Free Cuts Through Bone by Alaric Hunt Page A

around, then said, “I’m with him.”
    â€œDamn, really?” the bartender asked. “You came in the door separate.” She kept buffing the bartop with her rag, and scowled again. “I shoulda kept my mouth shut when the cops were in here.”
    â€œSo it don’t bother you that girl was maybe snatched right outside here?” Vasquez asked, pressing against the bar.
    â€œShould it? The guy’s in jail, right? Or is the Barbie doll killer gonna get me?” She smirked. “I don’t think I match the fashion show.”
    â€œRelax, will you?” Guthrie said. A pair of fifties appeared between his fingers. “Just tell us what you told them, then let us follow up, okay?”
    â€œNeat trick,” she said, and took the money. “Two house specials coming up.” She smirked at something behind them; then her hands grew busy with bottles and glasses.
    In the mirror behind the bar, Guthrie and Vasquez saw a trio of dancers—one girl with two boys. They all wore dark glasses. The girl had her blond hair waved and cut at her shoulders and wore a button-down shirt and plaid schoolgirl mini. She had a teddy bear in one hand, spanking one of the boys with it as if she had a riding crop while she rode his outstretched leg. He was synching inaudible lyrics that might or might not have matched the beat dropping from the speakers, while the other boy held a handful of the blonde’s hair like a leash, tugging gently in time with the music and grinding his hip against her ass. All three seemed oblivious to the watchers. Both boys held clear bottles of water.
    â€œUnbelievable,” Vasquez said.
    â€œWelcome to the market, girl,” Sand said. “Go on out and roll with them—they’ll give you some water. Or you like watching? Take a booth.” She pointed with her chin at a few people sitting in the shadowy depths.
    â€œWe’re not here for the floor show,” Guthrie said.
    Sand Whitten flashed a razor-sharp smile as she slid them two Shirley Temples. The smile made her look like a movie star. She told a simple story while they drank. Working at the Long Morning After, she was familiar with Bowman by face, not name. She discovered the name when the NYPD came with questions, and she put the glitter girl together with the picture and name in the newspaper. Bowman came in that night, butterflied from place to place, then left early. A dark-haired man trailed her around the club, trying to hook up, then was gone when she was. That evening, the city had a shower and cooled down. The weather kept her from mixing up that night with another.
    â€œYou remembered all that?” Vasquez asked. “After days?”
    â€œOnly because I wanted to kick her ass,” Sand replied. “The man was cut from just the right cloth—short black hair, a glimmer of green behind long dark lashes, thick shoulders over a lean waist—you get the picture. I saw him first, and built up a picture. Then I saw what he was doing—chasing the little blond glitter girl, just like the rest.”
    â€œDid he get anywhere with her?” Guthrie asked.
    The bartender shook her head. “Not dancing,” she said. “He cornered her a few times for some mouth-to-ear, and she talked back, but she kept dusting him.”
    â€œYou seen him again?”
    â€œNo! That’s why he stood out. God don’t make many copies of that model, then give them attitude to go with it. He had glitter-boy looks and boxer strut.”
    â€œWhat about her? She was in here a lot?”
    â€œYeah. She used to glitter all night, every night. The man wouldn’t have gotten near enough to her to talk, back then. She was circled by a big crowd. Then she slowed down, and they fell away.”
    â€œYou know the regulars with her?”
    Sand Whitten smiled. “Glitter boys and glitter girls, they’re bright. You always see them.” Her eyes cut to