Read Online Last Shot (2006) by Gregg - Rackley 04 Hurwitz - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gregg - Rackley 04 Hurwitz
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around. Ken scrambled toward them, trailing the strings of his McDonald's apron.
"Speed!" he cried triumphantly. "The s stands for speed."
"Right," Tim said, and gave a sincere thumbs-up.
Bear shook the manager's hand weightily. "Thank you, Mr. Wade." He looked down at his palm, surprised; he'd come away with Ken Wade's business card.
Ken was still breathing hard from his run, but he flashed Bear a smile. "Nice to meet you, Deputy Jowalski. And just so you know, there are a lot of opportunities in the hospitality sector should you ever be interested."
"Why, I think it's a fine idea," Tim said. "Fry Guy George Jowalski."
"You done yet?"
"You'd fill out the Grimace costume rather well."
"Still going, huh?"
"Plus, you could put your prior job skills to use..."
Pausing with both huge hands on the padded door of The Back Nine, Bear swung his tired eyes in Tim's direction, awaiting the punch line. "Get it over with."
"...taking down the Hamburglar."
Bear released a weary sigh and pushed into the strip club. The doorman rose from his barstool aggressively, but Tim fended him off with his badge. Brass, mirrors, and ice cubes bounced images off one another, endless reflected corridors in which to get lost. A scattering of the usual clientele around the usual four-tops. Three college guys were having more fun than seemed plausible--elbows on the catwalk, hoarse laughter, backward baseball caps. A comb-over-gone Al Pacino gangster behind oversize sunglasses ran a doughy hand up the thigh of a between-sets dancer delivering cocktails. A young lady announced as Pinch wrapped snakelike legs around the brass pole, her magenta hair skimming the creased singles littering the stage. A hall, lit purple by cloth-and-bead sconces out of a Gypsy catalog, led to the bathrooms and the optimistically titled private lounges.
Tim and Bear took a walk around the horseshoe of the runway. Despite Pinch's best efforts, their entrance put a chill on the festivities--they weren't the usual cops paid off so the booze could flow during restricted hours and the flesh could undulate closer than the state-mandated six inches. Ignoring the nervous eyes of the manager and bartender, they peeked into the private rooms, some ornamented with couches, others with tall aquarium windows blocked by metal shades. The men's room featured a urinal encased in a frame of crumbling drywall, and a doorless stall.
"Well," Bear said as they headed out, "it was worth a try."
Tim set a hand on the ladies' room door and pushed it quietly open. A better-kept space, probably used by the dancers. Even a can of air freshener by the sink. Two stalls, one with the door closed. Tim crouched, tilting his head parallel to the floor for a better vantage.
Someone sitting, one foot free, a pair of jeans loose around the other ankle. Jailhouse habits die hard.
Tim rose, eased the door closed, and nodded at Bear. They waited in the narrow hall, arms crossed, Bear flattening himself politely against the wall as the house dancers passed in fragranced hazes. The toilet flushing sounded like a rocket taking off, and then the door creaked open, revealing a man in a ragged sweater, stretched sleeves hanging down past his hands. He wore Walkman headphones around his neck, unplugged, a fashion statement. Dreadlocks fell like incense sticks across his shoulders. A clouded eye floated left.
"Freddy Campbell?"
"Shit." With the word, a waft of pure gin. "What'd I do now?"
Bear put an arm around Freddy's waist, hand moving in a subtle frisk as he steered him into the nearest private lounge. He held him steady, easing him into the middle of five movie-theater seats lined up before a window. An impossibly tall East Asian girl in platform heels and nothing else pressed both hands to the glass, leaning over. A dollar-bill feeder stuck out of the wall like the neck of a hungry goose.
Freddy bit his lip, studying the girl and bouncing his head as if to a beat, though the room was oddly silent.
"Speed!" he cried triumphantly. "The s stands for speed."
"Right," Tim said, and gave a sincere thumbs-up.
Bear shook the manager's hand weightily. "Thank you, Mr. Wade." He looked down at his palm, surprised; he'd come away with Ken Wade's business card.
Ken was still breathing hard from his run, but he flashed Bear a smile. "Nice to meet you, Deputy Jowalski. And just so you know, there are a lot of opportunities in the hospitality sector should you ever be interested."
"Why, I think it's a fine idea," Tim said. "Fry Guy George Jowalski."
"You done yet?"
"You'd fill out the Grimace costume rather well."
"Still going, huh?"
"Plus, you could put your prior job skills to use..."
Pausing with both huge hands on the padded door of The Back Nine, Bear swung his tired eyes in Tim's direction, awaiting the punch line. "Get it over with."
"...taking down the Hamburglar."
Bear released a weary sigh and pushed into the strip club. The doorman rose from his barstool aggressively, but Tim fended him off with his badge. Brass, mirrors, and ice cubes bounced images off one another, endless reflected corridors in which to get lost. A scattering of the usual clientele around the usual four-tops. Three college guys were having more fun than seemed plausible--elbows on the catwalk, hoarse laughter, backward baseball caps. A comb-over-gone Al Pacino gangster behind oversize sunglasses ran a doughy hand up the thigh of a between-sets dancer delivering cocktails. A young lady announced as Pinch wrapped snakelike legs around the brass pole, her magenta hair skimming the creased singles littering the stage. A hall, lit purple by cloth-and-bead sconces out of a Gypsy catalog, led to the bathrooms and the optimistically titled private lounges.
Tim and Bear took a walk around the horseshoe of the runway. Despite Pinch's best efforts, their entrance put a chill on the festivities--they weren't the usual cops paid off so the booze could flow during restricted hours and the flesh could undulate closer than the state-mandated six inches. Ignoring the nervous eyes of the manager and bartender, they peeked into the private rooms, some ornamented with couches, others with tall aquarium windows blocked by metal shades. The men's room featured a urinal encased in a frame of crumbling drywall, and a doorless stall.
"Well," Bear said as they headed out, "it was worth a try."
Tim set a hand on the ladies' room door and pushed it quietly open. A better-kept space, probably used by the dancers. Even a can of air freshener by the sink. Two stalls, one with the door closed. Tim crouched, tilting his head parallel to the floor for a better vantage.
Someone sitting, one foot free, a pair of jeans loose around the other ankle. Jailhouse habits die hard.
Tim rose, eased the door closed, and nodded at Bear. They waited in the narrow hall, arms crossed, Bear flattening himself politely against the wall as the house dancers passed in fragranced hazes. The toilet flushing sounded like a rocket taking off, and then the door creaked open, revealing a man in a ragged sweater, stretched sleeves hanging down past his hands. He wore Walkman headphones around his neck, unplugged, a fashion statement. Dreadlocks fell like incense sticks across his shoulders. A clouded eye floated left.
"Freddy Campbell?"
"Shit." With the word, a waft of pure gin. "What'd I do now?"
Bear put an arm around Freddy's waist, hand moving in a subtle frisk as he steered him into the nearest private lounge. He held him steady, easing him into the middle of five movie-theater seats lined up before a window. An impossibly tall East Asian girl in platform heels and nothing else pressed both hands to the glass, leaning over. A dollar-bill feeder stuck out of the wall like the neck of a hungry goose.
Freddy bit his lip, studying the girl and bouncing his head as if to a beat, though the room was oddly silent.
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