Chapter 6:

Skeeters

NekoPunk


Before leaving the apartments in District 8, John swung by the front office. He asked if anyone had requested a key to Amber’s apartment or reported a jammed lock. When there were no records of any requests, he could only assume that the undamaged lock had been picked by the assailant. It unfortunately closed off another possible path, but he was glad the apartment wasn’t doling out keys to anyone.

After flying Amber back to her friend's place, John and Elle headed for District 9, where Skeeters was located. They fluttered down outside a mass of buildings filled with higher end restaurants, night clubs, and bars. Of any of the 14 Districts in the Undercity, District 9 was the ritziest and proved that even the rich and highest of class could find comfort in Yorktown’s bowels. Elle would stand out most of all. District 9 was very human.

Skeeters occupied that coveted corner spot towards the edge of the district, where high walls separated District 9 and 10. A line of cars already formed on the road outside, waiting to access the mass parking garage atop the building. Even if it wasn’t for Skeeters, District 9 was not short of things to do. The line of skyscraper-like buildings hosted a slew of clubs and restaurants. John flew his CX-7 into line, right behind a CT-16, the latest model in the luxury CT line.

“They must have paid Amber well,” John said, glancing up at the large air filters fixated on the buildings. District 9 was one of three districts that filtered the air. It was almost sickeningly pure.

“I feel bad for her,” Elle said, “It was a job, and she’s getting punished for it.” Her face turned slightly red. “Though, I don’t think I could be that bold.”

“Not always about what you want or don’t want,” John replied, “Sometimes, it’s about surviving. Doing what you think is best at the time.” John would never fault a gal for doing what she needed to. Everyone did it.

“What type of place is Skeeters?” Elle asked, “Sounds like a strip joint…”

“It’s not… well… not usually. Skeeters is… how do I put this… a music club. A music club with some very particular tastes it seems. It’s a place for guys to go, drink, and listen to live entertainment. I’ve been once or twice.”

Elle’s bottom lip puffed up. Her words were quite accusatory. “Oh have you?”

“It wasn’t a peep show or anything like that.” John chuckled at the thought of it. “I went on a night dedicated to some old music. You know, stuff from the 1950s.”

“That old?” Elle replied, “That’s beyond classic.”

“It was fun,” John said, “If you’re wondering, the waitresses were lookers even with all their clothes on.” Elle smacked his arm as John laughed and pulled up towards the garage entrance.

Our front, John handed his credit card to a man in a red uniform who was collecting money. “Sir, that’ll be 50 dollars.”

He nearly threw up lunch and last night’s dinner. “To park?”

“That is correct, sir.” John watched in horror as his card was scanned and returned to him. There went 50 bucks on a case he wasn’t even making money on…

John slid his car into one of the parking pods. Even in these garages, there was a charging station, but luckily, it didn’t cost anything like the ones out on the street. He was thankful for that, given the price it was to even get in.

For Elle, even in the Uppercity, this was a level of ritzy she had never seen. As they made their way to the entrance on the second floor of the garage, John noticed the stares. Several well-dressed patrons, mostly men in fine suits and with clear money behind them, whispered amongst themselves. John knew what they were saying: “who let the Neko park?”

John grabbed onto Elle’s arm. “Be careful. Technically, you shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s human only, isn’t it?” she said, glancing back at the two men that John was fleeing from.

“It is, but you’re with me. They might look past that, given we’re on business.” They approached the front door; a large sign read in bold letters, Humans Only. No Nekos. John pushed through the revolving door and into the lavish entrance.

Faux wood pillars, embedded with gold plating, lined the walls. The floor tiling looked marble, but John figured it was a cheap knockoff. Yes, Skeeters looked like money, but it was still the cheapest club in the area, meaning it was the only one that would attempt a show like Amber was in. The staff wore a uniform of red and black, high collars and wrist cuffs. With his gray button down and black pants, John realized he was dressed down. Elle could probably pass if this place allowed Nekos.

Speaking of that… it didn’t take more than a minute for one of the uniformed workers to stop them. “Hey, you there!”

John turned, stepping between Elle and man. He pointed at himself as if to ask, “you mean me”. The worker called out with the same harsh tone again. “Yes you. Her kind isn’t welcome here.”

“She’s with me,” John said, “It’s all good.”

“No, it’s not all good,” the worker’s voice rose with each passing word, “Are you blind or something? The sign out front is pretty clear.”

John passed over a piece of identification from his pockets. It was his “badge” of sorts, a piece he commissioned as a private investigator. The badge meant absolutely nothing; he had no real authority like a real cop. It was usually enough to spook anyone giving him trouble or get someone to divulge a bit more than usual. The worker swiped the badge and gave it a thorough read.

“Names John Darcy, PI. This is my assistant Elle,” he explained, “We’re working a case, and I need to talk to the owner.”

The worker handed the badge back to him. “Owner will be on the club floor. She still isn't welcome!”

John sighed. “All right. Going to be that way then.” He grabbed Elle and pulled her to the side, asking for “just a moment”. “Elle, you’re gonna have to wait this one out.”

“Can we not talk to the owner about this?” she asked, “Maybe he would be ok with it.”

“Possible, or not…” John muttered, glancing over Elle’s shoulder to see the worker eyeing them heavily. He called over a couple others, one being a large fellow in an all-black suit. Bouncer, probably. “I don’t want to jinx it. Can you go wait in the car?”

Elle frowned. “Don’t you need my help?”

“Right now, you helping is by going back to the car. I’ll be short. Promise.” Though she knew what John meant, Elle was nowhere near happy about it. She agreed anyway.

Turning to the workers, she very loudly said, “Ok, I’m heading back to the car. I’m really sorry if I caused any trouble.” With one final glance at John and a confirming nod from him, she left for the parking garage, only a bit defeated that she couldn’t be there.

John smiled at the four workers that had now gathered. “Apologies about that. She’s new and very eager to please.”

“See that it doesn’t happen again…”

John assured that it wouldn’t, quietly cursing the worker under his breath as he entered the club.

At the heart of Skeeters was a gorgeous, 360-degree stage, constructed of the same marble tile from the lobby. It served as the beating heart of the club, surrounded by tables and chairs, and flanked by four bars at the far corners of the club. A set of spiral stairs led to a second floor, a balcony that hovered over the stage like an ominous monster. The interior reeked of mahogany, the scent most likely pumped in since none of the wood was real. 90% of all wood was the synthetic kind.

Normally, Skeeters would host live performances, but given John’s middle of the week visit, there was simply a hologram machine, pumping a fuzzy image of Frank Sinatra as he sang classics from a time far before the last great war. If John knew right, it was a song called My Way, but he was no expert in the man. Somehow, hologram technology survived the war, and they frequently took up space in clubs or theaters, projected advertisements in the streets, or even served as virtual companions to lonely or disabled. The fuzzy image quality spoke to its age.

Not that it mattered. Skeeters was painfully dead. John questioned if they had opened, and if it wasn’t for a lone occupied table, he may have assumed otherwise. Empty was good. It would make it easier to find the owner, question him without the “business” getting in the way. John drifted over to one of the bars and plucked a few bills from his wallet.

The corner bars, well stocked with high end liquors, glowed from a series of blue neon lights affixed behind the glass cabinets. The bartender was a young man; John figured a college student looking to make a quick buck. He was well built, tightly packed into his suit that was in no way tailored for him. His confidence was almost as blinding as the lights.

“Greetings sir,” he said, “Quiet night, eh. You got the whole place to yourself. What can I get you?’

“Two things. First, gin and tonic please,” John said, sliding a wad of cash, more than enough to cover both the drink and a little extra, to the young man. “Second, I’m looking for the owner.”

His eyes lit up as he scooped the bills into his pocket. “Gin and tonic coming right up.” He grabbed a high shelf bottle of gin, followed by the tonic water, pouring the contents of the two into a shaker. Ice clacked against the sides as he shook everything together.

The young man pointed to the balcony. “You're looking for Derek Greyhound. He’s the owner. Though I’ll be honest, sir, he’s got some pretty big company up there right now. Not sure if he’s looking for a chat.”

John watched as his drink was poured into a craft glass and adorned with two lime wedges. “I shouldn’t take too much of his time. Appreciate it!” He took his glass, raising it as thanks to the bartender, and headed up the stairs to the balcony.

The balcony was masked in darkness, fueling a buzz of intimidation. The lack of tables made it feel big despite the limited space. John was glad no one tried to stop him considering the “big company” the bartender mentioned. Seeing the single manned table but surrounded by a whole entourage of menacing looking thugs, John understood why.

Of the two men at the table, John recognized one. He had never met this Derek Greyhound personally, but John was very aware of the other man: Nile The Nose. He swore under his breath. It wasn’t that Nile and him were on bad terms or anything. When one of the most powerful and dangerous net-smugglers in Yorktown occupied your space, one might start to get a bit tense.

Last time he encountered Nile, it had been in relation to an employer looking for a simple “background check” on an employee. John discovered the employee was in the loving care of Nile and his gang, having been caught up in some heavy Corbax-gem smuggling. There was no changing that, and John reported back to the company what he found. That didn’t even account for their earlier history.

With a deep breath and a swig of liquid courage, John stepped forward. “Good evening gentlemen.”

It silenced their conversation. The man that John assumed was Derek could easily have been in his mid-50s, bald headed and spotted with age. He pulled a cigar from his mouth and sized up the completely undressed fool that approached them. Nile was far more striking. His nickname, the Nose, came from the profound kink in the bridge of his nose. The stories about it were wild, ranging from getting hit in the face with a baseball to having it broken while being tortured. Nile never spoke on it, and in 43 years of net-smuggling, no one dared ask.

“And who are you?” Derek asked, giving a nod to some of the guards that surrounded the table. They moved, eager to turn John right around.

It was the well-dressed Nile who started laughing and called them off. After all, those were his men, and who was Derek to order them around? “John Darcy. I would have expected to meet the President himself tonight before seeing you walk in.”

“You know this man?”

Nile grinned; the silver fillings in his teeth reflected the limited lighting. “We go back. He’s a PI. Quiet type. Likes sticking his nose in places it doesn’t belong.”

“What does a PI want with us? I haven’t done anything illegal,” Derek sneered through gritted teeth.

“I’m not the police,” John assured, “Just doing some intel gathering. Mind if I sit?” He pointed at one of the empty seats.

Derek planned to tell him “no”, but Nile spoke up, “By all means. We’re gentlemen after all. Nothing quite like a drink amongst fine men.” John slid the chair out and took a seat. His gin and tonic looked small compared to the large beer in front of Nile and the tall glass of some fizzing, red liquid being nursed by Derek.

Nile smiled. “You know I’m not a fan of PI’s in my business, John.”

“More for the owner,” John explained, “Are you Derek Greyhound?”

“I am.”

“Wonderful.” John reached into his wallet and tossed down a polaroid photo. He was glad Elle snapped a picture of Amber before leaving the apartment. Derek examined the young Neko. “I was hoping you could help me with her.”

“I don’t know anything about some missing Neko whore.” Derek tossed the photo back to him.

Nile followed this with a series of violent coughs. He barely managed to choke out, “Now Derek, answer the nice man’s question.”

John clarified, “I’m not really asking about her. She isn’t missing but seems to be in some trouble. Her name is Amber Vallis. You hired her for a show. Ring a bell?”

“We hire multiple acts; I pay someone to plan that.”

“Maybe this will help then? It was about a week ago. Your fine establishment hosted a little adult show. She was one of the performers. Wore a schoolgirl outfit.”

“Now that’s something I’d have liked to see.” Nile produced a grin that would make a shark jealous. “Seems a bit sleazy for Skeeters, don’t you think Derek? Business that bad? Got to turn yourself into any dime a dozen strip joint?”

Derek took the photo back and gave it another once over. “We hired a lot of girls for that night. All of em’ were dressed up. Schoolgirl, angels, devils, you name it. Lots of cash flow too. I don’t recall her specifically.”

“What’s really going on here, John?” Nile asked, “You see this girl at a peep show, and you’re looking for her number.”

“I didn’t, but someone else did,” John explained, “Someone who’s been harassing this poor young woman. Broke into her apartment. Left a nasty message. Found something very interesting too. This stalker left another message: the schoolgirl outfit that she wore that night. Hanging up right there in the closet. She claims you rented them.”

“That’s not possible…”

“I saw it with my own eyes,” John said, “So that means this guy either found a copy, or he stole it.”

Derek paused for a moment, gripping down on the photo. He wanted to kick this bastard out, breaking up his night like this… disturbing his evening. The sooner he was gone, the better. “What is it you want?”

“To know if you or anyone saw something? Is there someone who handled the costumes or props? Security footage too.”

Nile rubbed his hands together. “There’s the Mr. Darcy I know. Well, Derek, color me intrigued. Enough of this drinking. I’d like to see some pretty Nekos for myself. There are some things that even age can’t change in a man.” Nile started laughing as he pressed the rim of his beer glass to his lips and tilted his head back. 

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