The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

The strip club was squeezed between a pawnshop and a billiards joint on a dimly lit street. A flickering sign buzzed and sputtered, spelling out Emperor Club in weary, uneven red letters. Inside, the air reeked of stale beer and cigarettes—the kind of heavy stink that clung to clothes and skin. But the floors, surprisingly, didn't stick to Bullock's shoes. Odd, he thought, for a place like this.

Bullock and Johnson had checked their coats at the door, doing their best to blend into the sleazy haze. As they made their way to an empty table, they scoped out the surroundings.

The club's aesthetic stood out—vivid, edgy, and a little broken. One girl strutted by with bright pink pigtails and glitter smeared under her eyes, while another clomped past in shredded fishnets and combat boots, her steps heavy and deliberate. Whatever they were doing seemed to be working; the crowd was a decent size—or perhaps the cramped layout just made it feel that way.

The loners lurked in the darker edges of the floor; some had girls swaying in their laps. A few were led toward private rooms in the back. Meanwhile, groups of men clustered around the main stage, their eyes fixed on the dancer beneath the sputtering lights.

Onstage, a blonde in pink stilettos and a matching bikini strutted lazily yet gracefully, like a bored rich girl slumming it for fun. Bullock's gaze lingered. She didn't belong here—not with those polished moves and that face. Too good-looking for a dump like this.

Bullock dropped into a battered chair with a grunt, yanking his tie loose like it had been choking him all night. Johnson slid into the booth across from him, his eyes scanning the room with quiet detachment.

"You don't seem sold on the idea," Johnson said, leaning back against the cracked vinyl.

Bullock didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed locked on the blonde as she swayed to the bass-heavy rhythm, her hips rolling in slow. Her fingers raked through her hair, sending messy strands tumbling around her face. With her back against the pole, she slid down, knees spreading wide with practiced ease. That smile—small, sharp, and knowing—cut through the noise. It felt personal, like she was letting him in on a secret.

Johnson exhaled sharply, irritation creeping into his voice. "This was a bad idea."

"Don't start bitching, pops," said Bullock. "This is how we find out who's running the joint."

"By watching strippers?"

"And having a drink," Bullock replied with a faint smirk. Johnson didn't return it.

"You don't just bust in and start barking," Bullock continued, his eyes sweeping the room. "You sit, watch the crowd. The people tell you who's running the show."

Bullock watched Johnson clasp his hands together and rest them on his lap, as if preparing to say a quiet prayer. His pale, weathered eyes deliberately avoided the bare-chested dancers weaving through the tables. Bullock knew places like this made him uncomfortable so he steered the conversation toward the case.

"It ain't that I don't buy it. It just doesn't fit," said Bullock, resting an arm on the table.

"Follow the facts," said Johnson, leaning forward. "Most strip clubs are gang-owned, and she worked in one. Her hands were severed—which gangs do to avoid ID," he added.

"Yeah, but would they go to all that trouble for a stripper? I mean how many cops you know are going to dig deep for a girl like that?" said Bullock, waving down a waitress threading her way through the tables with an empty tray in her hands.

She stopped at their table, her breasts on full display. A tight leather collar hugged her neck, matching the corset that cinched her waist. Heavy black makeup made her pale skin stand out, while her sharp black bob added an extra edge to her punk-goth look.

"What'll it be, fellas?" she said.

Johnson cleared his throat, forcing his gaze to stay on her face as he ordered a club soda. Bullock, unfazed, ordered a beer. She nodded, her heels clicking rapidly as she walked toward the bar.

"Where would you start?" Johnson asked, resting his clasped hands on the table.

"I don't know. Here, I guess. Maybe fish around, ask one of these girls if they knew her," Bullock said.

"See nothing, say nothing," Johnson muttered.

"I know Uptown's rep," Bullock replied, drumming his fingers against the table.

"And if it's gang-related, asking questions will tip them off that we're looking into things," Johnson said.

"They're probably already tipped off. Someone in Iverson's team—or any of the other dirty fuckers—would've warned them," Bullock shot back.

"Still smarter to tread lightly," Johnson said, his tone firm.

Bullock didn't respond. His attention had wandered back to the blonde onstage. She arched her back under the lights, her movements seamless, seductive. Johnson sighed, but Bullock ignored it, his eyes scanning the area near the stage.

Across the room, a table of men in work boots and stained jeans was getting rowdy, their voices rising above the club's grungy soundtrack. Bullock's eyes shifted to the brunette sitting with them.

She wore a short black halter dress, her dark eyes sharp and watchful. He guessed she was in her mid-twenties, seasoned and cautious. While the guys slammed back their shots, she sipped hers lightly—too smart to get shit-faced on the job. Her gaze never settled, constantly darting between the men.

She must've felt Bullock watching because she turned, locking eyes with him. Her lips curled into a sly smile—sharp, teasing, with just enough edge to make his chest tighten. It was a look he'd seen before, one that promised a good time.

But he knew better. In a place like this, feeding into those feelings got you hooked on a girl and that was never good thing.

Bullock didn't smile back. But he didn't look away, either.