Sucker Punch (Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter #27) - Laurell K. Hamilton Page 0,190

fear into him. Disliking him for being a prejudiced asshole had been so much more fun.

“Promise,” Newman said.

“Who you looking for?” the bartender asked, and there was no fight left in him.

“She dances under the name Giselle.”

“She’s one of our headliners. She doesn’t work days.”

“Give us her name and address, and we’ll go to her,” Newman said.

The bartender shook his head. “I can’t give out the girls’ real names and addresses. I’m the head of security. I’d fire anyone else that did it. I can’t break my own rule.”

“Not even for the police?” I asked.

We tried to persuade him, but he stood firm. He felt responsible for the safety of the dancers at his club. I couldn’t help admiring his determination to protect them, but that didn’t change the fact that he was incredibly bigoted and sexist. His very desire to protect the women who worked at the club could even have been an outgrowth of sexism: Women are physically weaker than men, so men must protect them. I couldn’t argue the fact that most men could beat most women on upper-body strength. The problem was that some men drew the conclusion that lesser body strength meant lesser in all things. That was what pissed me off, and I’d met a lot of men who couldn’t seem to want to protect women without feeling they were lesser beings. It was one of the reasons I didn’t let most men step between me and a problem. I was not lesser, just smaller. I was not less just because you could outlift me in the weight room. We all had our strengths and weaknesses. Some people could do the math for astrophysics; other people could drive a stick shift—no one person could do it all.

We settled for Barry the bartender calling the dancer and persuading her to come down to the club to talk to us. “How do we know she’ll show up?” I asked.

“I take good care of the girls. They trust me. She’ll come. I can’t promise she’ll give you the answers you’re looking for, but she’ll show up. Find a table and order something to eat. She’ll be here.” He seemed so certain of himself that I let it go.

Newman and I took the menus and walked deeper into the dark interior of the club. The narrow entrance with the bar widened out until you could see the room was a lot bigger than it had looked from the doorway. We found a table far away from the stage. I had no inclination to watch the woman on the stage. I had my own breasts; I didn’t need to look at hers. Yes, I dated a few women, but that did not mean I wanted to see them all naked. The same went for men: Just because you like the gender doesn’t mean you want to see them all. It’s not Pokémon.

I sat so that Newman could watch if he wanted to, but he didn’t seem interested either. He concentrated on his menu like it was important. I wondered if he was uncomfortable. I wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but I wasn’t comfortable either. It just felt awkward, like I wanted to go up onstage and tell the dancer to clap to the beat of the music until she found it. The few men drinking near the stage seemed not to notice her lack of rhythm, which bothered me, too.

“I know what I’m ordering. How about you?” I asked.

“I thought I’d get coffee. Seemed like the safest thing to get here.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“It’s a strip club. They aren’t known for their cuisine.”

If Edward or even Olaf had been there, I’d have explained that I’d thought about eating the bartender, so I really needed to eat food. Since I couldn’t say that to Newman, I just said I was hungry, which was true. It was bar food, which ran high to fried food, but I didn’t have to sweat my cholesterol, so that was fine. I liked fried food.

I got a burger, fries, and a Coke. Newman chose chicken fingers with fries, water, and a Coke. I added water to my order, and Newman took both the menus and our orders to tell Barry the bartender. Newman and I had both decided that I didn’t need to interact with Barry any more than necessary.

A blond woman wearing a very short black dress started walking through the room. Her hair was long, waving artfully over one shoulder so that it looked casual.