Free Shella by Andrew Vachss Page B

pulled over in Youngstown, got a motel room, slept a long time.
    The next night, I drove past Cleveland, right on through to Indiana. Got off near Gary, found another room.
    I slept through the day again.
    That night, I found the strip, just outside of town. They all look the same, those bars. There’s so many.
    No sign of Shella.

    In the morning, I kept going west. When I saw the signs for Chicago, I pulled over by a pay phone. I dialed the number Misty had left. A woman’s voice answered. Young woman.
    “Could I speak to Misty?” I asked the voice.
    “She’s not here right now. If you’ll leave me a number, I’ll have her call you back.”
    I hung up. I guess the woman was Misty’s friend. Maybe Misty would call her once in a while, check in. Everybody has a friend.

    Stony Island Avenue, that’s what the sign said. The whole neighborhood was black, but a lot of people in the cars were white. A pass-through zone. I got back in the car, pulled in behind a white man in one of the those rich, dark boxy foreign sedans. I just followed him until we got downtown, then I peeled off and drove around until I found a place where I could park.
    I bought a couple of newspapers. Then I found a room and went to sleep.

    At night, I went to some of the places I found in the newspapers. The more you pay, the nearer the girls get. Like bait. Table dancers, lap dancers. Some of the girls could dance, most of them couldn’t. Some of them could act—itlooked like they were really getting worked up doing what they did. Most of them, they just looked glazed. Nobody looked at anyone’s face.
    I kept spending money. Not that much money—I didn’t have to get that close to know if it was Shella.
    One joint had a sign in front: LIVE GIRLS. It made me think about something, but it didn’t stay in my mind. I went inside. It was the same.

    The next night, I went north. Uptown, they called it. The first place I tried said TOPLESS, but it was full of hard drinkers, not even looking at the girls.
    In another joint, I was sitting at a table near the back. A big guy in a shirt cut off to show his muscles was sitting at the next table, yelling at the girls, calling them fucking dykes, cunts, all like that. The bouncer came over, told him he had to leave. The guy kicked up a fuss and the bouncer got his arm up behind the guy’s back, walked him out the door. I didn’t pay attention, just watched the front so I could see the whole selection of girls before I moved on to the next place.
    I felt a hand on the back of my neck. “You too, asshole.” It was the bouncer, pulling me up and out of the chair. I stood up and I felt the kidney punch coming—I got my elbow into his lower ribs as I brought my heel down hard across his ankle. His hand let go—his face came over my right shoulder and I kept it going into the top of the table.
    People were watching. I got up. The bouncer fell on the floor. In the front, the girls were still moving their bodies, the music was still loud.
    I went out the front door. The guy in the cut-off shirtwas walking up the street toward the bar. There was a gun in his hand. His face was crazy.

    I didn’t go far. Whatever I did in the bar, the guy with the muscles was about to do worse. The cops would be coming. I found another bar in the next block, not a strip joint. They were playing music up on a little stage in front, chicken wire all across, like they were in a cage. I tried to sit in the back, listen to the music. Country music, I guess it was. It was so loud my head hurt. One guy finished his bottle of beer and threw it at the musicians. I saw what the chicken wire was for—they kept right on playing.
    After about an hour, I left. It was still early.
    The last bar I went to, it was like a place where people do business. The waitresses were topless, and they had dancers and all, but they had booths in the back. I saw men talking to each other, not even watching the girls.
    One booth was empty. I ordered a