Nine fires up his laptop.It’s top of the line and covered in stickers of rock bands and pot leafs. His desktop image is a pair of naked breasts.
“Classy,” I sing.
“Who doesn’t like tits?” Nine asks, keying in his passcode. “Everyone likes tits. Even women.”
“Is this some sort of lead into a conversation about how all women are hiding an inner lesbian?”
“That would be cool, but no. You know all those popular women’s magazines? You won’t find too many pictures of men. Why? Because women like to look at women. Women are beautiful. Their bodies are beautiful. Even most porn catering to women don’t have gigantic dongs swinging about. They’re useful, but they ain’t shit to look at. Unless, it’s mine, of course.
“Uh, huh.”
He cracks his knuckles. “All right, Frankie girl. What’s the name?”
I tell him the name from the ultrasound I found in Smoke’s cut. Nine begins his search.
A few minutes later, we both realize that Morgan Faith Clark is an enigma. She disappeared off the face of the planet last year. Nine can’t find anything else about her. “That’s odd. No missing person’s report. No nothing. As of last year, she just…vanished.”
“What about her address? Do we know where she lived?” I ask,