Jeff Abbott - Cut and Run

‘A lap dance?’

‘Sure.’

‘How about just sitting and talking to me for a minute?’

She hesitated. He supposed there was actually more intimacy in talking than in dancing; she could gyrate, give a little hip sway, expose her breasts and it would be less revealing than a conversation, where they would have to scope out each other as actual human beings.

He asked, ‘How much is it for a dance?’

‘A hundred.’

‘Well, you put a hundred on my tab but sit here and chat with me for a minute,’ Whit said. ‘No dance. I’m recovering from heart surgery.’

She signaled the waitress with a twirl of her finger. Whit realized he’d have to give a credit card; he didn’t have that much cash on him. A risk. But he had to talk to people, and there was no reason to believe if his mother worked here she would see one out of dozens of credit receipts. He gave the waitress his card and the black girl sat down next to Whit at the little table. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Geekgirl,’ she said.

‘No, really.’

‘Tasha.’

‘Hi, Tasha, I’m Whit.’

‘I’ve heard a lot of lines in this place but heart surgery is a new one.’ She fixed him with an intelligent, amused gaze.

‘I’m a weak man, like every other man here.’

‘You in town on business like every other man here?’

‘Yeah. I’m a location scout for a film company.’ He’d considered several ploys to get him into the offices of the club and in an instant decided on this one.

She raised one perfectly styled eyebrow. ‘A film company.’

‘Sorry. I’m not in casting,’ he said. ‘I assume this place is thick with aspiring actresses.’

‘Yeah, we got girls here hungry to do Shakespeare. Hoping to bring deep new angles to Ophelia.’ Sarcasm in her tone. ‘Not me.’

‘What are you aspiring to?’

‘World peace,’ she said.

He swallowed a thick gulp of beer. The waitress came and brought Tasha a club soda, slice of lime bobbing among the ice cubes. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers.’

‘Don’t take anything I say,’ she said, ‘seriously.’

‘You strike me as a woman of refinement and intelligence.’

Her smile got tight. ‘I’m a naturally friendly person.’

‘What’s upstairs?’

‘I’m not that friendly,’ she said.

‘I didn’t mean to imply that, Tasha,’ Whit said.

‘Private suites. We get a lot of famous people here, like to have their food and drinks and dances out of the glare. So are you trying to impress me with your Hollywood connections or are you really looking for a place to shoot your movie?’

‘I suspect I can’t impress you very easily. You seem too smart for that.’ And too smart for this place. He watched as Desire O’Malley finished her number, wearing a glittery shamrock-shaped G-string over her clover as she bounded off the stage. ‘And yes, I’m scouting for a thriller. Hero is a spy trying to capture a rogue agent who’s stolen a deadly virus. His romantic interest goes undercover as a stripper in three scenes to get close to an informant. So we need a club.’

‘Why aren’t you shooting in LA?’

‘Texas is cheaper. So who would I talk to here about filming?’

‘Frank. But be warned, he’ll want to be in the movie.’

‘Frank.’

‘Frank Polo. He’s the manager. But kind of a figure-head.’

‘I know that name.’

‘Sweetpea, if you know his name you don’t have good taste in music.’ Tasha leaned forward, started to sing in a clear alto that cut through the humping music of the performer on stage. ‘Baby you’re my groove… baby you’re my groove.’

‘I know that song.’

‘Frank never recovered from his Saturday night fever.’ She shrugged. ‘He had gold records then and now he’s managing this place. How far can you fall?’

‘This is a very nice club, Tasha.’

‘Absolute paradise. I hope to retire here one day.’

‘So how could I get a meeting with Frank Polo?’

She studied him. ‘If you’re not legit, honey, I won’t waste Frank’s time with you. No offense. You got a business card?’

He didn’t of course, but he made a show of searching his wallet and his shirt pocket. He’d dressed in khakis and a loose shirt, and now he thought he didn’t look Hollywood enough. No mousse in his hair, no way-cool sunglasses. ‘I don’t have one on me. I must’ve given out the last one at Club Yes.’ This was another fancy strip club; he’d seen a billboard for it on the highway.

‘You must’ve,’ Tasha said, polite and unconvinced.

‘I’ll give Frank a call,’ Whit said. ‘Or does he have an assistant I should talk with?’ He patted his pockets again, as though gathering his thoughts. ‘See… you don’t want to commit to people that you have an interest in filming at their business. Get their hopes up if it’s not right. That’s why they call it scouting.’

‘Sure,’ Tasha said.

Whit realized he was overexplaining, talking too fast for much credibility. ‘My assistant did call club management earlier, though. She spoke with Eve? Eve Michaels?’ He made it a question.

‘Yeah. I know Eve,’ Tasha said. ‘But she’s not…’

‘Tasha,’ a voice rumbled behind Whit. ‘Your presence is requested upstairs.’ A wiry guy who looked rather corporate-drone for a strip-club employee walked past Whit’s chair, leaned down on the other side of Tasha, whispered to her. She nodded once, gave Whit her indulgent but professionally distant smile.

‘Excuse me. It was very nice meeting you, scout. Enjoy your evening at Club Topaz.’

‘Thank you, Tasha.’ She rose and walked past the wiry guy, who turned to leave.

Whit said, ‘Excuse me.’

The guy turned back to him and gave him a smile cold as ice. ‘Yes?’

‘I’d paid for her to sit with me for a bit,’ Whit said. ‘I believe I’m due a partial refund since you’ve whisked her away.’

‘Whisked,’ Cold Smile said. His bad-mood scowl deepened. ‘Sorry. No refunds.’

‘How about a favor instead?’ Whit said. ‘Where could I find Eve Michaels?’

Cold Smile sat down across from him.

‘I understand she’s involved in the management of the club,’ Whit said.

‘Not really. Why were you looking for her?’ Cold Smile did not have the look of a club thug. Nice suit, conservative haircut, a rep tie over a pale blue shirt. But a freshly swelling lip, like he’d taken a punch in the past hour.

‘What are you, her receptionist?’ Whit asked.

Now Cold Smile didn’t smile. ‘What’s your name? I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.’

‘Never mind my name. My business with her is private.’

Cold Smile looked at Whit as though trying to fit him into an odd equation. ‘Well, come with me, buddy. I’ll take you to her.’

Whit glanced through the strobing lights over at Gooch. Desire O’Malley, the wild Irish rose, shimmied out a lap dance for Gooch.

‘You want to go or not?’ Cold Smile said.

This was happening too fast. Being taken before his mother. But he thought of his dad and he stood up. His stomach felt like it was left behind in the chair.

‘This way,’ Cold Smile said and Whit followed him, moving past the velvet rope and upstairs toward the suites. Whit glanced back at Gooch, couldn’t see his friend’s face, obscured by Desire’s smooth back.

The second floor had the reddest, richest carpet that Whit had ever seen, and they made no noise as they went along a row of doors with gold numbers gleaming on them. Cold Smile knocked on number five, opened it, peered in.

Here we go, Whit thought, Hi, Mom. He followed Cold Smile inside.

But the room was empty.

Cold Smile grabbed the back of Whit’s neck in a pincer hold, working the nerves and carotid like dough with his other hand. Whit gasped, the air in his lungs thickening into jelly. One arm went around his throat. Then he felt the unwelcome jab of a gun into the small of his back.