"Fucking ginger," Bullock muttered, stomping toward the club. "Should've handed his ass over to Flass. Goddamn…" He grumbled as he shoved through the door.
He blew past coat check, drawing a look from the bouncer, who stood from his stool with a grunt. Bullock was already flashing his badge.
"Move," he barked.
The bouncer hesitated—then stepped aside.
Bullock shoved through the beaded curtain, which clattered and swung wildly behind him. His eyes swept the floor, then the bar.
The brunette from the night before was back on shift. Gone was the cocktail dress—tonight it was black jeans and a halter top that left her shoulders bare. A copper bangle clung to one toned arm, catching the light when she moved.
She met his gaze and gave a faint, knowing smirk.
"Back again," she said as he took a seat. "Where's your cute partner?"
Bullock's voice was flat. "Didn't want to come in. Something about Jesus and his wife."
She chuckled. "Wanna drink?"
He shook his head. "I'm looking for your boss."
She leaned her elbows on the bar, cocking a brow. "You're looking at her."
Bullock studied her for a moment. "Fine. Then I've got questions. And you're gonna answer."
"Oh yeah?" she said, unimpressed. "Like what?"
"Who runs South B.?"
She smiled slowly, like he'd just told her a joke. "Don't you know?"
Bullock leaned in, voice hardening. "No games. Just give me the name."
Her smile widened. "You're not that guy."
"Oh yeah? I'm a cop, aren't I?"
"Last night? When I tugged your tie?" Her voice dropped. "You grabbed my hands—soft. Like you were worried I'd break. Not exactly how a big tough guy would react."
His jaw clenched. "Yeah, well—I know guys."
She shook her head, smile still fixed. "Like I said. You're not that guy."
Just then, Trixie slipped behind the bar with an empty tray—fishnet top stretched over bare breasts, makeup heavy and dark, hair hacked into a blunt black bob. As the girls loaded drinks onto the tray, Bullock's gaze drifted to the stage. A dancer—tan, athletic—spun in the lights while bills rained around her.
At a shadowed table against the wall, Gordon sat half-hidden. Bullock gave a slight nod toward the goth waitress. Gordon caught it but didn't react or even blink.
"Fuckhead," Bullock muttered under his breath.
"I feed you something, you feed me something," said the bartender.
He turned back to her. "What've you got?"
"You walked in fishing. I want a little bait."
He sighed and tapped the bar with his knuckles, weighing her offer.
"Tito's?" she said, holding up the bottle.
He sighed. "Sure."
She poured two shots of bottom-shelf whiskey. They clinked shot glasses and drank.
"Little Saigon." Said Bullock, "Cops there are charging businesses double."
Her brow furrowed. "Double? Why?"
"Hell if I know. Probably half for Maroni, half for the badge. Who they gonna complain to?"
She poured another round, and they touched glasses. Her head tipped back as she downed the shot. There was something undeniably sexy about a woman who could drink like that. Bullock liked it.
He caught himself staring—at the way her breasts pressed together, how the delicate gold necklace nestled between them. He forced his eyes away, turning back to the stage.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gordon lean in and whisper something to the goth girl.
"Melrose," the bartender said finally. "Everyone calls me Mel."
She held up the bottle. He nodded. Another round poured.
"Bet that's not your real name," he said.
"Fuck no. You gotta earn that." She smiled teasingly.
Mel raised her glass again. They drank. Then she leaned in, close enough for Bullock to smell her perfume—citrus and sweat.
"No one runs South B."
Bullock frowned. "So it's up for grabs?"
Mel's voice dipped. "Not exactly. Carter pulled his boys out when South B. became his regular spot. Word got around. Looks like none of the Uptown gangs want his attention either."
"Whose attention?"
Her eyes didn't blink. "Someone who doesn't collect dues. Doesn't do favors. Someone even the cops fear."
Bullock didn't ask for a name. He didn't have to. The pit in his gut was already answering for him. He knew who she meant. And he didn't like it.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Trixie leading Gordon toward the back.
Then—beep.
His pager vibrated against his hip.
Bullock looked down.
The precinct was paging.