Crang Mysteries 4-Book Bundle. Jack Batten

dancer. The shouting solidified into a chant. “Shower,” the men pleaded. There was a shower stall at the rear of the stage closest to the stand-up bar on the right side. It had clear glass walls and an intricate arrangement of nozzles and tubes. The woman stepped into the stall. A cheer went up from the front tables.

      “That padlock on the gate, I saw ones like that a hundred times before,” James said. He had the binoculars back on the Ace property.

      “Add up the time for me,” I said. “How long will it take you to open the gate and get through the door into the building?”

      “The padlock, that’s a wire job, twenty seconds,” James said. He was looking through the glasses as he talked. “I go across the path they got there and work on the box over the door. Three, four minutes for it, putting in the bypass wire. So that’s only the lock on the door that’s left. I don’t know, couple more minutes. I can’t tell what kind of lock it is.”

      Water sprayed over the woman in the shower stall onstage. She held a nozzle in her hand and aimed the shooting water at her breasts. Her face was raised to the ceiling and her expressions let the fans at the front tables know she’d achieved a higher form of ecstasy. Her breasts shone in the water. I estimated her brassiere size at 38C.

      “What’d you think?” James asked.

      I said, “I think if she performs that shower routine four or five times a night, she keeps squeaky clean.”

      “About the job,” James said. He had an annoyed edge to his voice.

      “You’re talking seven minutes,” I said. “Is that too long to be exposed out there?”

      “Won’t be exposed to anybody after this joint’s closed down and everybody’s gone home,” James said. “No reason for traffic at night around here.”

      “True,” I said. “What about night patrol cars? Do the security people who put in the burglar alarm check up on their customers’ property?”

      “How ’bout we stay here and watch?”

      “How ’bout we do?”

      The woman stepped from her shower and dried herself off with a small blue towel that didn’t seem adequate to the task. She retrieved her nurse’s whites and left the stage. Her place was taken by a woman in a long diaphanous gown and a panty girdle.

      James and I had two more rounds of Coke and vodka, and in the forty-five minutes we sat at the table, no patrol cars cruised past Ace’s property. Traffic in and out of the Majestic’s parking lot remained brisk. So did the parade of young women on and off the club’s stage.

      “Nothing’s happening,” James said at eleven-thirty. We finished our drinks and walked out the front door.

      Outside, away from the pounding music and the thick cigarette smoke, the night was still and sweet. We turned the corner of the club and stepped into the parking lot. One row of cars over, two men were standing beside the white Volks. A tall guy in a jean jacket had his hands in his pockets and was listening to the other man, who was talking and waving his arms. The talker had a thick beard and a bulky build. It was the Ace driver I’d defeated by a TKO on Bathurst Street. I took James’ arm and stepped behind a maroon Volvo.

      “Those two guys by my car,” I said, “go over and tell them the car’s owner is inside on the pay phone.”

      James looked across the lot.

      “Sure,” he said.

      “Tell them something’s spooked the guy on the phone and he’s calling a cab and wants it fast.”

      “What if they ask how come I’m telling them this stuff?”

      “Say you’ve got a beef with the guy,” I said. “And tell the bearded guy you know it’s him the guy on the phone’s trying to steer clear of.”

      James walked across the parking lot to the two men by the Volks. My former adversary stared at James. He heard James out, and as he listened, his jaws began to work. Froth at the mouth and drool in his beard ought to follow any minute. The guy was aching for a return bout with me. He turned away from James and took a step in the direction of the club. The guy in the jean jacket grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. Jean-jacket did the talking. He held the floor and the bearded guy listened. Jean-jacket switched his line of patter to James. He was firing questions. James answered. He looked assured. Nothing moved except his lips. No fidgets, no nervous body language. James stood his ground. The tall guy in the jean jacket and the fat man with the beard looked at one another and walked away from James. They broke into a run and cut behind the back of the Majestic.

      “Nice,” I said to James when I reached the Volks. “Lot of finesse, James.”

      “The tall guy didn’t go for it at the first,” James said.

      “He went for it at the last,” I said.

      I turned the key in the ignition, switched on the headlights, and backed the car out of the parking slot.

      James said, “Those guys are pissed off at you.”

      I drove down the row of cars to the front of the lot and stopped to let two cars go by on the street.

      “Not both guys,” I said. “The guy with the beard.”

      I turned right. The front door of the Majestic banged open. I had the Volks in low gear. Someone was running from the Majestic toward the street. I pressed the accelerator.

      “Here comes the tall guy,” James said.

      I said, “Didn’t fool him long enough.”

      The tall man in the jean jacket was going full tilt. At the rate he was covering the ground, he’d reach the road before I was past the Majestic. I had two options, stop or step on the accelerator and risk smacking into the tall guy. He slid into the street and threw up his arms in front of the Volks. There went option number two. I stopped.

      “You see the other guy?” I said to James. “The fat one with the beard?”

      “Just coming out the front door,” James said.

      The tall man stood in the lights of the car and looked back toward the Majestic. He was waiting for his friend. I couldn’t wait. One guy I might have a chance of handling if James pitched in. Not two.

      The top was still down on the car and I shouted at the tall man over the windshield.

      “Hey you, stringbean,” I said, “you want some of what I gave your fat pal the other day?”

      With my left hand I turned the handle on the door and opened it a crack.

      “You’re asking for a broken head, asshole,” the tall man said. He walked out of the headlights toward my side of the car.

      I said to James, “Where’s fatso now?”

      “Halfway to us.”

      The tall man reached my door. His hands were set to grab me. I swung the door open fast. It caught the tall man in the right kneecap and just below his ribs. He fell on the road. I slammed the door shut.

      “Fat guy’s coming quick,” James said.

      The tall man rolled over on the pavement. He didn’t know whether to grab his kneecap or his stomach. He was moaning.

      I pushed the accelerator and the rear tires squealed.

      “Fat guy’s gone crazy,” James said. His voice was louder.

      I glanced to my right and saw the guy with the beard launch himself at the car. His arms were stretched in front of him as if he were diving, and his feet had left the ground. I pulled the steering wheel hard to the left. The man with the beard thudded into the door on James’ side. I straightened the steering wheel and the car kept moving.

      “Bet he left a dent,” James said.

      I looked back. The bearded man was on