C3 3

"Shot!" Hunter said as he tossed a bill onto the scratched surface of the table. A curvy lady with large breasts, barely covered by a red top, swayed over to him. Her red-rimmed eyes were emphasized by thick layers of eye makeup, and a quick glance was all it took to learn her secrets. Her blond hair was up in a ponytail, and six stud earrings decorated the slant of one ear. She smiled at him, letting him know that she was eager to provide him with more than just a beverage. "Whatever it is you want, Sir."

Hunter reentered the bar and looked around at the clientele, a motley assortment of Manila's criminals ranging from prostitutes and drug addicts to drug dealers and pimps. This is not to say that Hunter had any intention of throwing stones. There should have been some for him as well. Perhaps that was what he found most annoying about establishments like Midnight Pub. He was almost too good of a fit. Colored lights danced, and silhouettes were clung to those who thrived in the night's anonymity. Hunter clung to the night, seeking refuge from his memories. But the night could not hide what he was transporting. He couldn't avoid it; it was always present. As of this point, he'd given up trying and caring. He was being propelled forward by his past with an urgency he couldn't resist any longer. Taking revenge, either on him or on someone else. Whether the victim was an unknown bystander or his own father, the joy of apprehending the perpetrator was the same. Like sex, this experience gave Hunter a rush and a thrill. Even better, perhaps, given that the emotion was uniquely his. There was nobody else on the hunt with him.

Hunter glanced at his watch and cursed himself for wasting time once more. The autopsy report, however, had taken half an hour of rapid-fire conversation to obtain. Honestly, he couldn't believe that was all it took. She was too savvy to fall for his charms and too money-hungry to trust Isabelle Martin. He had prepared himself to make a promise of his firstborn child before the stern coroner would release her priceless report. She had been too exhausted to bargain tonight after spending half a day and all night awake because of this damned murderer. It's a good thing, too, because Hunter was starting to lose his mind after going three days without a nap. "Is there anything else?" The bartender jolted him awake. Her grin returned, and her bloodshot, famished eyes met his. The implied invitation was clear even without words.

To get to the drink, he had to reach around her spare change. Without batting an eye, he reached for the shot glass and chugged the flaming liquid.

"If I remember correctly, you were in here the other night."

"Perhaps," he said. He had located Paul dela Rosa, the crackhead responsible for the shooting deaths of five people during a robbery a week earlier. After days of searching, Hunter finally located him in the pub's restroom, with a needle poised over his head and an intention to commit suicide. When Hunter was done with the guy, he threw him in jail and made him pay a hefty fine. Nonetheless, Hunter wasn't solely motivated by financial gain. It was something else. The nightmares, perhaps. No doubt about it, his past. That was his consistent line: "blood for blood." The law of unjust rewards meant that Paul had finally gotten his. The new cretin who had been slashing people carelessly.

The bartender took a quick look at his glass. "I could bring you the bottle if you'd like," she offered.

"I can wake up from the horrible taste of just one, but I'm afraid that any more will put me to sleep."

"If you need a place to nap, I have a spare bedroom in the attic that you're welcome to use." She pointed to the dim stairwell that could be seen through the open doorway at the back of the bar. "I'll have a short break. If you're looking for a place to rest for a while, I'll show you the way to the top floor." Her words carried an air of anticipation, and Hunter picked up on it.

He said icily, "No, thanks," as he ran a hand through his hair and looked around. "Are you living here?"

"Nope." She stuffed the spare change he'd left into her pocket. "The owner doesn't have much spare time for slacking. After getting his money and talking to the manager, Bill, he heads back into town."

"Bill? That guy who died a week ago was him, right?"

"Hmm." With a frown crinkling her features, she shook her head, coming across as even more stern than usual in the mellow glow of the bar's colored lights. "It's unreal to me that I'm referring to him as if he were alive. Seriously, what happened to him is insane. Clearly, he was a big guy. A lot of fights were broken up by him, and he picked up more knives and shit than anyone I've ever seen do that. Just dying like that doesn't make much sense."

"It seems like he might be mentally unstable. After killing his girlfriend, he took his own life. The label "psychopath" fits him perfectly."

"That's fucking bullshit," she exclaimed. "That girl wasn't his girlfriend. Bill would never have done something so stupid as to killed a slut."

"How do you know?"

"I knew him. There were rumors that he called for help after hearing the girl scream." She grabbed a beer bottle and drank deeply from it. "His wrists wouldn't have been cut over it. Nor did he wish for his own death." She tipped slightly the bottle towards him. "That girl was a real bitch. She fucked over almost every dude who walked through these doors. Bill was smart. He would never get his filthy hands dirty with a slut like her. These days, there's just too much nonsense to ignore. That slut was the suicidal one. She is always walking out with the guys with the big dicks." A grin formed on her face. "A big doofus with a bunch of money in the pocket."

"Were you here that night?" Hunter asked in a level tone, showing just enough interest to keep the conversation going and just enough friendliness to keep her talking.

"Everyone was here. All through the night, in fact. With everyone still inside, the police sealed the place up tight. Before morning came around, they had still not found anyone. Are you a police officer or something?"

"Something? When everything happened, are you working or up in the loft?" he asked.

A slight narrowing of her eyes indicated her displeasure with his inquiry. Her voice was as emotionless as her eyes. "Upstairs. When the police took my statement, I already gave them that information. It seems like I've seen you before."

"Can you recall anything out of the ordinary? Howls?"

"Ok, hear me out." She raised her tone slightly. "Several women share three rooms just down the hall from me. I've done some shit in my time, but those women redefine the term. It seems like, there's something hilarious to see or hear. Stranger than a room full of screamers, but I didn't hear Bill get ripped to shreds. That's something I've shared with the cops." Her gaze morphed from suspicion to anger and back again. "Your inquisitiveness is excessive. That's right, I do remember you. You were here the night they were murdered. Are you a police officer?"

"There's no need to worry about me because I'm not a cop. It's just that I'm curious. What's your name?" Hunter asked in a disconcertingly low voice. She recoiled as his eyes swept down her entire body in a manner that was so thorough it had her running for cover. Her furrowed brow had relaxed by the time he looked at her again, and he could see that she was no longer irritated. The lustful fire he'd seen in her eyes was even brighter now.

"Chanty," as her tongue again slid down her chin. "Chanty Tuazon."

"Chanty, it has been a pleasure to speak with you. In any case, I hope to see you again."

"Anytime. If you'd like to use the room, it's all yours."

After winking at her, Hunter walked back to take a look at the other people in the pub. There were no witnesses and screams. He'd spent the whole time in the stall with the drug addict who turned out to be a murderer. He shut his eyes and moaned under his breath. The opportunity had been knocking at his door for so long. It's so close, actually. He dug a piece of folded paper out of his pocket. The expensive, pristine paper was complemented by a light, delicate perfume that tickled his nostrils. Hunter scowled. He was willing to bet that at least half of the people at Midnight Pub were unable to write legibly, if they could even read. They were all drug addicts and had spent all their money on their habit. They are so financially strapped that they cannot even afford to learn about high-end stationery. Plus, classy? Now, the fact that there was a snoring couple not too far from him by the back exit should have told him all he needed to know about that. Looking at the note once more, he berated himself for his tardiness. That's right; He's running about three hours behind schedule. Whoever wrote it, he speculated, must have waited. If they wanted him that badly, they would have found a way to get him.

Hunter has heightened level of curiosity. As he backed away from the pub, he clutched at the shadows, the note searing into his palm. He looked at each person's face with ruthless intensity, as if the identity of the author could be determined with enough focus. Undoubtedly a witness or a person with knowledge concerning the murder. If it weren't for that, Hunter likely wouldn't have paid much mind. There was information in the note. Specifics neither the murderer nor anyone else but an eyewitness would know. He wiped his weary eyes again, wishing he were back at home where he could be safely asleep instead of in this place where the kaleidoscope of colors was spinning with such ferocity that it hurt his eyes. He was so tired that he almost considered accepting the bartender's offer. The only way he could sleep was if he were completely alone.

Hunter could only guess what the upstairs room looked like from the delaminated pub downstairs. Possibly infested with roaches or rats, with filthy sheets on the bed (if any sheets existed). He had just finished wiping his face with his hand when he saw the woman coming down the stairs into the bar. Is it possible that she was the one who penned that letter?