Vermilion by Nathan Aldyne Read Free Book Online Page A

stucco and iron grillwork; the building houses a restaurant called by its address, where no one has ever eaten, and Herbie’s Ramrod Room, a gay denim-and-leather bar, that is as venerable and as pleasant as Bonaparte’s but not nearly so respectable.
    As Searcy passed on the narrow sidewalk, two tall rangy bearded men wearing enough black leather to shoe the entire Boston police force stepped out of Herbie’s vestibule, blocking Searcy’s path. They were laughing, but broke off when they saw him; both looked him steadily up and down.
    â€œGet rid of the suit,” said the taller sternly to Searcy. “It doesn’t do a thing for you.”
    â€œI got a pair of jeans and a jock in my trunk that ought to fit you fine,” said the shorter. “Come try ’em on.”
    They maintained their cocky but not unfriendly stare.
    Searcy said nothing. He was reaching inside his jacket to pull out his police identification, but the two men inched apart just enough to let him pass through if he wished.
    When he turned onto Boylston Street, Searcy heard their laughter again behind him. He hurried angrily into Nexus.
    Just inside the entrance to the bar, Searcy hand-combed his curly hair and straightened his jacket. He pulled off his tie and slipped it folded into his back pocket.
    The music from the dance floor at the bottom of the ramp was unidentifiable, but the beat was unmistakably disco. About seventy-five dancers were on the floor, twice as many men as women. The tables along the walls were occupied by excited old men trying to talk above the music, and bored young men who pretended that they couldn’t hear a word.
    Searcy edged along the dance floor and took a stool at the end of the bar, deliberately removed from the middle-aged bartender in yellow suspenders who was busy at the other end with dancers between their feverish bouts with the music. From this quietest corner of Nexus, Searcy began a methodical examination of everyone in the cavernous room. His first subject was not what he had expected to find in the town’s principal bar for hustlers. A young woman, only a few seats down from him, was unaccountably dressed as Daisy Mae Yokum; her abbreviated costume was hardly enough to protect her from the gusts of frigid air that bellowed down the great ramp each time the outside door was opened. Daisy Mae had finger scratches down her left thigh and a set of TWA stewardess wings pinned over a nipple. She leaned back against the bar, bare legs crossed high, stirring a drink with a long-nailed finger, and staring about her with singular contentment.
    â€œCan I help you?”
    Searcy looked up at the bartender and shook his head, but said nothing.
    â€œDo you want a drink or not? I’m probably not going to be back up in this neck of the woods for a good ten minutes.”
    Searcy stared at him for a moment. “I’ll be off duty by then.” He reached inside his coat pocket, but the bartender placed a hand lightly on Searcy’s arm.
    â€œDon’t show me. You reach like a cop—I believe you. You pull that thing out, and there’s a stampede up that ramp in about ten seconds. And I want my tips tonight. We’ve got a good crowd for Tuesday.”
    Searcy nodded, and introduced himself.
    â€œMy name’s Mack,” said the bartender. “The clock behind the bar is wrong. You’re off duty now. What’ll you have?”
    â€œBourbon and water.”
    Mack turned to the bar and mixed the drink. Moving back, he motioned to a waiter standing nearby. The young man crossed behind the bar, and began waiting on the dancers. Mack slid the glass across to Searcy and then came around himself. He placed himself as a shield between Searcy and the rest of the room.
    â€œYou’re here about Billy Golacinsky, right?” Mack said.
    Searcy pulled another morgue photo from his pocket and handed it to the bartender. “The one and only.” Mack