Page 91 of Sunset Beach
“That’s a bar?”
“In Seminole. I met her and Jaz there a couple times. Loud country music and kind of a rough crowd.”
Drue pulled up the blurry photo of Neesa and Jaz that she’d found on Jazmin’s Facebook page. “This is Neesa, right? It’s the only photo I could find of her.”
“I’ve got a better one,” Jorge said. He scrolled through the photos on his phone, then held it up for Drue to see.
It was a selfie of Jazmin and another young black woman. Their faces were pressed close together, and they were captured mid-laugh. Neesa’s complexion was two shades lighter than Jazmin’s, and she had a nose with a slight hook. While Jazmin’s hair was worn short and natural, Neesa’s was an elaborate architectural feat.
“This is her.” He tapped the photo. “She’s really good with hair, with the braids and whatever you call it.”
“Great.” Drue handed the phone back. “Now I’ll know her when I seeher.” She handed Jorge her business card. “If you can think of anything else I might need to know about Jazmin, I’d appreciate a call.”
“You’ve got my card too,” he reminded her. “Can you let me know what you find out? Like, if the police catch who did that to her? I’m still so sad, you know? Jaz, she was just getting her life together. We had plans…”
38
Mister B’s was loud and crowded, with men in Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots and ten-gallon hats who outnumbered the women three to one. The hot, damp air smelled overpoweringly like Axe aftershave. Drue elbowed her way through the hordes of boot-scooting boogiers to the bar, which was also stacked two deep.
After five minutes, she was able to inch close enough to catch the attention of a bartender. He was tan and muscled and bare-chested, with a pierced nipple. The bolo tie around his neck was fastened with a chunky turquoise and silver clasp.
“Howdy.” He tipped his straw Stetson. “Whatcha drinking tonight? Can I get you started with our drink special? A Mango Tango?”
“God no,” she said, shuddering. “Just a vodka tonic. Double lime, please.”
While he turned to fix her drink, Drue scanned the length of the bar. A similarly dressed bartender worked the other end. She had long blond braids laced with feathers and beads, and wore a midriff-tied cowboy shirt with jean shorts cut high and tight, exposing an impressive amount of tanned butt cheeks.
Customers had seemingly self-segregated, with the men on the far end, ogling the blonde, and a large number of women clustered at what she’d already started thinking of as the Roy Rogers end of the bar. If Roy had a pierced nipple and a tattoo of a coiled rattlesnake on his right bicep.
She was surprised at how racially diverse the crowd was. Was country music that universally appealing? Drue wasn’t sure.
The bartender was back with her drink. She thanked him and leaned across the bar. “Hey, do you happen to know a woman named Neesa? I think she comes here a lot? Likes Jägerbombs?”
“I don’t,” he said. “But I just started here this week. Want me to go ask Coco?” He pointed down the bar at the blonde.
She gave him her most dazzling smile. “That’d be awesome.”
A moment later, he was back. “That’s her,” he said, nodding in the direction of a black woman who’d positioned herself on a bar stool at the corner of the bar that angled back toward the bathrooms.
Drue had a five-dollar bill ready, and she pushed it across the bar top toward him.
She sipped her drink and surreptitiously watched the woman, whom she’d never have recognized from the photo Jorge had shown her.
Instead of the elaborate crown of braids and beaded extensions the other Neesa had worn, this one had a chin-length platinum blond pageboy. She wore a low-cut yellow tank top and shoulder-length gold hoop earrings. She was chatting with another woman, but her eyes seemed to constantly scan the crowd. When her head swung in Drue’s direction, Drue quickly turned away, leaving her back toward the woman. A moment later, Neesa was engrossed in conversation with a tall Hispanic-looking man, fluttering dramatic false eyelashes and gesturing with long acrylic nails painted neon pink.
The man motioned for the bartender, who brought a new round of drinks. Soon his arm was draped across Neesa’s shoulder, his hand resting lightly atop her breast.
Drue nursed her drink slowly. Twenty minutes passed. Roy Rogers returned. “Get you another?” He pointed to Drue’s drink, the ice now melted.She didn’t want another drink. What she wanted was to talk to Neesa about Jazmin Mayes and then get the hell out of here. She glanced toward the end of the bar. Neesa’s new friend was handing her a bottle of Jägermeister, which Neesa upended into her open mouth. The man laughed uproariously, leaned down and stuck his tongue down her throat. Another man approached and tugged at his arm. Neesa’s boyfriend tossed some bills on the bar and walked away, leaving Neesa pouting with only an empty liquor bottle for company.
“Maybe just a club soda with double lime?” she told Roy Rogers. She didn’t dare order another drink. It was a long drive back to Sunset Beach, and the last thing she needed was to get pulled over for DUI.
She was sipping her drink and plotting her next move when the decision was made for her.
“Hey.” Neesa plopped down on the bar stool that had just been vacated. She poked Drue’s arm with a long tapered fingernail. “Girl, I seen you staring at me down there. Do we know each other?”
Neesa’s eyes were glassy, her words slightly slurred. From her long career working in bars, Drue concluded the girl was, clinically speaking, shit-faced. Drunk and, most likely, high.
“I don’t think so,” Drue said. “I was fascinated with your hair. It’s really pretty. Do you color it yourself?”
