Free Nightwise by R. S. Belcher Page A

“If he’s on this earth and he has had any human interaction, I’ll find him. When Kalahari Bushmen have fucking cell phones, there is no place to hide from me anymore.”
    â€œDamn,” I said. “And they say I do black magic.” For some reason, the handcuff keys around Berman’s neck jumped into my mind. “You said he was into the Lifestyle. He frequent clubs anywhere?”
    â€œHere in the Apple,” Grinner said, “but it was a long time ago—about ten or eleven years ago. Before me and Christine’s time, way before Magdalena’s time too. That’s like a geological age in the scene. Pretty cold scrap.”
    â€œIs Didgeri still around?” I asked.
    Grinner laughed and I smiled.
    â€œDidgeri,” Grinner said. “Yeah, yeah she is. Still owns the Dreamtime too. Hell, yeah, man. If anyone in this town would remember old Slavic Frankenberry, it would be Didgeri.”
    I got up and slapped Grinner on the shoulder and started to walk out of the lab.
    â€œâ€™Preciate it,” I said. “I’ll tell her you said hello.”
    â€œScrew that. Tell her she still owes me a grand for getting that Korean ghost out of her iPad,” Grinner said as he pulled up a wall of code on the monitor. “Good hunting, hillbilly.”

 
    SIX
    Magdalena and I took a cab to the West Village. It was a little after nine and a cold drizzle was spitting on the city, not that the city gave a damn. Magdalena pulled her worn leather biker jacket tighter around herself. She was wearing a black-and-red leather corset, tight black jeans, and high-heeled boots. She had on a little black-and-purple-striped knit cap and matching wool scarf to ward off the rain. I wore a beat-up old olive-drab military trench coat I had found in Goodwill in Atlanta fifteen years ago. I had an Adventure Time T-shirt on under a threadbare black sweater, my ripped-up jeans, and my combat boots. I lit up an American Spirit as soon as we got out and paid the cabbie.
    â€œYou smoke way too many of those hipster cigarettes,” she said. “Those things are going to kill you.”
    â€œSomething’s goin’ to,” I said. “Might as well be something I enjoy.”
    â€œBetter ways to go,” she said.
    We walked down the sidewalk past deep wells of shadow. Pale, gaunt faces, smeared in paint to provide the semblance of life, floated up out of the darkness to mumble offers of pleasure and pain to both of us. It’s a sad testament to the endurance race that life is that their offers didn’t move either of us. It was the same anywhere you went. When you hit low enough, all you had left to sell of any value was your skin and your soul.
    We turned the corner and crossed against the light, arriving at the threshold of the Dreamtime. The windows were all blackout tape, and you could feel the thrumming power of the music vibrating through them. A small crowd milled under the tattered awning by the main doors: trannies, club kids, a few slumming B-list celebs. Dirty idling taxis were queued up by the curb, awaiting fares.
    â€œI’ve heard about this place,” Magdalena said, “but I never made it here before. You told Roman to meet us here?”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I know the lady who owns the joint, and she won’t allow any bullshit in her domain.”
    At the entrance, I handed the doorman a hundred. He was slender and porcelain, save the vibrant peacock tattoo on the left side of his face and the machine pistol under his white Edwardian coat. Every part of him was bleached except the shimmering color of his tattoo. He unhooked the shabby, frayed velvet rope and gestured for us to pass.
    â€œYou actually know Didgeri Doo?” Magdalena said, a wide smile with the warmth of daybreak crossing her face. “She’s a legend in alt and fetish modeling. She was one of the only transgender fashion models to make it big in the