Creighton Melice parked his car in front of one of the bottom-feeder bars in a gang-infested neighborhood of southern San Diego. He figured that at least half of the people in the place would be carrying, so he made sure he’d chambered a round in his Glock before stepping out of the car.
A few women who’d ignored the cool weather and were wearing skin-tight wisps of clothing propositioned Creighton on his way into the bar, but he just brushed them off. He wasn’t interested in their kind.
He wanted a girlfriend with a little more class.
Some of the gangbangers lurking around the tables stared at Creighton as he entered. A few of them eyed his face and hands, focusing on the array of scars and burn marks he carried, but most of the bangers were probably just wondering if he was a cop. The attention didn’t bother Creighton. He knew how to act around bangers. After all, he’d been one himself back in the day.
In a gang, it’s all about respect. So instead of staring down or provoking the little punks, he just gave them each a casual nod as he walked past.
They seemed to accept that and, one by one, drifted back to their murmured conversations, keeping one cautious eye on him as he took his seat at the bar.
Creighton ordered two beers and let his eyes browse the room.
The woman sitting by herself beneath the Bud Light sign looked a little too drunk. Pass.
The African-American woman who was checking him out from the booth by the end of the bar appeared a little too eager. Never a good sign.
He took a long, slow drink and found his attention drawn to an attractive, dark-skinned brunette sitting alone at a table beside the window. She didn’t look like an untraceable, undocumented immigrant, but she was appealing to Melice for other reasons. She looked bored and was apparently confident enough not to feel the need to dress like a ten-dollar whore to find a guy.
Hmm. Interesting.
He grabbed the two beers and maneuvered through the crowd to her table.
Being confident. That’s the key. It’s all about confidence. If you’re confident enough, people will go wherever you lead them, believe whatever you say. That’s how Jeffrey Dahmer did it. Complete confidence. He once convinced two cops that the drugged, naked guy in handcuffs wandering around the streets was his drunk lover.
So the officers dropped the guy off at Dahmer’s apartment, where he promptly killed and then ate him. Another time some cops came to his place to investigate the smell seeping through the walls of his apartment, and Dahmer convinced them that it was just the aquarium he hadn’t gotten around to cleaning. They didn’t bother to check his bedroom, or they would have found the rotting corpse on his bed.
So.
Confidence.
Creighton set both beers on the brunette’s table. “I need some advice.”
She looked at the bottles of beer and then gave Creighton a slight grin. “Oh yeah? What kind of advice?”
Over the years Creighton had discovered that people are more suspicious of you if you offer them something for nothing. The kinder you are, the more they think you want something from them. People trust need, not charity.
He leaned his hand against the chair beside her. “I’m new around here. I need someone to show me around the city.”
A raised eyebrow. A little sarcasm. “Do I look like a tour guide?”
“You look like someone who’s tired of all the scumbags in this hellhole leering at you. You look like someone who knows you could do better for tonight, if only the right guy wandered into your life.”
So.
Now.
Wait.
Just wait.
She’ll respond somehow, she has to respond somehow.
Confidence. That’s the key.
Creighton took a swig of his beer.
She might just blow him off. Yes, she might.
But maybe.
“Well,” she said at last. “You’re right about this place. And I do know the city pretty well…” She stood and slipped her arm around his elbow. “All right. Tonight, I’ll be your guide.”
“I can’t wait,” he said, and led her to the door.