The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Bullock tossed back his second drink, his eyes fixed on the new girl on stage. She had hot pink hair and tassels over her nipples, her chest swaying in rhythm with the bassline thumping through the club.

Her slim legs coiled around the pole as she twisted and flipped in ways that held the room's attention. She narrowly avoided what looked like certain slips, only to catch herself with effortless grace. The place came alive with hoots and hollers. Bullock felt a sharp kick under the table. His focus snapped back to Johnson, who sat across from him, a deep frown set into his weary face.

"Did you hear me?" Johnson asked, his tone sharp.

"Yeah." Bullock's eyes narrowed at his partner. After a beat, he admitted, "Alright, I didn't hear a fuckin' thing. What did you say?"

"What exactly are we learning here?" Johnson asked, his irritation barely veiled.

"The girls put on a good show," Bullock quipped, earning an exasperated sigh. He leaned forward, "Alright. Don't get your diaper in a twist. Look around. Most of these guys are blue-collar. And there's a good mix of locals and outsiders."

"How can you tell?"

Bullock smirked, gesturing toward the crowd. "The North Jersey and New York accents are dead giveaways. Plus, look at the fuckin' calluses on their hands—they could scrape rust off steel."

Johnson leaned back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Not bad, Harv. So, which gang's running this place?"

"That's the thing. Can't tell yet." Bullock's eyes drifted to the bar. "Normally, they'd have a guy planted to keep things smooth—keep the guys in line and make sure the girls don't skim. But that pretty boy pouring drinks? He ain't a gangster. And the bouncer? Kid's too green. For a joint this busy, they wouldn't have a rookie watching the door."

"So?" Johnson pressed.

Bullock shrugged. "Would be easier if we flashed our badges, made some noise. Somebody'd come out to pay us off, and we'd figure out who's pulling the strings."

"We're suppose to tread lightly, Harv. Remember?" said Johnson.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm just saying," Bullock muttered, slightly annoyed.

Johnson crossed his arms, his tone softened slightly. "I'm not saying you don't have a point about cops not looking into a dead stripper. I'm saying we follow the leads we've got. All you've got so far is a hunch."

"It's more than a hunch," Bullock replied, his voice low. "Remember those Boyz who got popped in that gun bust?"

Johnson nodded slowly. "Yeah. Gordon was on it—I think he was checking a lead and stumbled onto a gun stash the Crime Alley Boyz bought from a mainland gang."

"Yeah, then those Boyz started snitching on each other and Dent practically blew his load over it," Bullock added with a sneer. "Anyways, Carter cleared his crew out of South B. after that, but my contact in Blackgate says Carter paid to have those snitches protected by the Buxton Brothers in prison."

"You know correctional officers in Blackgate?" Johnson asked.

"I know a lot of people, in a lot of places," Bullock said with a smirk.

Johnson nodded. "Why would Carter protect rats?"

Bullock leaned closer. "That's what people have been wondering. An old-school guy like Isaiah Carter who took the whole 'See nothing, say nothing' as gospel. Then all of a sudden becoming one? Something happened. There's a reason he moved his Boyz out, and there's a reason he flipped."

Johnson's brow furrowed. "And what does that have to do with our missing girl?"

"The Uptown gangs know something's fishy here. That's why no one has moved in. But if a new gang had moved in, we'd have heard something by now," Bullock said.

Their conversation stalled as the waitress returned with another round. Bullock grabbed his beer, taking a long gulp. Johnson sipped his soda, his steady gaze fixed on his partner.

"It's odd, I'll give you that, Harv," Johnson said eventually.

"I just don't think our girl was killed by a gang," Bullock replied, tossing back his drink.

Bullock's eyes drifted to the bar where he spotted the brunette in the black halter. She smirked at him, then leaned forward to speak to the bartender. Her dress hiked up her long legs, and he couldn't help but watch—until she started toward their table.

"Shit," Bullock muttered. "She's coming over."

Johnson followed his gaze. The brunette walked with a confidence that suggested she owned the room, her smooth brown hair brushing her bare shoulders. She stopped in front of their table, her gaze locking on Bullock.

"Well, boys," she said, her voice soft and low, "how're we enjoying the show?"

"She's good," Bullock said, glancing at Johnson, who gave her a polite nod but stayed silent.

She placed a hand on Bullock's shoulder, her touch lingering as she leaned closer. Unlike the other girls, she wasn't showing much skin—just enough to keep his attention.

"Trixie! Another round, on the house," she called to the goth girl as she passed with an empty tray. Then, to Bullock's surprise, she slid onto his lap, her fingers playing with his tie. Her touch was disarming, almost electric.

"I'm not paying," Bullock growled, catching her hands.

Her smile widened. "It's on the house."

"We're just here to watch," he said gruffly.

Her fingers traced his collar. "I'm not worth watching?"

Bullock nearly leaned into her touch but stopped himself, gripping her wrist gently. "You seem…expensive."

Her smile faltered for a split second before she recovered. "So, then tell me what brings two of Gotham's finest to our club?"

"What gave us away?" Bullock asked, his eyes narrowing.

She smirked, nodding toward Johnson. "Your partner."

"Me?" Johnson looked startled.

"Those blue eyes are too sweet for a place like this," she said, locking her gaze onto Johnson. "And the coat-check girl? She's been telling everyone about the polite old man who called her 'miss.'"

Bullock snorted. Johnson allowed himself a faint smile.

Her tone shifted, suspicion creeping in. "So, what's the play here? Free drinks? A private show?"

Bullock threw Johnson a shrug in surrender. "No point in hiding now."

"No, we're not here for that—" Johnson said calmly.

"—Fees, then? You here to name a price?" she said, still sitting on Bullock's thigh.

Bullock raised a hand, his voice low. "Put the claws away. We're not here to collect."

Johnson pulled a photo from his pant pocket and slid it across the table. "She worked here. Went missing a couple months back."

The brunette picked up the photo, studied it, then shrugged. "Never seen her. What's the mugshot for?"

"Theft," Johnson replied. "She lifted a couple hundred from a Coleman's register."

"Maybe one of the other girls knows her," Bullock suggested.

"They might, but they won't talk," she said, shifting on Bullock's lap. "Carter was strict about that—he'd beat the girls, and he'd beat them bad. The Boyz might be locked up now, but someone's always enforcing the rules."

"So, who's enforcing them now?" Johnson asked.

"I thought you guys were," she said coyly.

The goth waitress returned with their drinks, but her eyes flicked to the photo. Her hand trembled, the club soda slipping and shattering on the floor.

"Sorry, long night," she muttered, avoiding their gazes.

"Don't worry about it, Trixie. Take care of your tables. Harry will handle this."

The brunette stood up, summoning the bartender to clean up. Turning back to the detectives, her smile was tight. "If there's nothing else…"

"Yeah, when you tell your boss we stopped by, tell him we'll be back," Bullock said.

"I'll tell him," she said.

As she walked away, Bullock gave Johnson a knowing look.

"That goth girl knows something," Johnson said quietly.

"Yeah," Bullock replied, finishing his drink. "Getting her to talk'll be harder than piecing that glass back together."