按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
〃Shit。〃 All the same； she pointed the way backstage。 She seemed disappointed she hadn't been able to snow him like the horny marks at the bar。
The music pulsed and moaned； the kind of grunge metal that with sufficient exposure could make you break out in hives。 Croaker picked his way through the crowd toward the left side of the club。 There he found his way blocked by a large black man with a bald pate shiny with sweat； and muscles bulging with years of steroids。 This individual appeared to believe Croaker's badge was either a forgery or a mirage…because he steadfastly refused to move aside。
〃Everyone wants to get back there；〃 he said laconically。 〃No one does。〃
〃I know you're just doing your job …〃
〃Get the fuck outta my face！〃 Bluto said with such ferocity it cut through even the grunge rock。 He poked a meaty…forefinger hard into Croaker's sternum； then spun him around。 〃Out；〃 he hissed； 〃or I'll eat your fuckin' liver for dinner！〃
Without a word。 Croaker grasped Bluto's right wrist with； his biomechanical fingers and squeezed。 It was interesting watching the changing expressions on the big man's face as Croaker applied enough pressure to contort muscle and shatter bone。
Still； Bluto tried to get at Croaker； hammering out with his other fist Croaker sidestepped the vicious blow； kicked in the side of the big man's knee。 Bluto went down and more bones shattered。
〃Hope you're not hungry；〃 Croaker said； stepping over him。 He went to the closest door but it was locked。 He dug out a rig of picks； popped the lock。 He was in a storeroom。 He went back into the hall； gripped Bluto under the armpits； dragged him into the storeroom and shut the door。 Hopefully； he wouldn't be missed for the short time Croaker planned to be at the club。
The narrow hallway vibrated to the amplified bass。 Bits of paint and plaster lay at the corners of the floor； and cheap green…shaded lamps swung on their chains as If attached to a ship on stormy seas。
A great deal of naked female flesh was flying about； but no one gave him a second look。 He figured he had Bluto to thank for that。 As the man had said； everyone wanted to get backstage but no one did。 And now Croaker could see why。 There were no doors to the dressing rooms； so roving male eyes would not be appreciated。 Having instant access to every room made his job easier。
He was three…quarters of the way down the corridor when the one door at the far end opened and he saw a flash of Margarite's oxblood suit。 He ducked into the nearest dressing room； gave the leggy blonde and redhead in residence a boyish grin； then turned back to peer into the hallway。
Margarite was exiting the back room； probably the manager's office； with a stunning young woman with pale blond hair swept down over one cheek； huge cornflower blue eyes； and a heart…stopping figure。 She could easily have been a dancer here and put all the others to shame； but clearly she was not。 She wore an olive…and…ocher…striped Armani suit as if it had been made for her。 In her left hand she carried a Nile green crocodile attaché case that cost more than any employee of this club made in a year。 Matching Bulgari earrings and a wrist cuff glinted sumptuously in the shifting overhead lights。
That makes two classy broads at this dump； he thought。
The two women made no attempt to e back up the corridor； but turned to their left； disappearing through a door。 Croaker went after them； found himself in a dim； cold service corridor。 It smelled of booze； garbage； and urine。 A red sign above the only other door said 〃Exit。〃 He went through that； found himself in a dank alley lined with Dumpsters。 Nocturnal creatures； probably feral cats； hissed at him。
He looked around in time to see a black Nissan 300ZX pull away from the curb。 He had just enough time to ID Margarite and the blonde and get a partial on the license plate before the wall of the alley intervened。
He went back inside the club。 There was no hope of following them so he did the next best thing： he broke into the back room where they had been closeted。
He closed the door behind him； careful to lock it against unwanted intrusion。 It was a cramped； windowless space with a sooty air vent high up in one wall。 A swaybacked Swedish…modern couch in a fabric that was once whiskey…colored tweed was parked against a side wall。 To its left was a standard fake…wood and metal desk and black vinyl executive chair。 Behind that； a cheap metal file cabinet rounded out the office's mean plement of furniture。 The walls were bare save for a poster； incongruous in this context； of John Singer Sargent's mysterious Fumée d'Ambre Gris； a painting of a woman in flowing white robes； in a vaguely Middle Eastern milieu； whose face was made somehow incandescent by shadows partially obscuring it。 Croaker wondered what this said about the stunning blonde。 She was classy and brainy？
He sat behind the desk。 On it was a recent issue of Strip！ He thumbed quickly through it。 Every industry had a trade magazine these days； he thought。 Beneath was a contract with one of the dancers； several bills from vendors and the utility pany； and a bound business checkbook。 He began taking notes。 The club's corporate name was Morgana； Inc。 It had a Washington address。
He began methodically to go through the desk。 The top drawer yielded the usual office supplies： pens； pencils； erasers； paper clips； rubber bands； blank lined notepads； and the like。 He felt all the way to the back to make sure there wasn't a false wall。 He repeated this procedure in each of the other three drawers。
In one； he found some personal effects： the blonde's extra lipsticks and other makeup items； but apart from substantiating her expensive taste； it revealed nothing of value。
In another； he pulled out an accounting ledger。 He scanned it； but there seemed nothing out of the ordinary in it。 The club's books were kept in meticulous order。 He doubted whether even the most zealous tax auditor could find as much as 10 out of place。 A lot of money was going through the club； but it was being generated by a franchiseed network of Moniker's strip clubs nationwide。
Returning the ledger to its drawer； he glanced at his watch； called the same number he had dialed from the club's coatroom。 Going through the laborious security procedures； he got the female voice。 When he identified himself via his card number； she said； 〃That license is registered to Richard Dedalus。〃
〃Senator Richard Dedalus？〃
〃Let me check the address。。。 Yes； it's one of the senator's cars。〃
Croaker； taking down Dedalus's home address； was silent for a moment。 At seventy…six； Richard Dedalus was the elder statesman on Capitol Hill。 He had not only seen history happen over the decades but； unlike most others his age； had had a decisive hand in it。 It was said that John Kennedy would never have been elected without Dedalus's support； that LBJ's tough time in office was for the most part engineered by Dedalus。 It was even rumored that Dedalus had been Deep Throat Certainly； it had been Dedalus who had kept secret JFK's serious illness … the lack of adrenals； and it had been he who had helped shape the mittee investigating the assassination of John Ken