“Relax. I recognized you as soon as you came in the door.”
“You did?”
“I follow basketball. I got season tickets to the Dragons.”
“I see.” The Dragons were New Jersey’s pro basketball team. Myron had tried a comeback with them not long ago.
“That’s why I approached you.”
“To see if I was into, uh, gender ambiguity?”
“Everyone else there is. Why not you?”
“But I explained to you that I was there to ask about someone.”
“Clu Haid, right. Still, your reaction to me was interesting.”
“I found you to be a witty conversationalist,” Myron said.
“Uh-huh.”
“And I also have a Julie-Newmar-as-Cat-Woman fetish.”
“You’d be surprised how many people have that same fetish.”
“No, I don’t think I would be,” Myron said. “So why are you here, Nancy?”
“Pat saw us talking last night.”
“The bartender?”
“He’s also one of the owners. He has shares in a couple of places in the city.”
“And?”
“And after the smoke cleared from your exit, Pat pulled me aside.”
“Because he saw us talking?”
“Because he saw me giving you my phone number.”
“So?”
“So I’d never done that before.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. I’m just making a point. I come on to a ton of girls and guys and whatever in there. But I never give out a phone number.”
“So why did you give it to me?”
“Because I was curious to see if you’d call. You rebuffed Thrill, so you clearly weren’t there for sex. I wondered what you were up to.”
Myron frowned. “That was the only reason?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing about my rugged good looks and brawny body?”
“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot.”
“So what did Pat want?”
“He wants me to bring you to another club tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“How did he know I’d call?” Again the smile. “Nancy Sinclair might not guarantee an immediate phone call …”
“But Thrill does?”
“Bosoms are empowerment. And if you didn’t, he told me I could look up your business number in the phone book.”
“Which is what you did.”
“Yes. He also promised me you wouldn’t be hurt.”
“How comforting. And your interest in all this?”
“Isn’t it obvious? A story. The Clu Haid murder is huge news. Now you’re tying this week’s murder-of-the-century to a kinky New York nightclub.”
“I don’t think I can help you.”
“Cow dooky.”
“Cow dooky?”
She shrugged.
“What else did Pat say to you?” Myron asked.
“Nothing much. He just said that he wanted to talk.”
“If he wanted to talk, he could have looked up my phone number too.”
“Thrill, not the brightest bulb on the tree, didn’t pick up on that.”
“But Nancy Sinclair did.”
She smiled again. It was a damn nice smile. “Pat was also huddled up with Zorra.”
“Who?”
“That’s their psycho bouncer. A cross-dresser with a blond wig.”
“Like Veronica Lake?”
She nodded. “He’s absolutely nuts. Lift up your shirt.”
“Pardon?”
“He can do anything with that razor heel. His favorite is a Z slash on the right side. You were in the back room with him.”
Made sense. Myron hadn’t made him miss. Zorra—Zorra?—just wanted to brand him. “I have one.”
“He’s seriously whacked out. Did some sort of stuff in the Persian Gulf War. Undercover. Worked for the Israelis too. There are all kinds of rumors about him, but if five percent of the stories I’ve heard are true, he’s killed dozens.”
Just what he needed—Cross-Dressing Mossad. “Did they talk about Clu at all?”
“No. But Pat said something about your trying to kill somebody.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“They think I killed Clu?”
“I don’t think so. It sounded more like they thought you were at the club to find someone and kill him.”
“Who?”
“No idea. They just said you were out to kill him.”
“They didn’t say who?”
“If they did, I didn’t hear them.” She smiled. “So do we have a date?”
“Guess so.”
“You’re not scared?”
“I’ll have backup.”
“Someone good?”
Myron nodded. “Oh, yeah.”
“Then I better go home and strap up my breasts.”
“Need any help?”
“My hero. But no, Myron, I think I can handle it myself.”
“And if you can’t?”
“I have your phone number,” she said. “See you tonight.”
Chapter 21
Win frowned. “Nonsurgical breast enhancements?”
“Yes. They’re an accessory of some sort.”
“An accessory? Like a matching pocketbook?”
“In a way.” Then thinking about it, Myron added, “But they’re probably more noticeable.”
Win showed him the flat eyes. Myron shrugged.
“False advertising,” Win said.
“Pardon?”
“Breast enhancements. It’s false advertising. There should be a law.”
“Right, Win. But the politicians in Washington—where are they when it comes to the real issues?”
“Then you understand.”
“I understand that you’re a snorting pig.”
“A thousand pardons, O Enlightened One.” Win put a hand to his ear and tilted his head to the side. “Tell me again, Myron: What first attracted you to this Thrill?”
“The catsuit,” Myron said.
“I see. So if, say, Big Cyndi came into the office in the catsuit—”
“Hey, c’mon, I just ate a muffin.”
“Exactly.”
“Fine, I’m a pig too. Happy?”
“Yes, ecstatic. And perhaps you misread me. Perhaps I wish to outlaw such accessories because of what they do to a woman’s self-esteem. Perhaps I tire of a society that forces unobtainable beauty on a woman—size four dresses with D cups.”