Dark End Of The Street E-Book

Andrew Madigan

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Horvath works for the Firm. He's been sent to track down Van Dyke, who ran off with their money.

The morning after, he meets Lana. She’s also looking for someone, so they team up. He’s not sure if he can trust Lana, but he’s attracted to her. And she’s all he’s got.

The city is dirty, violent and corrupt. Run by the Syndicate, criminals control the police, the mayor and the city council. Horvath's leads don't seem to lead anywhere. 

He wanders through the city looking for clues, sipping espresso, drinking whiskey and popping aspirin like breath mints. Danger follows his every step, but he doesn’t carry a gun. That's his code; something his mentor, McGrath, taught him years ago.

But in a city that's too broken to fix, can Horvath put the pieces together?

Leseprobe

DARK END OF THE STREET

ANDREW MADIGAN

CONTENTS

1. Pounding The Pavement

2. Dead Men Are Heavier Than Broken Hearts

3. False Colored Eyes

4. You’ve Got To Move In A Straight Line

5. Man Walks Into A Bar

6. Pasties & Red Velvet

7. The Ant Hill

8. Night Train

9. Builds You Up, Just To Put You Down

10. The Woman in Red

11. Pulp

12. In A Quiet Place

13. The Kids Are Alright

14. Waiting For The Man

15. The Locked Room

16. Blood, Pus & Breakfast

17. One Lonely Night

18. Money

19. Jagged Skyline Of Car Keys

20. Dark End of the Street

21. All Too Human

22. Blood And Grits

23. Longshot

24. The Automat

25. The Moving Target

26. Kiss of Death

27. The Secret Room

28. Tough Guys Don’t Dance

29. The Thin Man

30. High and Low

31. Hard-boiled Wonderland

32. The High Window

33. Leaving Town

You may also like

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Andrew Madigan

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

“This book is dedicated to no one.”

1

POUNDING THE PAVEMENT

Horvath wakes to the sound of a head slamming against the concrete outside his window. The noise is dull and hollow. There’s no echo but you can feel it in your teeth and bones. There are sounds that can make a tough guy flinch. He put in a wake-up call last night, but this isn’t exactly what he had in mind.

At first it’s like a baseball hitting a brick wall at 90 mph. He thinks about this and sees the wind-up, the pitch and release. The impact. He imagines the ball, afterward, dropping to the ground as if exhausted from a long day’s work.

Then he sees the man’s dead eyes, the sweat, the pained rictus of his mouth. Arms and legs flopping like a ragdoll. And the other man, straddling a lifeless body. Clenched jaw, red eyes, bulging veins. Hands grabbing the man by the lapels, balled into fists as they pound him onto the unforgiving surface, again and again.

Horvath throws his legs over the side of the bed, scratches himself, yawns. Lights a cigarette.

He was dreaming of deep oceans and infinite deserts just a few minutes ago, and now this. Life’s not a dinner menu, he thinks. You don’t get to pick and choose, or place your order with a nice-looking waitress. No, they bring out any old thing and you have to eat it.

Two more head-slams, but the sound is different now. Softer and more precise. Like a musk melon whacked in half by a machete.

He can hear the man outside, breathing heavily. He can hear sweat drip down onto the pavement, blood pooling under the bodies. Or maybe it’s just his imagination.

And then everything goes quiet.

The man’s strength has suddenly drained, like motor oil into a drip pan. All you have to do is twist that nut and it all comes rushing out.

Horvath sees the limp arms and rubbery legs. Even his eyelids are exhausted. He knows how the guy feels. Like he hasn’t slept in years. Empty, useless, going in circles. Running on cigarettes, bourbon, and cold soup he doesn’t bother to reheat.

The man falls over, completely spent. He’s now splayed out over his friend as if they’re hugging. He makes some sort of noise, a soft moan.

The other man doesn’t make a sound.

Horvath gets up, stretches, makes a screechy noise as his fingertips reach for the ceiling.

One last puff before he crushes the cigarette into a square glass ashtray.

He looks over at the easy chair, where his wilting pants hang over the back. The belt is still attached, winding through the loops like an arm around someone’s waist.

Time to get dressed. He sighs into the gray pants.

Shoes, shirt, jacket. No tie.

Wallet, keys, wristwatch, spare change.

Lighter, smokes.

Ready to go.

The elevator is more like a coffin. Small, dark and airless. Depressing.

Silent and unmoving, the passengers are more like corpses than living breathing humans. In fact, most of them have already died. They just don’t know it yet.

Horvath presses the glowing L.

The doors shut, and the elevator moves.

The other passengers, a man and a woman, get off on the third floor.

There’s a jagged crack in the mirror, like a lightning bolt, and the silver is wearing away, so it’s more of a window than a looking glass. Anyway, he doesn’t like what he sees. He used to look like that famous actor, or at least his less-attractive cousin, but now, when he looks at himself in a mirror, Horvath sees a child’s drawing. The lurching caretaker of a haunted house, or a man released from the hospital a few days too early.

A tarnished brass plaque reads THE EXECUTIVE in a cursive script that’s so ornate it’s almost impossible to read. Horvath laughs soundlessly. No executives ever stayed in this dump, not in the last 20 years anyway.

This is the type of hotel where people don’t stay the night. They stay for an hour, or they live here for weeks, months, maybe years. Some of them die here. Or they hide out until it’s safe, then get dressed and walk down the street with a spring in their step, whistling on old tune until someone slips up behind them and sticks a knife in their back.

He lights up at the exact moment he sees the NO SMOKING sign. Actually, it says N_ SMOKING. The O has been melted off, incinerated. And the rest of the sign is scarred with cigarette burns, like an abused housewife who’s going to do something about it one of these days.

2

DEAD MEN ARE HEAVIER THAN BROKEN HEARTS

It’s still dark out.

The sky is gray, like a sidewalk after it rains.

Like those flannel pants my boss used to wear. He stops at the curb and takes a thoughtful drag, looking out across the sleeping city.

Mr. Lazlo. Regional Assistant Manager of Dominion Enterprises. Leslie Lazlo. Old Les.

Always wore a hat, carried an umbrella. And that stupid tie clip. What a prick.

That was my last real job. Good riddance, he says, not quite sure if he means it.

He looks at his watch. I’m never on the right schedule. Up before dawn, or still up when the sun comes out.

No one’s around. The streets are empty. There’s a telephone pole across the road, straight and tall like a finger raised to the lips telling you to be quiet. Even the rats and mice have scurried off somewhere. They don’t want to be around when the cops got here. They’ve got better things to do than drink stale coffee and repeat the same story a hundred times until the detectives are satisfied.

Horvath walks around to the side of the building.

Nothing’s moving around here, not yet, but somehow he can feel the newspaper trucks shuffling through the potholed streets, bakers rolling out dough, an aging streetwalker pouring herself a nightcap and telling herself a bedtime story. His eyesight’s so good he can see things that aren’t even there.

He walks a half-block down the west side of the hotel and turns right into an alley. Stained mattress, blue dumpster, couple trash bags next to it. The smell of rotten milk and even more rotten garlic. A screen door bangs shut.

The body sits there quiet and still, like he’s having his portrait painted.

But there’s no artist around here, not even a beret.

Horvath walks down the alleyway. In his mind the ground was made of concrete, but in reality it’s asphalt. He finds this unsettling for reasons he doesn’t understand.

The soles of his shoes stick to the gummy blacktop.

The stiff is at his feet now. He looks up to the third floor and sees the chalk mark on his windowpane. McGrath taught him that. So you always know where you are, even when you’re on the outside looking in.

One last drag before flicking the butt against the brick wall. It lands next to a pair of rusty tin cans, standing around like a couple of old ladies arguing over a piece of fruit in the market.

He walks to the dumpster and opens the top.

Horvath pushes his jacket sleeves up a few inches, bends down, and grabs the guy by the wrists. He drags him back a few feet. Not too bad, he thinks. 180, 190. He remembers a rolled up rug in Cincinnati, couple years ago. His lower back remembers, too.

He drags the body over to the dumpster, puts his hands on his hips, and takes a few breaths. I’m getting too old for this. This guy’s not a tackling dummy and I’m not on the JV football squad.

He gets down low, like a defensive linesman. It takes some doing, but he manages to hoist the body over his shoulder. Take it easy. Lift with your legs. There you go. He smiles and tosses the body into the mouth of the dumpster. I’ve got a few good years in me yet.

I could use a shot of whiskey, a good stiff belt.

This is the chorus to a song that’s stuck in his head.

He grabs a few trash bags, a couple beer bottles, a hubcap, tosses it all into the dumpster. Newspapers, coffee cups, a broken umbrella that looks like a dead crow. Three stacks of old magazines tied up with frayed twine. A paper bag with hamburger wrappers inside, balled up and wrinkled like the stone of a plum.

He peeks inside the dumpster. There’s a paint-splattered tarp at the guy’s feet. He leans in, grabs it, spreads it out over the legs, which were still visible under the trash. There. You can’t see him now. He’s basically not even here. With any luck, the garbage men won’t notice and he’ll get to the city dump without anyone being the wiser.

Horvath looks down at his hands. They’re covered in a sticky film of blood and something that makes him think of egg yolks. Pus? Internal organs? He doesn’t know much about the inner workings of a human body but pictures it like a small suitcase, each item packed neat and tidy, everything in its proper place. Socks sleeping inside the shoes, clean shirts on top.

He smells his hands, but that doesn’t tell him anything, so he wipes them on his pants.

The dry cleaning bill. He tries not to think about it.

Awake now, the sun is just starting to peak through the blinds, and Horvath has already put in a full day’s work. Or at least it seems that way.

Hunger is a stranger’s fist pounding insistently at the door.

He heads uptown and stops at a coffee shop on 5th and De Lucca for bacon, eggs, and two slices of crispy toast. He’s earned it.

3

FALSE COLORED EYES

He scans the menu, just to make sure.

The waitress, green notepad in hand, skulks over.

“I’ll have #37.” He points to the item, even though she’s not looking.

She nods, scribbles in her pad, steps over to the chrome counter.

The cook is bending over a skillet. He looks up at Horvath. It’s still early, but his apron is as dirty as a butcher’s at the end of a hard day’s slaughter.

The waitress shouts, slapping the flimsy paper onto the silver carousel.

There’s nothing to do while he waits for the coffee, not even an abandoned newspaper to read.

Horvath is looking for a distraction when she walks in. The first thing he’s aware of is the stabbing of dagger heels on the tiled floor.

She sits at the counter, four stools down.

He moves his eyes without turning his head. Midnight blue skirt, just above the knee. It wraps tightly around her waist. Like coarse hands circling your throat, he thinks. Yellow blouse, primly buttoned to the neck. But there’s nothing prim about her eyes, which tell you she knows all the four-letter words even if she’s not going to say them out loud.

Pale green eyes with a band of gray around the outside. Red lips, like every other space on a roulette wheel. Dark brown hair tied up on top, with a few loose strands teasing the back of her neck. Fingernails painted that same casino red.

Seems familiar. Do I know her?

He flips through a Rolodex of women’s faces, but comes up empty. The faces are all starting to look the same.

Not this one, though. I’d remember her. She stands out like a clown at a state funeral. A real heartbreaker. Knows I’m looking at her even though she can’t see me. I can read it in her shoulders, her crossed legs, in the slim fingers touching that brooch pinned to her blouse.

The coffee arrives, eventually. Like the cavalry galloping in after all the foot soldiers have already been killed.

Horvath tries to remember if he’s ever been heartbroken. Don’t think so. My arms have been fractured. Couple ribs. Collarbone and nose, but no heart problems. I don’t stick around long enough for that. He dreams a dream that he’d be too embarrassed to confess, even to himself.

When the food comes, he digs in as if he hasn’t eaten for weeks.

Before she says anything, he feels her leaning over, senses the change in her breathing.

“Excuse me.”

He turns.

“Can you pass the salt?”

“Sure. Here you go.” He slides it down the slick counter.

He can feel the cook watching. His eyes are all over them, like the wet rag he uses to mop up spills.

She salts her eggs, then holds up the shaker with a wave. “Want it back?”

“Keep it. I’m good.”

She gives him the once-over, twice. “Lana.”

“Hi, Lana.”

“No, Lana, like the actress.”

“Oh right, her.”

“You a movie buff?”

“Not really.”

“What are you into, then?”

“Books.”

“You like to read?”

“Yeah.” He forks bacon into his mouth, on a mattress of runny eggs. Washes it down with black coffee. Bitter, but it gets the job done.

“What do you like to read, comic books?”

He laughs, turns his head.

Her smile is so thin it almost doesn’t exist. Horvath thinks of teachers, politicians, and men of god. Always speaking, but when you try to grab hold of their words, there’s nothing there. It all crumbles to dust in your hands.

“No, real books. Literature.”

“Oh, well. La-di-da. Didn’t know I was dealing with such a scholar.”

He laughs, for real this time. “I also like mystery, crime, westerns…”

“The whole kit and caboodle, huh? Well, I’ll leave you to it.” She pauses. “Sorry to bother you, professor.”

“It’s no bother.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Lana gives him a bigger smile, like you might hand a couple quarters to a bum. “What’d you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.”

He moves one seat down, tells her his name.

“It suits you, I guess.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Her eyebrows leap. “If you insist.”

Lana was a real looker. No one could argue with that. But there’s something in her eyes. Horvath can see it, clear as day, even though she tries to hide it. She might be talking to me, but she’s thinking about something else. Or someone else.

“Never seen you in here before,” she says.

“New in town.”

She nods, sips her tea.

He mops up the remainders of breakfast with the last wedge of toast, which isn’t so crispy anymore. The silver Greyhound bus pulls into his memory. He ate peanuts, read, and stared out the window through six identical states. Ripped seat cushions and squalid train station bathrooms. Payphones dressed in graffiti, with a Yellow Pages that pulled a runner and a silver cord with no receiver at the end. He can still hear the wiry man behind him, rocking in his seat and muttering to himself all the way from Bucks County, PA to Beckley, West Virginia.

“So, you a regular here?” Horvath swallows the dregs of his coffee.

“Yeah, more or less. I come in sometimes.”

“Well—” He pays the bill, with 25¢ extra for the waitress. For all the hard work she didn’t do and all the charm she didn’t have. “—Maybe I’ll pop back in one of these days.”

“Lucky me.”

Now it was his turn for a narrow smile, more of a rumor than a cold hard fact.

4

YOU’VE GOT TO MOVE IN A STRAIGHT LINE

Horvath steps outside and looks both ways, but he has no idea where to go.

He’s been doing a lot of walking for the past few months, ever since the repo men snatched his car, a ’54 Chevy Bel Air. They came in the dead of night, when he was shooting pool over at Duff’s. He loved that car, even if the transmission’s shot.

He doesn’t feel like himself, a stranger in a new town. The people walk a little different, talk a little different. Their clothes are a bit off, and even the way they drink coffee isn’t quite right. The buildings look down at him, sneering as if they know something he doesn’t.

He tries to blend in, but it’s not easy. Walking around town, he can feel their eyes burn into his back. They know he’s not from around here.

His back aches and his feet are covered in blisters. He hasn’t worn holes through the bottom of his shoes, not yet anyway, but he does feel about half an inch shorter.

Man alive, the blisters. Horvath considers himself a fairly tough customer, but he’s got the skin of a baby calf. Rowing a boat, raking leaves, walking around in new shoes—his hands and feet get sore and rip open at the slightest aggravation.

5

MAN WALKS INTO A BAR

Horvath has time to kill so he starts walking uptown, blisters be damned.

It’s early spring. The sun is shining, birds are singing, flowers are in bloom, all that pretty stuff.

Full belly, fresh pack of smokes, sun on his face. What more could a guy want?

He stops in a record store and starts flipping through through the albums lined up in wooden bins. He’s been meaning to buy the new one from that young guy. Beard, steely gaze. Washington Somethingorother. Or maybe Somethingorother Washington.

A clerk is walking by. He’s got one of those faces that Horvath just can’t stand. Prim little mouth, upturned chin, untrustworthy eyes. Hair that spends too much time in front of the mirror, admiring itself. He’s got black-framed glasses, a little mustache, and a hat perched on the side of his head like a guy who’s about to jump off a building.

He stops the clerk, against his better judgment. “Excuse me.”

“What is it?”

The way he says this, it sounds more like Why the hell are you bothering me? I got things to do, places to be.

“I’m looking for a record.”

The clerk gives him a no-shit glare.

“Washington…something. Young jazz player. Alto sax, maybe.”

The clerk is silent, inspecting his nails. Guy works in a record store, but he thinks he’s the King of Siam.

“I heard good things.”

“I have no idea.” The clerk sighs. “I mean, Washington’s a really common name, you know? Especially for jazz musicians.”

He’s lucky I haven’t been drinking, Horvath thinks. And that I’m not in the mood for any rough stuff.

“It’s the name of a city, too.” The clerk walks off toward the back room. He’s got teeth to polish, lines to memorize.

He thinks of all the Washingtons he’s passed through. Charmless, forgettable little nothing towns. Dirty, foul, rat-infested sewers. Feral beasts covered in grime and corruption instead of fur. Of course, there’s also Washington, DC, the filthiest town of all.

They’ve got a whole section of Lester Young. That’s a good sign.

He grabs the record Young made with Roy Eldridge and Harry Edison and heads for the listening booth. A peroxide blonde smiles at him from the blues aisle, but he’s not in the mood for small talk. And from the looks of her, the talk would be pretty damn small.

The first side starts to spin. When the needle hits the groove, Horvath thinks of a trolley car rolling across town on steel tracks.

Lester Young could blow sax like other men breathe. He didn’t follow a path. When he played, it was like a Chrysler racing down the side of a mountain. You always felt it would spin out of control, though it rarely did.

He didn’t bother with Side 2. There’s no way it could live up to the first half.

On the way out he sees the blonde, who’s sizing up a tall thin man looking at R&B singles.

The clerk looks over at Horvath and scrunches his eyebrows like a couple of hedgehogs wrestling. Cheap bastard, he thinks. Didn’t even buy a newspaper.

It’s time for a drink so Horvath turns left and heads downtown. The streets are dirtier but the whiskey’s cheaper. That’s a pretty good trade-off, as far as he’s concerned.

Smith’s Tavern. The locals probably call it Smittie’s.

He pushes through the front door and takes a seat at the bar.

The place is dark, nearly empty. It’s quiet and there aren’t a lot of pictures on the walls. Just the way he likes it.

Two young men huddle at a table by the window, heads together, wearing faces they borrowed from a gangster movie. They think they’re a couple of tough guys. He sees a bulge under the arm, where a holster should be.

An older woman sits alone at the end of the bar. She stares at the empty glass in front of her the way you’d look at a man’s suit hanging in the closet after he died. She’s falling fast and one of these days she’s going to hit rock bottom.

The bartender’s standing there, looking down at Horvath.

“Whiskey, neat.”

The bartender makes the smallest movement that would count as a nod. He follows this by reaching down to the rail for a bottle of rye without taking his eyes off the customer.

“You got a jukebox?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good.”

It takes a couple seconds, but the bartender smiles.

He has a few drinks, but not a few too many. He needs to keep his wits about him.

He thinks about that Lester Young record. Would’ve been nice, but he’s running low on cash. And he likes to travel light. Only a sucker walks around all day with a shopping bag. Never know when you might need your hands.

After the first drink, Horvath starts thinking about the stiff he dumped in the trash bin.

They told me there’d be bodies. This is a bad town, and everybody knows it.

Wasn’t my guy. That much I know. But who was he? Didn’t have an ID or billfold.

What does it have to do with me? Nothing, maybe. Could be a coincidence.

But no, Horvath doesn’t believe in those.

Happened right outside my window. Did they see the chalk mark? Were they trying to tell me something? Maybe it was a message, a little postcard sealed in blood.

I better check in. He raises his chin at the bartender, who sees him but doesn’t move an inch. He’s got a newspaper in his mitts, pretending to read it.

After a few long seconds, the bartender puts down the paper and walks over real slow like he’s got anvils where his feet should be. He yawns, leans against the bar, looks down at Horvath with eyes like crosshairs.

He says nothing the way other men say Yeah, this better be good.

What is it with bartenders?

“Whaddya need, pal?”

“You got a payphone?”

“Yeah, in back.” He jerks his head over his shoulder.

Horvath sees a dark hallway behind the bar.

“Change for a dollar?”

The bartender makes change, begrudgingly, and slaps it on the bar. “Want me to take the air out of your glass?”

“Sure, make it a double this time.”

The bartender pours the drink, pushes it forward.

“Say, you Smith?”

He looks at Horvath with dead eyes.

“You know, Smith’s Tavern. You the owner?”

The bartender shakes his head. “There ain’t no Smith, far as I know.”

“It’s just a name, huh? Doesn’t mean anything?”

“Something like that. Guy named Childers runs the place.” The bartender aims the double barrel of his eyes at Horvath. “Why you wanna know?”

“Just curious.”

The men are quiet now, but the bartender doesn’t back away.

“Thanks for the drink.”

The bartender nods, shuffles back to his paper.

He downs the whiskey, hops off the barstool, and walks around the bar. One of the young men by the window looks over for a second, but then goes back to his conversation. The old woman doesn’t even notice he’s there. Just keeps staring at that empty glass.

Dartboard, cigarette machine, ashtray that needs to be dumped.

Big empty room off to the left. He remembers the old days, when women weren’t allowed in the bar. Had to sit in a side room if they wanted a drink.

He walks down the hallway, decorated in early Mildew with accents of Water Damage and Wood Rot. I guess you’d call the style Eclectic. They keep the lights dim so you can’t see just how decrepit the place really is.

At the end of the hallway, there’s a sliver of light coming from a small room. He puts his ear to the door. Two men are talking, arguing. Maybe there’s three of them. Silence walks in when they stop to drink.

Phone’s on the wall, to his right. He puts in a couple dimes and calls Ungerleider, his contact at the firm.

It’s a short call. Ungerleider doesn’t have much to say because he never does. To him, a couple grunts is like a Shakespeare play. Horvath keeps it short, too. He’s just checking in. Telling them what he knows, which isn’t much, and seeing if they have any new information. They don’t.

He hangs up and checks the slot for change. Empty.

The boys in the back room are still quiet. It must be time to shut up, sit back and drink. He smiles. After a few more rounds they’ll be arguing again, and then the fists will come out to play.

He lights up and leans back against the wall. There’s one thing he didn’t tell Ungerleider. He found something in the alley, near the body. A clue.

That’s another thing McGrath taught him—always hold something back, just in case.

Plus, he isn’t sure it’s a clue, not yet. He needs to poke his nose around first. Life is filled with leads that turn into nothing but dead-ends.

6

PASTIES & RED VELVET

Horvath goes back to the Executive, takes off his suit, and lays down on the bed. The mattress is old and thin, and it doesn’t smell very good, but that doesn’t keep him from falling asleep.

When he wakes up the sun is taking its own nap.

Horvath skipped lunch and slept through dinner.

He walks over to the sink, splashes cool water on his face, dries himself with a coarse white towel.

Time to have another look at that clue, if that’s what it is.

In his pants pocket, a small sheet of paper. Pale blue with lines. Ripped across the top and folded in quarters.

It says R. Johnson, with a local phone number. Shaky handwriting. A man’s, he guesses.

There’s a phone book on the bedside table. He flips through it. 14 Johnsons, but none of them R’s.

He tries the last number. Johnson, no first name.

The number’s been disconnected. A dead-end. He’s not surprised, but it usually takes longer before he runs out of options.

Time for dinner. He could use a thick steak and a baked potato. Maybe a bowl of stew. Couple whiskeys, too. All that food could use a bath.

He gets dressed, combs his hair, and whistles a Pharaoh Sanders tune as he walks out the door.

In the elevator he sees a business card jammed into the corner of the mirror frame. An outline of a nude woman sitting in a giant martini glass. He thinks about the leggy brunette from the coffee shop.

He punches the L and waits.

The elevator stops at the second floor, but no one’s there.

Something clicks in Horvath’s mind. He looks back at the card.

Ron Johnson’s Paradise City.

R. Johnson. He pulls the paper out of his pocket and checks the number. It’s the same.

Not such a dead-end after all.

He grabs the business card and stuffs it into the breast pocket of his suitcoat. Looks like he’ll have to pay them a visit.

But first he needs a little fuel.

Dinner’s perfect. Strong whiskey and a steak so rare it’s practically wearing a bell around its neck.

His meal came with with greens on the side, which made Horvath feel like a regular health nut. Pretty soon, he thinks, I’ll be eating dandelions and sitting cross-legged on a pillow.

Outside, he walks to the corner and sticks out his arm.

Cab pulls over a few seconds later.

He gets in back, leans forward, holds up the business card. “You know where this is?”

The driver squints, moves the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “Yeah. Uptown.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

“20 minutes. More with traffic.”

Horvath pulls out a couple bills, hands them to the driver. “Make it 15.”

“You got it, buddy.”

The cabbie doesn’t seem like he’s in a hurry. Sticks to the speed limit, stays in one lane, doesn’t run any yellows. But 12 minutes later there’s a big flashy sign and that woman swimming like an olive in a martini glass.

Guy knew it wouldn’t take 20 minutes, or 30. Horvath shakes his head. Everybody’s working the angles.

Nightclubs everywhere you look. The whole strip is covered in neon and blinking lights.

Horvath gets out of the cab and walks toward the glowing entrance. There’s so much wattage here the rest of the town must have a lightbulb shortage.

He hands the doorman a buck and goes inside.

There’s a small bar to his left, sort of a tiki lounge. Women in grass skirts and flowers in their hair serve overpriced cocktails to fat salesmen from Toledo and Jeff City. He’s been here a million times before, in other towns.

He goes straight, down a long narrow hallway.

At the end is a lobby, with a cloakroom off to the right. A girl in a low-cut top stands behind a wooden counter, smiling for tips. A single lightbulb hangs from the ceiling, buzzing.

There are framed photos on the wall, but he doesn’t recognize any of the faces.

To the left, a small café or restaurant with a half-dozen round tables. A handful of gray suits are sitting alone. Eating, drinking, smoking. Nobody talks. A heavy chandelier hangs from the ceiling like a bad memory.

He nods to the coat-check girl and keeps moving. Another hallway, not quite as dark.

Bathroom. Stairs to the second floor. Supply closet. Phone booth.

He keeps walking.

Elbow-high table, with a banker’s lamp. To the side, a doorway and red velvet curtain.

A big man in a dark suit and bulging forehead stands there gawking at Horvath like the caveman days are still in full swing.

“Are you…here for…the enter-tain-ment, sir?”

This is the show, he thinks. Gorilla in a suit who can sound out words.

“Sure. What kind of show is it, exactly?”

“A bur-le, bur-le. It’s an…all-nude revue, sir.”

“Sounds good. How much?”

“Two dollars.”

Horvath slips him a few extra. “Mr. Johnson in tonight?”

The amazing talking gorilla looks up and to the right, but just for a second. “No, sir.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Say, you got anything else going on tonight? You know, aside from the revue?”

The man stares at him like he’s speaking Ancient Greek, or English.

“Anything…a little more special?”

The man stares at him long and hard. “Nothing like that, sir. Enjoy the show.”

He parts the velvet curtain and Horvath walks inside.

The tables are even smaller here, with a little lamp in the middle of each one. The lampshades are red velvet, just like the curtains, but with gold tassels.

It’s a big room, size of a football field.

A cigarette girl walks by smiling like she’s got three rows of teeth, maybe four.

The hostess greets him, walks him to a table. The hem of her fake silk dress is so short he can see all the way up to Altoona, where she grew up.

He picks up the cocktail menu. Fake leather, gold tassel. This place has so much class they’ve got to cram some of it in storage, or at least that’s what they want you to think.

When Horvath opens the menu and looks at the prices, he gets whiplash. Who pays that much for a drink? Christ, hope they reimburse me for this. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a jar of aspirin. He twists it open, shakes a handful into his palm, throws them down.

“Want a chaser with that, sir?”

He looks up at the waitress, who’s wearing the same get-up as the hostess, only shorter. “Good one. Are you the next act?”

“I could be.”

She smiles at him, but it’s the kind of smile that makes you want to take a shower afterward.

“What can I get you?”

“Singapore Sling.”

“Anything else, sir?” Her drinks tray is painted with wet circles.

“No, that’ll do it. If I need something else, I’ll talk to my bank manager and see about a loan.”

This time the smile is clean, and real. He can almost see the girl she used to be, before she wandered into this place.

The music starts and, a few moments later, the stage curtains open.

The men clap politely until the dancer struts out in a gold lamé dress. Busty redhead with good legs and a cruel mouth. A dim spotlight follows her around.

Without warning, the music gets louder and the stage lights explode. Now you can see a three-piece set up in a corner of the stage. The drummer looks like he’s sleeping. A cigarette, dangling from the corner of his mouth, wears pajamas and a nightcap.

The gold dress doesn’t stay on for long.

Clapping gets louder. A few hoots and hollers.

Silver bikini comes and goes.

Now she’s standing there in pasties, swinging those tassels like her life depends on it. And maybe it does.

The tassels are gold, just like on the menu. Real class.

“Here you go, sir.”

The waitress lingers, for a tip.

Horvath slides a bill into her palm.

“Johnson still run this place?”

“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”

“Let me guess. You just keep your mouth shut and serve drinks?”

“Well, I do a lot more than that.”

“I’ll bet.”

The waitress raises an eyebrow, empty drink tray at her hip. She’s looking for another tip, or maybe a side job.

“So who is your boss? He around?”

“Sorry, sir. I’ve got other tables.”

The waitress walks away and the exotic dancer takes off what’s left of her outfit.

The audience claps and whistles. The men slap each other on the back. They’re really living the high life.

One highball and two dancers later, Horvath sees his waitress across the room whispering to a stocky guy in a cheap suit. Muscle, by the looks of him.

She points in his direction and the guy looks over.

Time to leave.

A dancer floats across the stage on a cloud of cigarette smoke, or maybe hidden wires.

He moves quickly, but not so you could tell. Head down, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Passing the cloakroom, he speeds up and thinks of McGrath. Don’t check your coat. That was another one of his favorites. You never know when you’ll have to make a fast exit, so travel light and keep your coat handy.

Not that he needs one tonight. Outside, the heat’s gone down but somebody turned the humidity all the way up. This town is no picnic, that’s for sure.

There aren’t any taxies at the curb so he turns right and starts walking.

At the main road he takes a left and blends in with the crowd. The sidewalks are full of smiling people going nowhere.

After three blocks he stops and looks in a storefront window. Squadrini’s Hardware. Hammers and chisels are on sale.

Couple goons are on his tail. Not the doorman gorilla, but two of his cousins. Chimps, maybe.

Whoever they are, they’re not pros. Following too close. Staring right at me. Flashy ties, like they’re in Miami or someplace. Suits are too tight. You can see their pieces bulging out like goiters. He shakes his head. That’s how you draw heat from the boys in blue. Stupid.

Or maybe they own the police. Got ‘em under their thumb. No need to hide anything.

He walks another few blocks, crosses against the light, turns a corner.

The goons are struggling to keep up. They’re running across the intersection, or trying to. Their species can only stand upright for so long.

He double-times it down a side street. Newsstand, pawn shop, tobacconist.

It’s a short block. Wino stands on the corner like a wobbly street sign.

After the first cross street, he looks back. The muscle has just rounded the corner. It’s dark and the streets are thick with cars. They might not see him yet.