Part 70 (1/2)

”Go on outside,” Pravano said, and Nance bristled for a second, then turned and vanished from the doorway.

”You ought to do something about him,” I said, ”like give him a brain transplant for Christmas.”

”Big-mouth Fed,” he said, shaking his head. ”You got about as much time left as an ice cube in a frying pan.”

”No less than you,” I replied, although I was sorry the moment I said it. They were all in it up to their eyeb.a.l.l.s. Murder, kidnapping, arson-all could be proven, regardless of whether or not we broke down Cohen, Donleavy, and Seaborn and opened up the pyramid. They were all smart enough to know you can only hang once. One or two more murders couldn't have bothered them less, so I cut the smart talk and hoped that Doe wouldn't figure it out too.

”So why are we here?” I asked.

”It's a scientific experiment,” Pravano said. ”We want to see how long it takes for a Fed to wet his pants.”

”There's a lady in the room,” I said.

”She's got rotten taste,” he snarled.

”Your dance partner's no trophy winner,” I snapped back.

He let it pa.s.s. ”Don't try nothing spectacular, okay, to impress the lady, like the thing with Turk back there in town. Keep away from the windows. Don't make no racket, bust up the furniture, start no fires, that kind of s.h.i.+t. We got people outside and people watching that.” He jerked a thumb toward the monitor. ”You f.u.c.k with that, I'll let Turk come in and blow off your G.o.dd.a.m.n b.a.l.l.s, if you got any.”

He left.

”Who was that!” Doe cried.

”One of the Seven Dwarfs,” I said, and tried a chuckle. It sounded more like a dirge.

Zapata was sitting sidesaddle on his hog, smoking a Fatima and watching the traffic go by, when Stick got there.

”He's in that strip joint over there, drinking Scotch and checking crotch,” the Mexican said. ”What the h.e.l.l's going on?”

”Costello and his bunch ditched the boys. They're out pleasure cruising on Costello's boat.”

”I know. I been watching this Weasel 'cause I heard him and Nance were, y'know, kinda tight, if that psycho has any friends. Anyways, he don't go on the boat. So I figure maybe he's gonna meet Nance and I s.h.a.g him. He comes over here. Is that what it's all about?”

”Dutch wants to have a talk with Weasel,” Stick said. ”Let's go over and see can we ease him out of there without starting a riot.”

The girl on stage was all legs. Legs and purple hair with a white streak, front to back, dyed on one side; a punk strapper who looked about as s.e.xy as a stuffed flounder. Weasel Murphy was sitting at the bar, as close to the action as he could get without getting his nose caught in her G-string. A pair of worn-out speakers were thumping out a scratched version of ”Night Life” as the punker peeled off her bra and let her ample bosom flop out. The Prussian army could have marched in and Murphy would have missed it. He had eyes only for the Purple People Eater.

”Wanna just put the arm on him?” said Chino.

”Dutch says try to avoid a ruckus,” Stick said.

”What do we do?”

They sat down at a table the size of a birdbath near the door to think it over. Purple People Eater was snapping her bra like a slingshot in Murphy's face. He stuffed a five-dollar bill in the tip gla.s.s and she kneeled down in front of him, pulled her G-string down to the bar, and let it snap back. He tucked a twenty in the string, dead center. She ended her performance by seducing an imaginary pony, complete with squeals of delight and instructions to the invisible animal. Murphy was wired so tight he was humming.

One of the B-girls slid a chair over to the table and sat down backward. The runs in her hose looked like black varicose veins. This one had orange hair, no streak. It looked like it had been cut with pruning shears. She ran a finger along the brim of Stick's hat.

”Love it,” she said. ”I didn't think anybody wore those anymore.”

”It was my grandfather's,” Stick said. ”How'd you like to make an easy twenty?”

”We're not allowed to do that,” she said coyly. ”Just have a drink with the customers.”

”You don't even have to do that,” said Stick. ”See that dude at the bar, the one who's sweating so hard?”

”You mean the one that looks like a possum?”

”Close enough. See, what's happening, we got this bowling club and we just voted him in but he don't know it yet.”

”You're into bowling?” she said. She made it sound like child molestation.

”Yeah. Anyway, see, we're gonna put the s.n.a.t.c.h on him, take him out to my boat. The rest of the guys are out there waiting and we're gonna surprise. him, tell him he's in, y'know.”

”Sounds like a real great party,” she said, and yawned.

”What we'd like, see, all you have to do is get him out the side door there, onto Jackson Street. We'll take it from there.”

”This ain't some kidnapping or something?” she said suspiciously. ”I mean, I ain't goin' to the freezer for some s.n.a.t.c.h job.”

”Look at him,” Zapata said. ”His own mother wouldn't kidnap him.”

”So how do I get him outside?” she asked.

”For twenty bucks, you can write the script. When he goes through the door, you get the double saw.”

She thought about it for a minute.

”He's a big spender,” she said. ”The boss might get p.i.s.sed with me.”

Stick took out a twenty and wrapped it around his little finger.

”When's the last time the boss laid twenty on you for walking to the door?”

She eyed the twenty, eyed Murphy, who was catching his breath between acts, and looked back at the twenty.

”I'll see what I can do,” she said.

”The Jackson Street entrance. The twenty'll be right here on my pinky.”

She giggled. ”Pinky! Jesus, I haven't heard that since I was in the fourth grade.”

Stick and Zapata went outside and Stick pulled his car around the corner and parked near the door.

”This seems like a lot of time and money when we could just bust his a.s.s and haul him in.”

”Dutch doesn't want a fuss.”