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I was never one to hit the club scene. Bright lights, ridiculously priced booze, blaring music and obnoxious teens mingling with childish adults just did not appeal to me. Give me a nice quiet pool hall any day of the week! Despite my contempt for such places, I found myself in front of a club, preparing to enter the belly of the ridiculously overrated beast.
According to Father O’Brawley, many parents were bringing in their religiously wayward teens to speak with the clergy about God. While this wasn’t uncommon, the sheer amount of parents doing so lately was getting ridiculous it seemed. The clergy was more than happy to help the naturally skeptical/rebellious teens find their way back to the pews, but lately they had their work cut out for them.
Among some of the teenaged girls, skepticism had turned into animosity.
After some particularly powerful fire and brimstone speeches or some clever coaxing, a few priests had finally discovered a common factor in these particularly blasphemous teenaged girls: The Daughters of All. Apparently many popular girls at schools or youth group leaders were joining this strange (Father O’Brawley’s words were “heretic”) clique and the name of this club had surfaced a few times.
So this was the first official stop in my investigation. Realizing that I might not be the most welcome guest in a place where the younger folks went to party, I swung by my apartment and changed into my roguish twenty-something persona. A quick shave, some colored hair gel, a change of clothes and a few fake earrings completed my new appearance. Though I might look suspicious to the trained eye, all the casual observer saw was some trust-fund slacker who was still putting off responsibility.
The dive was called the Hell Scratch. Its current name appealed to the more hardcore and rebellious crowds…apparently. Or at least that was the crowd it pandered to. Over the years this particular dive had seen various owners and different face lifts. Even good ol’ Zotkin had owned it for a while until some anonymous pain-in-the ass had convinced the fire marshal his club was a death trap.
Good times.
As I waited in line to get into the club, I did a special little routine I liked to call “absorbing.” Though I liked to think of myself unique in using such a technique, any successful conman uses the same basic principal: Throw your senses into overdrive and take in as much of the surroundings as possible. Slowly I become one with the crowd, intergrading myself as well as any method actor might with a month of preparation. It started with my eyes taking in the sights like the actions and the mannerisms of those around me while I made mental notes. Like the punks with cut off shirts who wore wristbands or bracelets to cover up track-marks.
This was obviously a junkie crowd.
My ears picked up a few bits of various conversations and my mind filtered out the trash and kept the useful information. Mentally I logged the names of a couple bands, a few hot buttons topics such as some bible thumper wanting to close the club down, and other punk trivia. This material would be useful if I got trapped in conversation.
The only thing my nose was picking up was the smell of cigarettes, sweat and fouler scents that told me some of these punks had already been partying most of the night. A speed junkie walked past me and smelled like he had been carousing for a week straight, which was a good possibility.
Finally I let my sense of feel take in the atmosphere. The very air seemed charged with a nervous and excitable energy. A little ways down stood a group of girls, one of them with ink so fresh the tattoo was nearly bleeding. It seemed a lot of fresh meat was here tonight for their first clubbing experience though there were plenty of veterans around as well. I could feel their eyes on me as they sized me up, debating whether or not I was a narc or dealer.
After spending several minutes in line “absorbing” the crowd and the ambiance, I was pretty confident I could at least pass off as a new guy to this kinda scene. Even so, it didn’t come to any big surprise to me when the slightly unhinged (and probably closet sociopath) bouncer stopped me.
“It's regular’s night.” He growled, nodding towards the street which was a polite way of saying fuck off.
I held up my hands innocent-like, “Hey man! I come here all the time!”
The bouncer didn’t believe me of course, but he let me in anyway. Stuck between my index and middle finger was a small square of white powder which only he could see. With a nod, the bouncer shook my hand and took the bribe and I made a mental note to use another door when I exited the club. Once the bouncer discovered the powder was just regular flour instead of nose candy, he was going to be very pissed.
Hell Scratch’s interior was much as I expected it to be. A large dance floor in front of a raised DJ booth took up the majority of the club’s insides. On the far wall was a bar area where drinks were being passed out as quickly as orders could be made. I skimmed the bar crowd and noticed several girls who, despite dressed in less than modest attire, looked no older than sixteen. I even spotted one girl who couldn’t have been out of Junior High yet.
These girls had to be the new bloods for the Daughters of All.
Not wanting to make my intentions too obvious, I wandered about the club trying to appear as non-conspicuous as possible. I began to break down the crowd, hunting for a target that I might be able to squeeze for some information. Hopefully I could find a talkative cult recruit and get out of here before the God awful Goth-rock made my ears bleed.
First I filtered out the experienced hard core fans and/or junkies. They looked as relaxed in this club as a hippie was on your couch. They had their own routines, their own agendas and their own interests that just so happen to manifest at this location. They weren’t the fad-goers who attempted to enjoy the punk and Goth scene but rather the backbone of this clique, lifestyle and all.
Next up were the newbies and they vastly outnumbered the hardcore punks. Sure they dressed the part and danced just as enthusiastically (or more so) than the experienced fans, but they didn’t have agendas or routines. They were just here to let whatever was going to happen, happen. Sure in time these newbies might join the ranks of the hardcore elite, but more likely the majority of them would move on to the next craze that sweeps through their age group.
The last group technically wasn’t even large enough to be a group but I picked out a handful or so of these individuals anyway. These folks seemed aimless, trying to enjoy themselves but having a difficult time of it. Almost as if they were waiting for the true event to kick off. I noted that the young girls who fit Father O’Brawley’s description as potential cult recruits fell into this category.
As I wandered the club, a sensation of unease began to fill me. It the kind of sensation that made you look over your shoulder instinctively, even if you weren’t sure why. It was as if someone here knew that I was a fraud. I could feel scrutiny on the back of my neck but I didn’t know where it came from.
Shaking off the unsettling feeling, I made my way across the dance floor to the bar, figuring that was where the more talkative partiers would go. I weaved through the dancers while avoiding the kicking, scratching and thrown elbows that apparently passed for dance-steps nowadays. I was almost clear of the dance floor when a strong grip took hold of my wrist. Pain shot through me, but not the crushing pain of a vice-gripping bouncer. It was the piercing pain of long, fake fingernails digging into my flesh.
Turning around, I was nearly tackled by some girl who was dressed like a china doll owned by Satan. With black hair, black eyeliner, a crimson pout and paraffin skin, she certainly was attractive if a bit too slender for my personal taste. My new dance partner moved up against me and began to sway to the music, her nails digging deeper into my wrists. Those crimson lips became a devious grin as her eyes locked onto mine.
I was unable to repress a shiver.
Her eyes were dilated to the point of being pools of black, hungrily swallowing all the world had to show her.
I have no idea what drugs were circulating in this joint but if my dance partner’s eyes we
re any indication, they were potent. There was no doubt a horrible crash was waiting just around the bend for her. Whether that crash came in the form of a lost high or overdose was uncertain, but either way I didn’t want to be here long enough to find out.
I tried to part from her but she held on tight, causing sharp pain to shoot up my arms. With a giggle, she forced my hands to her hips and continued to move wildly to and fro. My fingers brushed along her belt, having a difficult time finding purchase among the blue orbs that studded the leather garment. When touching the blue orbs, my fingertips became oddly numb but that could’ve just been a side-effect of her death-grip on me.
We danced (apparently, I felt like a puppet on strings) for a few moments before I managed to detangle myself. She gave me another, almost too inviting smile then spun around and pounced on the next lone dancer. Shaking my head, I decided it would be best for me to avoid the dance floor on my way out, just incase any more drug-addled ladies were in the mood to boogie.
Most people were grabbing drinks and heading upstairs to the lounge area which freed up several bar stools. I sat down and waved at the bartender who seemed oddly familiar. He was probably the same barkeep from previous incarnations of the club. After ordering a beer, I realized it was a shame that the music’s tremendous volume prevented me from striking up a conversation. Bartenders were walking libraries of rumors, gossip and secrets. If you wanted dirt, trust a bartender to have overheard something. Thankfully there were plenty of young girls around, so my options for rumor and gossip weren’t limited to the barkeep.
Sipping my beer, I waited for a talkative target to present herself. According to Father O’Brawley, all “young lasses” were potential targets of the Daughters of All. Considering the old priest was nearly a century old himself, that meant every woman in this damn place could be a potential recruit or member of the cult.
Many of the girls I had spotted earlier were underage which worked to my advantage. It didn’t matter whether they snuck into the club or had been invited; they would still be uncomfortable confronting the bartender directly. So I just needed to exercise some patience. Sure enough, before I was even halfway through my beer a gal took a seat next to me. Seventeen at the oldest, she was trying to act so casual the performance was almost painful.
“Buy a lady a drink?” The young lady asked, the flirtatious smile on her lips conflicting with those anxiety-filled eyes.
She was dressed like the other girls at this scene; tight jeans slashed along the thighs promiscuously, a skin tight shirt that showed off her modest bust and enough makeup and eyeliner to paint a bedroom with. Despite her attempt to blend in with this crowd, I saw her for what she was: a fad-going fraud.
I smiled, “What’s your poison?”
She froze for a moment, her smile slipping. I bit back a chuckle. Apparently she had expected me to just order some rounds and hadn’t anticipated I’d actually ask her preference. The nervous energy she was giving off was nearly palpable. Even for a misdirected youth (hell she was still a saint compared to what I was doing at her age) it was a little sad how out of place this young gal was.
“Oh, whatever you’re drinking is fine,” The girl replied, recovering with a surprising amount of tact, “I’m not that picky.”
I turned my head and caught the attention of the bartender, partly to hide my amused smile. Ordering two more beers, I slid a drink towards her and bit back laughter as she valiantly struggled with the bottle cap for a moment.
“Cheers!” I said bringing the beer to my lips as my mind scrolled over the bits and pieces of conversation I had picked up. I found a suitable subject and then added, “Wish they’d play more De-Ad Stroke here.”
The youth, who had yet to sip her drink, brightened up and relaxed a bit. Apparently the mention of the band put her in familiar conversational territory, something that would help mask her awkwardness.
“Oh yeah, I’d love that!” She exclaimed, then realized she must have sounded too cheery for a Goth-rock fan and recovered with an over-show of disinterest, “But I’m not really here for the music.”
Bingo.
Thanks to my experience on a witness stand, I was well aware that body language was the most difficult language to disguise. Everyone picked up on it even if they weren’t overly aware of the vibes and signals being sent to them. I leaned forward slightly while giving her an attentive glance, a nonchalant way of letting her know she was my focus.
She tensed nervously and her hand gripped the beer tightly. Her painted lips twitched ever so slightly, fighting back a flattered smile as it dawned on her that she had snagged my attention. With a face of practiced calm she continued onward, feeding off of the attention she was receiving.
“Yeah, this club is just a meeting place for some of us.” She informed me, finally taking a sip of her beer, “It’s a nice, out of the way place. I mean, we don’t want to let just anyone know what’s going on.”
Time to coax some real information out of her.
I commented offhandedly, “Oh, so you’re one of the Daughters then?”
A quick intake of breath told me just how surprised she was that I knew about the cult. Her hand tightened around the beer bottle while mentally debating whether or not she should continue this conversation. If my poker buddies were as easy to read as this chick, I would be a rich by now.
“My girl joined a few weeks back but doesn’t really keep me in the loop.” I continued, nodding towards the crowd so one of dancers could fill the role of my fictitious girlfriend, “She just drags me around to dance until you guys do whatever it is you do.”
The young lady raised her head a little higher and squared her shoulders. Figuring I had bought into her hardcore persona, she began to feel more confident. Poor thing didn’t even know she was being played. I almost expected to feel that annoying twinge of guilt…Nope. Nothing similar to that sensation wormed into me which was oddly reassuring.
“Well we do value secrecy.” She commented, waving her hand as if she was the one who dictated the need for privacy, “But since you bought me a drink, I guess I could let you in.”
“I’d appreciated it.” I said, turning on the charm, “It’s always nice to be included.”
Since she was probably still in high school, the youth took that statement to heart quicker and more fiercely than most. With a flick of her hair, she did her best to radiate the impression of calm and authoritative. Whether the young gal was just happy having someone to talk to or genuinely interested in the Daughters of All, I couldn’t tell.
“Well, the owner of this place happens to be good friends with the Daughters of All, er, I mean…us.” She told me, “This is only my second time here but tonight we are going to have a special meeting when the party dies down. I’m becoming an official member!”
“Congrats!” I replied, raising my drink in salute, “So you worried about the initiation?”
It was a gamble of course. I had no idea if there was any initiation to this crazy group of cultists but in my experience all uniformed crazies had some sort of entrance exam or right of passage. Call it a hunch, but I figured if there was a cult collecting teenage girls they’d have some sort of hazing or initiation ritual planned.
As the young lady sitting next to me became the perfect picture of anxiety, I knew my hunch was correct.
“Everyone tells me not to worry and that the initiation isn’t that bad. I mean, we’re the Daughters of All, right? We can do anything!” Her words sounded more like self-assurance than a casual boast, “My friend Ellen told me it wasn’t that bad…Actually she was going to be here with me but she was in a really bad accident…”
As she spoke, a familiar tingling sensation crept up my spine until my scalp itched. It was a sensation I have paid extra attention to over the years. Usually the sensation occurs when something wasn’t quite right…a subconscious warning that I should start focusing more of what’s behind my back then what’s in front of my face. These inklings have kept me ou
t of jail several times, hinting at a sting operation or an undercover cop. More importantly was the number of times these chills have kept me out of the morgue by ruining the element of surprise some double-crossing partner or hired thug had depended on.
Trouble was brewing. I had hoped to get enough information out of this girl to put my client’s fears to rest about this cult, convincing Fiona that the Daughters of All were just some nut jobs trying to pass as a fashionable clique. That was no longer an option as my instinctual paranoia told me it was time to get the hell out of here.
For fear of looking suspicious, I didn’t bolt and run for the nearest exit. Instead I began to focus on my surroundings while trying to appear completely at ease. A sliver of my attention remained on the future cultist in front of me while I strained my other senses for any dangers that might try to sneak up on me. .
“Accident?” I asked thought not as heartfelt as I liked.
The sensation of being observed had returned, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
“It’s so sad. About a week ago she was in a real bad car crash so she couldn’t be here tonight.” The youth replied, then added sheepishly, “I know it sounds selfish but I wish she was here to help me out…”
She suddenly sat straight up and a hopeful euphoria filled her as she reached out and grabbed my hand.
“Do you think you could go grab your girlfriend for me? I just want to ask her a few questions. Please!” The youth asked, her eyes wide with hope, “I know it’s uncool and we’re supposed to keep it totally secret but I am so nervous!”
Seems to me that this cult was quite impressive to inspire such loyalty in girls at an age whose sole concerns should be prom and concerts. Though I’m sure this isn’t the first time someone has brainwashed youths with pseudo-religious fervor, I was getting more uneasy about the Daughters of All with each passing second.
The young lady withdrew her hand from mine and made a face as she wiped it on her tattered jeans.
“You’re bleeding.” She pointed out.
Glancing down I noticed that it was true. My skin had broken where that dancer had grabbed hold of me a few minutes before. Crazy gal must have had some druggie strength goin’ on or something because each one of her fingernails had pierced me rather deep and both of my wrists had five tiny incisions courtesy of fake nails.
If the sight of my own blood wasn’t an omen to get lost, I wasn’t sure what was.
“No worries.” I lied, setting my beer down, “I’ll go grab my girl.”
With that, I stood up and did what came naturally: run.
Heading over to the dance floor, I began to skirt the crowd instead of merging with it. To the young lady and anyone else who might be watching me, it would seem I was just nonchalantly mingling. In truth I was slowly making my way to the rear exit of the club so I could slip out unnoticed.
Coincidentally I had used the same exit when Zotkin had owned the place, though I had started a small fire in the men’s room first.
Taking my leave of Hell Scratch, I stepped out into the cool night accompanied by the sad realization I hadn’t got a shred of information for my troubles. After my chat with Father O’Brawley, I was convinced I could get enough information at the club to create some lie to feed Fiona so the poor girl could get on with her life. Instead I had just wasted an entire night I could have spent boozing or gambling!
Fantastic.
While I hadn’t learned anything about the Daughters of All, I had at least learned something tonight: it was time to cut my losses. A possibly crazy client wanting to find her dead sister and a murky cult that was targeting teenaged girls? Count me out!
The night was cold and damp as it usually was in this part of town, making my already bitter mood increasingly sour. Thanks to Hell Scratch being located near the docks, this entire area was falling into disrepair and always had a slight stench of wet garbage to it. One and two story brick buildings littered the tightly packed streets, providing a roadmap of crisscrossing alleyways for crime, the homeless, and filth to travel.
Growing up a borderline street urchin, I had developed a great sense of direction when it came to traveling through the back alleys. For a moment I was almost tempted to head into the alleyways knowing that if anyone was following me, I could lose them easily enough. Shaking my head at the notion, I figured I was just being paranoid. After all, paranoia was a side-effect of the swindler’s lifestyle. Instead I headed down the brightly lit street, hoping to hail a cab before my feet got tired.
I had barely walked a block when pain exploded between my shoulder blades.
Hitting the ground hard, I was too stunned to even raise my hands in order to break my fall. The taste of asphalt and blood filled my mouth as my defenseless face met the filthy ground. Whoever had hit me was clumsy, any pro would have rendered me unconscious with such a vicious blindside. But what they lacked in experience they made up with power and I was rendered disoriented thanks to the fierce strike.
My pain-laced confusion only increased as a strong hand grabbed my ankle and I felt myself being dragged towards the gaping maw of an alley.
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