Ed paid for breakfast, even if the thought made him a little sick. Most days, he hardly had two pennies to rub together, but before leaving the diner, he paid. Twelve dollars and fifty cents, that he needed for rent, burned on a woman that had her heart set on another man. “Proper gentlemen always pay for a lady’s time,” his mother’s voice echoed in his ears. As far as Henrietta was concerned, the only lady-like quality she had was her name. If his mother took one look at this sheila, as an Australian inmate would call them, there was one phrase the saintly woman would use to describe Hettie. “No good hussy,” he spat to himself, recalling all the times his old lady threw that term around at unsuspecting women who stood just out of earshot.

“What did you say?” Hettie spat, spinning around on her heel.

His cheeks flamed from annoyed embarrassment. “Nothing,” he muttered. What am I still doing here? After finishing their breakfast, two stacks of pancakes with sides of bacon and eggs, they set out to track down her lost lover. Ed had no clue what they could possibly find in the night’s dwindling minutes before dawn. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t come up with a single way to turn her thoughts away from her meaningless mission.

The chances of finding anyone on the island was throwing darts at a board blindfolded after spinning five or six times. There were dozens of likely places where non-locals could spend their mornings. For someone like Joey wouldn’t frequent any of those places. If he had changed as little as Hettie, the former punk wannabe might be found drinking in one of the seedy dive bars. Only one of them had an interest in music that Joey was raised on: Anarchy in Brasil.

A local biker gang, the Devil’s Saints, used the place as their stomping ground. They didn’t belong to any larger chapter, not that they desired it. These were men of leisure that enjoyed playing wild men where their wives couldn’t see them. A nagging woman robbed all enjoyment from the devil-may-care lifestyle. Outside the bar, their choppers and motorcycles littered the sandy parking lot. One grubby gentleman sat on the stoop by the entrance, holding back his head as his fingers pinched the end of his nose.

“I’ll get that upstart if it’s the last thing I do,” he muttered, paying no mind to the two bikeless newcomers. The sight brought a wisp of a smile to Ed’s face. In every pack of lowlifes, ruffians, and those that played pretend, there was always someone who got the raw end of the deal. He was the one that ended up getting less action than the others or had no say in the upcoming plans. His cut was less than everyone else. If the cops showed up, he’d be the only one in violation of the law. When an angry broad came to punch out her fella, he’d be the moron that tried to get in her way. His bravery was always rewarded with a few broken teeth. Angry women never came without a dirty trick hidden up her skirt. It’s not that anyone necessarily hated or had it out for him. Sometimes, it was just bad luck. This bloody-nosed guy was one of those people and he’d never get the best of the upstart. That was his fate.

Ignoring him, Hettie pushed through the entrance, her companion dreading what would follow. Ed hated bars. Too many bad experiences. Before he landed in prison, he had a few overnight visits to local jails for brawling in a bar. It was never his fault. The story was always the same. Some punk came looking for trouble. He was a victim of circumstance. There was no way out. It was either fight or take a beating. Whatever happened, he refused to do that. Once a guy took a licking, it was impossible to play at being a hardened criminal. It’d take a shootout of Eastwood proportions to regain any fear and respect. The last thing Ed needed was a lifetime sentence to prove himself to men that abandoned their families years ago and were trying to prove themselves to dead fathers.

As they walked in, it was a scenario he saw too many times in the movies. Strangers walk into the room and all the locals get quiet. He saw the eyes burning into Hettie as she swayed towards the bartender. Not a single man didn’t have the same passing thought Ed had for the last few hours. What do I have to do to get with a woman like that? Ed felt his hand slip over to his left hip, where an unfamiliar void greeted him.

Shaking his head, he reminded himself, Calm down. That’s what got you in trouble in the first place.

Hettie strode up to the bar. She flopped herself into the nearest chair and slapped her elbows on the counter. The bartender, a balding man wearing a Lemmy t-shirt, met her. His eyes waltzed over her with methodical steps. He breathed deep, groaning through his nose, before saying, “What can I do for you, little lady? We got some drinks here that’ll knock you off your feet.”

“You can drop your sales pitch,” she spat, leaning forward. “I’m here looking for someone.”

“Really now?” he replied with a smirk. “Who would want to run out on a catch like you?”

She balked. “And what makes you think someone ran out on me?”

“I can tell a broken heart when I see one. Besides, your buddy looks like he’s ready to skin a fella alive. He’s a friend I’d hate to tango with.”

Ed’s face flushed. Friend. The word every red-blooded male wanted to hear around a woman he desired. He considered leaving her there. Perhaps his life would’ve turned out differently if he had. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. So far, he passed on every chance to ditch Hettie on her pointless quest. “Let’s forget this, Hettie,” he suggested, grabbing at her arm with the most gentle tug.

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She snapped out of his grasp, slapping her hand on the table. “If there’s anyone anybody needs to be scared of, it’s me.” Her lips formed a snarky grin. “So, have you seen a guy in his early thirties? Dark hair with red bangs. Pale skinned. Looks like Dracula’s punk rock kid brother. Unless he changed his name, he goes by Joey.”

“Maybe I saw him,” the bartender said, scratching his mowed-down stubble. His nametag read, “Samantha.” “Think he wore a trench coat. Said he was off to find a pretty woman.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do you doubt my word? Hasn’t anyone ever told you that bartenders are men with the highest integrity?” Running his first around an empty glass, he added, “Otherwise, plenty of unfortunate fellows would get a gut-bomber of a drink.”

“Pipe down, you tired windbag. You wouldn’t remember a snake if it bit you on the keister, Andy,” an older fellow barked. He wore a brown jacket. “If you drank less of your wares, maybe you’d remember that freak.”

Andy, the bartender, clenched his teeth in a restraining grin. His host’s mask was close to slipping off his face. Ed found it intriguing to witness someone reach their breaking point. No two were the same. He watched a man snap due to not having enough ketchup packets in his to-go bag. A half-hour later, that same man was led away in handcuffs, assault and battery charges hanging over him.

“Really?” Hettie exclaimed, turning away from the lecherous bartender. His eyes followed her as she walked over to the gentleman’s table. The victor of Hettie’s attention paid him no mind. Defeated, Andy returned to his work, no doubt kicking himself for letting another broad slip through his fingers. “And just who might be my astute detective?”

“Name’s Terry, though that has little to do with what I saw and who you’re looking for.”

Hettie’s eyes twinkled in excitement. “So you saw him?”

“If you’re talking about a longish-haired fella trying

“You’re a pretty girl,” the old man said, speaking in a way that a father talks to his daughter. “That boy was the definition of no good.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“No,” he interjected. “You don’t understand. He wore a dark robe, something out of some H.P. Lovecraft-loving cult.”

“He’s a punk. That bunch love dressing up in outrageous outfits. You should know, this bar is full of them.”

The bags underneath the man’s eyes creased, weary from Hettie’s persistence. “I know your kind. No matter what anyone tells you, regardless of the warnings, you refuse to stop yourself from walking underneath the shadow of death’s guillotine.”

“Stop wasting my time and tell me what you know.” She knocked her knuckles against the table, attempting a quiet threat. Ed knew that was a waste of time. There was nothing Hettie could do to intimidate him. Terry had a look in his eyes that Ed saw plenty of times before. It was the long, hard stare one developed after seeing too much.

“Dried blood stained the sleeves. Robbie, our bouncer, was ready to call the cops, but he promised that it wasn’t human blood.” He paused, eyebrows furrowing. “No. Actually, he said he hadn’t killed anybody.” A slight shudder rocked his shoulders. “That face. It bore a sickening smile when he said that.”

Drawing in a tense breath, Hettie demanded in mounting anger, “Okay, but where did he go?”

Ed balked as he realized that Terry’s eyes were looking at him, not Hettie's. The old man had no interest in helping her. No matter how hard his gaze was, there was the tiniest hint of warmth directed toward Hettie’s reluctant companion. “He talked out of his head. Wasn’t sure if he spoke another language or if he was having a stroke. There was only one word that made any sense: Lotan.” He shook his head. “Whatever that means.”

Hissing in fury, Hettie slammed her hands against the table, hurling herself at the old man. She put his face within inches of his own. “Where did he go?” she demanded. When he didn’t answer, her hand shot out and jerked him up by his collar. “Stop beating around the bush and tell me.”

Terry’s cold stare passed over her. “Young lady,” he replied in a voice that made grown men tremble in fright. “In this world, everyone has a past they want to forget. Some are lucky enough to break away clean. Still, others are a mere step from plunging into all the nasty filth best left in the rearview mirror.”

For a second, fear flashed in the woman’s eyes. Her hand slipped away from the man’s neck. She dropped her gaze, choosing to hide from the wrathful beast she was close to unleashing. “Please,” she whispered. “I have to find him.”

For a long time, Terry said nothing. Ed saw the internal struggle to contain the rage the man tried burying long ago. In his attempt to maintain his composure, he wasn’t confident in his capacity to make a sound decision. “The Iris Caves,” he admitted at last. “In his prattling, he said something about a rendezvous with a special friend.” He shrugged. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Too excited to answer or thank her unwilling guide, Hettie spun on her heel. “Let’s go, Ed, before the trail goes cold,” she barked with a flip of her hair. “Joey’s got himself involved in some bad junk. If we don’t act quick, his life is at risk.” As she raced through the door, all eyes turned to watch her go. There was a collective sigh that a beautiful dame left without a single man on her arm. Neither Ed nor Terry participated.

“It’s a crying shame,” he muttered, shaking his head. Before Ed followed Hettie, Terry caught him by the arm. “Young fella, not sure how you got mixed up with this lot. You better watch your step. She’s walking on shaky ground.”

Ed looked at the door, then back at the old man. He knew that this was his last warning. Walk away now and perhaps he could save himself from a terrible end. If I could do that, I wouldn’t be this messed up in the first place, he admitted before brushing the man off. Terry shook his head, knowing nothing good could come from this. Little did they know that the thick fog was closing in; with it, a far worse fate came for them all.