Chapter 2

I appreciate the view as she walks out and then stack my feet back onto the desk. There is a better chance it's all coincidence, but I don't like the idea of this funny customer with a pentagram on his pinkie. Either way, I'll find out more come 8 o'clock.

I open the paperback novel I've been reading before Sissy came in and try to find where I left off. Before I can do that, the coo-coo clock on the wall chimes. A little door at the top opens and the wooden bird pops out to tweet.

It's no ordinary coo-coo clock. In fact, I was told it was extraordinary when I acquired it from that gypsy with a mesmerising stare and equally mesmerising curves. I thought I'd been swindled, but over time I've come to realize that this clock has a sort of premonitory power. In short, it's basically a warning system. The chime means some unfriendly visitor is on the way. I hurry to the window for a look down at the street and spot my landlady's car parked at the curb. I'm two weeks behind the rent. I can't go out the front. I'd have to pass her on the stairs. I could stay here--but that would mean surrendering some of the cash I just received from Sissy Tease.

I can look the door and pretend I'm gone. Another option is to go out the window and down the fire escape.

Wasting no time, I take my coat from the rack near the door and then retrieve my .38 caliber revolver from the desk before unlatching the window. A cool breeze floods the office and riffles case notes on the desk. I've got one leg over the ledge when Mrs. Stouthammer raps on the frosted glass window pane set in the office door.

"Mr. Jericho?" Her shrill voice is muffled by the door. "You are two weeks late with the rent. Again."

I duck out onto the fire escape, close the window behind me and climb down the rusting ladder to the ally. I drop the last few feet to the asphalt and scare away cats that had been nosing through the garbage. The tabby goes streaking down the alley. I follow it.

A five dollar cab ride puts me out front of the club. The last rays of the setting sun turn the marquee to liquid gold. A cool breeze off the harbor lifts my hair. I hear a buoy clanging and the soft rumble of a trawler returning from a long day shrimping. A horn echos across the cove. The marquee reads; See The Taboo Crew Live! Every Friday And Saturday Night.

I push through the double doors into a small lobby, suffused with red light and occupied by a large surly-looking bouncer. He's got a bald head and shoulders in two different time zones.

"Five dollars," he informs me in a low voice that perfectly matches his appearance.

Sissy forgot to mention the cover charge. I need to get inside if I want to check out the customers.

I stroll around in the back of the club, along a litter-strewn alley, and find a metal door that only opens from the inside and a small window set high on the wall. A pair of trashcans sit under the window. They might help me get high enough to reach.

I knock, then stuff my hands in my coat pockets and try to look bored. The door is opened by a young fella with a large nose wearing a cook's apron. He's holding a spatula and looks at me with raised eyebrows.

"Fire marshal," I tell him. "Running a little late, son. Can you let me in so I can get this inspection over with?"

"Didn't know we had an inspection today," he tells me.

"Wouldn't be much of a surprise inspection then, would it?"

The cook presses his lips together. I stand there, trying to look like I belong. Finally he nods. "Alright, but make it quick. The show starts in a few minutes."

He stands back and I slip past him into the kitchen. I stroll around the dirty space, make a show of inspecting the stove and then take a cursory glance at the fire extinguisher. Far as I can tell, the whole place might be a fiery death trap. I turn to the cook. "Where's the toilet?"

"What do you have to inspect in there?"

"I have to pee,kid."

He laughs. "Oh, sure. Through that door and on your right."

Although this whole acting bit was a bit much to save myself a measly five bucks, it was rather fun. I smile to myself as a walk down the hall.

I follow his directions, stopping briefly in the John, and then find my way to the main room. I walk into a wall of smoke and sound.

A lot of guys and even a few dolls populate the tables. Most of the lightning is centered on the stage. Small candles on each table illuminate the expectant smiles on the faces of the guest. The bar man is busy but I manage to get his attention.

"What'll ya have?"

I fork over a dollar on a beer and then go back to scanning the crowd for anyone that looks out of place.

I don't have to long to wait before a lanky man in a blue tux struts on stage, a microphone in hand. He's got a receding hair and beady eyes set too close to his nose.

"Hello, hello, hello! Welcome to the show!"

The crowd shows their enthusiasm.

"Are you ready to be captivated?"

More cheers.

"Mesmerized?"

This gets a louder cheer.

"Titillated?"

Loudest applause yet.

"Ladies and gentlemen," The announcer says. "Please put your hands together for the lovely, the sensual, the sexy, Lots Lust!"

The velvet curtain draws apart and a single spot light illuminates a tall blonde with her back to the audience. She's in a backless black cocktail dress. A dark and dreary jazz tune starts up. She exposes one long white leg through a slit in her dress and looks over her shoulder at the crowd. She belts out a better version of My Man Ain't No Good. She's got a husky voice, like smoke and silk, that does things to my imagination. It takes years of hard drinking to get a voice like that. Miss Lust knows how to work the crowd. She comes off stage, threading her way through the tables, while she sings. That backless dress with the silts up either side shows just enough leg to make the men shift in there seats. Her eyes do the rest. She's not young, like Sissy Tease. Must be in her late thirties, but she sure can turn on the charm.

The song ends. The spot light winks out and the curtains falls closed. The audience does their part with claps and whistles. The announcer comes back out , encourages another round of applause for Miss Lora Lust and then introduces the next act.

"Let's hear it for our very own Russian trapeze girl, Ivana Vivacious!"

When the curtain opens again, a wisp of a girl in stockings and garters is swinging back and forth on a trapeze. Lora was seductive, even classy. Ivana's act is pure lust. She twist and contorts on her trapeze as first one stocking and then the other peels off. Her sequinned bra follows. By the time the curtain comes down, Ivana is wearing panties and pastries. The crowd is eating it up.

"Like what you see?" A husky voice purrs in my ear.

While I was distracted by Ivana, Lora Lust planted herself on the bar stool next to me. She's got a drink in hand, her back to the bar. one carefully sculpted eyebrow arches.

"The first act was better," I tell her.

"Don't patronise me."

"No, really. You have a great voice. When do you go on again?"

She smiles. "That's it for me. I'm a one-trick pony. Jeffery thinks I'm getting too old for burlesque."

"Jeffery's the manager?"

"That's right," she says. "And who are you?"

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