Read Online Extreme Justice by William Bernhardt - Free Book Online
Authors: William Bernhardt
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made a mental note to give it some further scrutiny at a later date.
As he turned, he noticed a man standing at the sink. The man raised his hands toward his big Afro … and removed it.
He was wearing a wig! What in the—
Tyrone looked away, suppressing a smile. A drag queen, no doubt. He knew they hung out in some of the jazz clubs—worked in some of them, for that matter.
He grinned. Just another night in Babylon.
He started across the bathroom, then stopped. Now wait a minute. This supposed drag queen had a beard—a fake one, anyway. That would definitely make for an exotic act. As Tyrone watched, the man began peeling the facial hair off, a tiny bit at a time.
Whatever was going on here, it was more than just a drag queen getting in or out of costume. This was something strange and, in all likelihood, illegal. And he’d be a lot better off if he didn’t get dragged into it. He tiptoed quietly across the bathroom …
But not quietly enough. The man whirled around and glared at him. Those eyes, Tyrone thought, were the darkest eyes he had ever seen. And the meanest.
Tyrone spent enough time around tough customers to know what the man was thinking. He was thinking he didn’t want any witnesses to his disrobing routine. And now that he realized he had one, he would have to do something about it.
The man started across the bathroom, eyes lowered, his face still obscured by the bushy false beard. His hand was reaching for something shiny, something inside his shirt.
Good God—was that a knife ?
Tyrone didn’t know what to do. There was nowhere he could go, no way he could maneuver. He was trapped. Dead meat.
The man moved closer to him. Tyrone was pressed against the far wall with no escape route …
They both heard it at the same time—a loud voice from somewhere outside the bathroom. “I dunno. You try in there, I’ll try over here.”
The man shoved his knife back in its sheath. “Later,” he whispered. Then he moved quickly toward the door. He shoved against the swinging door hard, driving it into someone on the other side who tumbled to the floor. The man with the knife lit out.
Tyrone checked himself in the mirror. His face was drawn; the panic was still visible in his eyes. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself, then left the men’s room. He didn’t know exactly what had happened in there, but he had the distinct feeling he had just narrowly escaped a particularly nasty and unpleasant end.
As he stepped into the club, he saw that a crowd was beginning to gather. The show would start soon. Well, thank God for that. He was more than ready for a little entertainment now. And more than ready for a drink. A serious drink.
He saw a pretty slip of a thing sitting at the bar and scooted onto the stool beside her. “Hey there,” he said, putting on his best smile. He pulled two shot glasses and a hard-boiled egg out of his jacket pocket. “Five bucks says I can move this egg from one glass to the other—without touching it.”
Within seconds, he was lost in the script for yet another con, his mind miles away from the fact that only seconds before, he had come two steps shy of being ripped to shreds by a thin, shiny serrated blade.
Chapter 8
B EN AND EARL scoured the backstage area, but they were unable to find any trace of the man with the rug. Earl was beginning to think Ben had hallucinated him. Ben was beginning to wonder himself.
At any rate, there was no more time for searching for unauthorized personnel. The crowd was beginning to rumble. It was five minutes past eight; they needed to get the show on the road.
Scat and Denny and Gordo and Ben took their places behind the curtain. Diane stood just offstage and gave them the one-minute sign. The musicians began tuning and warming up—except Scat. He never seemed to do anything in preparation. He just picked up his sax and slid on his glasses, and he was ready to make it happen.
“Psst, Ben! Take a look.” Gordo was peering
As he turned, he noticed a man standing at the sink. The man raised his hands toward his big Afro … and removed it.
He was wearing a wig! What in the—
Tyrone looked away, suppressing a smile. A drag queen, no doubt. He knew they hung out in some of the jazz clubs—worked in some of them, for that matter.
He grinned. Just another night in Babylon.
He started across the bathroom, then stopped. Now wait a minute. This supposed drag queen had a beard—a fake one, anyway. That would definitely make for an exotic act. As Tyrone watched, the man began peeling the facial hair off, a tiny bit at a time.
Whatever was going on here, it was more than just a drag queen getting in or out of costume. This was something strange and, in all likelihood, illegal. And he’d be a lot better off if he didn’t get dragged into it. He tiptoed quietly across the bathroom …
But not quietly enough. The man whirled around and glared at him. Those eyes, Tyrone thought, were the darkest eyes he had ever seen. And the meanest.
Tyrone spent enough time around tough customers to know what the man was thinking. He was thinking he didn’t want any witnesses to his disrobing routine. And now that he realized he had one, he would have to do something about it.
The man started across the bathroom, eyes lowered, his face still obscured by the bushy false beard. His hand was reaching for something shiny, something inside his shirt.
Good God—was that a knife ?
Tyrone didn’t know what to do. There was nowhere he could go, no way he could maneuver. He was trapped. Dead meat.
The man moved closer to him. Tyrone was pressed against the far wall with no escape route …
They both heard it at the same time—a loud voice from somewhere outside the bathroom. “I dunno. You try in there, I’ll try over here.”
The man shoved his knife back in its sheath. “Later,” he whispered. Then he moved quickly toward the door. He shoved against the swinging door hard, driving it into someone on the other side who tumbled to the floor. The man with the knife lit out.
Tyrone checked himself in the mirror. His face was drawn; the panic was still visible in his eyes. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself, then left the men’s room. He didn’t know exactly what had happened in there, but he had the distinct feeling he had just narrowly escaped a particularly nasty and unpleasant end.
As he stepped into the club, he saw that a crowd was beginning to gather. The show would start soon. Well, thank God for that. He was more than ready for a little entertainment now. And more than ready for a drink. A serious drink.
He saw a pretty slip of a thing sitting at the bar and scooted onto the stool beside her. “Hey there,” he said, putting on his best smile. He pulled two shot glasses and a hard-boiled egg out of his jacket pocket. “Five bucks says I can move this egg from one glass to the other—without touching it.”
Within seconds, he was lost in the script for yet another con, his mind miles away from the fact that only seconds before, he had come two steps shy of being ripped to shreds by a thin, shiny serrated blade.
Chapter 8
B EN AND EARL scoured the backstage area, but they were unable to find any trace of the man with the rug. Earl was beginning to think Ben had hallucinated him. Ben was beginning to wonder himself.
At any rate, there was no more time for searching for unauthorized personnel. The crowd was beginning to rumble. It was five minutes past eight; they needed to get the show on the road.
Scat and Denny and Gordo and Ben took their places behind the curtain. Diane stood just offstage and gave them the one-minute sign. The musicians began tuning and warming up—except Scat. He never seemed to do anything in preparation. He just picked up his sax and slid on his glasses, and he was ready to make it happen.
“Psst, Ben! Take a look.” Gordo was peering
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