Page 27 of Rage

He is in constant motion and side-eyes me as he glides over to one of his customers. I wait while he pours Patrón into frozen glasses. He moves with the grace of a dancer as he tops off another glass and then sidles back to Skid and me. “Is it okay if we talk while I work?”

“If I can keep up,” I say.

That earns me a grin. Swiping two frozen mugs from a shelf beneath the bar, he thrusts them beneath the keg, and carries both to a man at the other end of the bar.

He comes back to the cash register, so I pull the photo of the mystery woman from my pocket and show it to him. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

His eyes flick to the photo as he punches keys on the cash register. I watch for some sign of recognition, but he gives me nothing. “Never seen her before.” He eyes his customers at the bar as he speaks.

“Are you sure?” I offer the photo again. “I was told she works here.”

“I’m only here three nights a week.” He shrugs. “Maybe check with the other bartender?”

I have the photo of Samuel Yutzy at the ready. “What about him?”

The bartender’s eyes widen at the sight and for the first time he gives me his undivided attention. “He’s the dude got beheaded over in Painters Mill?”

I nod. “How did you hear about that?”

“Are you kidding? Everyone and their grandma’s talking about it. Been all over the news this evening.”

“Did he ever come in here?” Skid speaks up for the first time.

“Not that I recall.” His eyes narrow as he studies the photo. “I don’t know. He’s familiar, but I can’t tell you if I ever seen him here.” He looks at Skid and laughs. “Seen you a time or two, though.”

Skid stares back at him, deadpan.

Unaffected, the bartender swivels his head, spots two patrons waiting for drinks at the end of the bar. “Look, I gotta get back to work.”

“Is the manager here?” I ask.

“He’s around here somewhere.” He turns his back, waving us off. “Make yourselves at home.”

I look at Skid. “So much for fruitful.”

“Mr. Information in the flesh.”

“Might be smarter to cut to the chase if we can.” Tugging out my cell, I dial Dispatch. “See if you can dig up the name of the person who owns The Cheetah Lounge Gentleman’s Club in New Philly.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“While you’re at it, cruise out to their social media accounts and dig around. See if anything interesting pops.”

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

“A mention or photo of the mystery woman for starters. Any mention or photo of Samuel Yutzy or Aaron Shetler. Contact info for management.”

“You got it.”

I drop my phone back in my pocket. Skid is standing at the bar, using the mirror to watch the dancer onstage. “Any idea where the office is?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “You want me to take a look around?”

“Let’s split up and circle around,” I tell him. “Meet you back here in ten minutes.”

He gives me a salute and starts toward the front of the room. I go in the opposite direction, toward the rear. I’m keenly aware of my surroundings, the people I pass, and the vague air of standoffishness that comes back at me.

Over the years I’ve learned there are two types of bars. First is the kind in which the patrons—their tongues loosened by alcohol—flock over to talk to you, mainly because they’re bored or nosy and want to be part of the excitement. The second kind of bar is the one where no patron will be caught dead talking to a cop. The patrons who do only do so to mislead. The few who are left hit the exits as if the place is on fire. The Cheetah Lounge falls into the latter category.