus against the lurid lightning that kept trying to drag his attention away and succeeded for a moment. The shape of the face was the same. Ears and nose a little too big, but better now. Problem was, the rest of his body bore no resemblance to the description he'd been given.
That kid was maybe five foot six, thin, pale, freckled, pimpled, bespectacled; your basic television sitcom nerd in high def and the third dimension.
This
kid was at least six inches taller, and that's before you counted the massive baby pink ankle boots that looked to have at least an eight-inch heel, one pressed to the pavement and the other knee bent, with the boot resting against the wall behind about knee-height. Body was perfectly smooth, fishnet stockings covering everything from the boots to the high chest. (S)he wore a tight pair of ultra-shiny, spray-on hotpants, a bright glint of metal shining at the navel, and boy did (s)he fill out those hot pants. Despite himself, Scott stared at the hips and butt that looked like they'd been carved out of a wet dream before shaking himself out of it, mild sense of shame and distaste at the back of his throat.
Smooth, flawless skin in an hourglass shape (or as close as a male frame can come to it) stretched up into a spray-on crop top like the hot pants covered by a little leather biker jacket that actual women only wore around this time of night to this type of club. Formerly dull brown hair had been coloured with crimson highlights, with the left side of the head shaved, but a full foot and half of length drifting down the right in an oddly alluring, punk-rock type of vibe.
There wasn't, in other words, a whole lot of resemblance between this person and the one he'd been sent for. However, there was
enough
. The face was almost identical. It was as though the kid had had a lot of work done in the last few weeks, which was impossible. The kid was on the run. No money, no resources, and no previous inclination for anything like that.
Well, anyway. If he could quickly grab the kid and get... him? home, that was a payday and he could take a couple weeks vacation before starting to look for another client. So, he popped the car door, stubbed out his cigarette, and climbed out of the vehicle. He attracted immediate attention from a few of the freaks. The kid, too, gave him a stare as his worn white running shoes contacted the concrete of the sidewalk.
What an odd reaction. He was the normal one, after all. Shrugging it off, he made his way toward the kid, who pensively inhaled smoke from their cigarette still elegantly shown off by the long, lacquered holder in which it rested.
As he got into hailing range, the kid beat him to it. "What you looking for, buddy?" The voice was... odd. It had a feminine quality but was not a female voice.
Scott blinked. What an odd thing to ask as an initial greeting. He shrugged it off again. "You," he said. "Alexander Levitte? Your dad wants you back home, son."
The kid's eyes scanned him head to toe, from his worn shoes, cheap brown cotton suit, haphazardly done tie, stained white dress shirt to his cheap haircut. The weight in his gut, the folds on his legs, the arthritis in his hands--it was like the kid was scanning every detail. Scott was a bit taken aback. He'd never felt so thoroughly
inspected
before.
"Sure," the kid said vaguely, "But I'm Alexis, now, and I sorta came here for a drink. I'm getting," the kid emphasized almost syllabically, "my damn drink." The second pink heel came clicking down onto the sidewalk as though for emphasis. Slim leather arms folded, cigarette smoke curling up from behind one shoulder.
Scott considered his options. Obviously a stall, but the kid's dress, stance, everything about... him? told the investigator that the best way to handle this was going to be to play along and wait for an opening. And truth be told, he was a perversely and morbidly curious about what was going on in that club. It wouldn't even be the strangest place he'd found himself in in a couple decades on the job. The pink neon light continued to pulse in the periphery and had now had been joined by a bass-heavy techno-house mix that seemed to emphatically echo the timing of the lights.
"Alright," he said. "One drink."
