The Final Detail
Page 41
Take a hike."
Big Cyndi stepped in. "Pat," she said, "please can't you help"-she batted her eyelashes; picture two crabs on their backs in the blazing sun-"for me?"
"Hey, Big C, I love you, you know that. But suppose I came into Leather-N-Lust with pictures? You gonna be anxious to help?"
Big Cyndi thought about that. "I guess not."
"There you go. I got customers."
"Fine," Myron said. He picked up the photograph. "Then maybe I'll stick around. Pass the picture around the room. Ask some questions. Maybe I'll stake this place out. Indiscreetly. Take photos of people entering and leaving this fine establishment."
Pat shook his head, smiled a bit. "You're one dumb son of a bitch, you know that."
"I'll do it," Myron said. "I don't want to, but I'll camp out on your doorstep with a camera."
Pat gave Myron a long look. Hard to read. Part hostile maybe. Mostly bored. "Big C, head out of here for a few minutes."
"No."
"Then I don't talk."
Myron turned to her, nodded. Big Cyndi shook her head. Myron pulled her aside. "What's the problem?"
"You shouldn't make threats in here, Mr. Bolitar."
"I know what I'm doing."
"I warned you about this place. I can't leave you alone."
"You'll be right outside. I can take care of myself."
When Big Cyndi frowned, her face resembled a freshly painted totem pole. "I don't like it."
"We have no choice."
She sighed. Picture Mount Vesuvius bubbling up a bit of lava. "Be careful."
"I will."
She lumbered toward the exit. The place was packed and Big Cyndi took up a wide berth. Still, people parted with a speed that would have made Moses jot notes. When she was all the way out the door, Myron turned back to Pat. "Well?"
"Well, you're a dumb asshole."
It happened without warning. Two hands snaked under Myron's arms, the fingers locking behind his neck. A classic full nelson. The hold was tightened, pushing back his arms like chicken wings. Myron felt something hot rip across his shoulder blades.
A voice near his ear whispered, "Care to dance, dream-boat?"
When it came to hand-to-hand combat, Myron was no Win, but he was no slouch either. He thus knew that if the peipetrator was good, there was no way to break a full nelson. That was why they were illegal in real wrestling matches. If you were standing, you could try to stomp on the person's instep. But only a moron fell for that, and a moron would not have had the speed or the strength to get this far. And Myron was not standing.
Myron's elbows were high up in the air, marionette fashion, his face helplessly exposed. The powerful arms locking him were covered in cardigan. Soft yellow cardigan, as a matter of fact. As in a soft yellow cardigan sweater. Jesus. Myron struggled. Nothing doing. The cardigan-clad arms pulled Myron's head back and then snapped it toward the bar, face first. Myron could do nothing but close his eyes. He tucked his chin just enough to keep his nose from taking the brunt of the blow. But his head bounced off the varnished teak in a way it was never intended to, jarring his skull. Something on his forehead split open. His head swam. He saw stars.
Another set of hands scooped up Myron's feet. He was in the air now and moving and very dizzy. Hands emptied his pockets. A door opened. Myron was carried through it into a dark room. The grip was released, and Myron fell like a potato sack onto his tailbone. The whole process, from the onset of the full nelson to the moment he was dumped on the floor, took all of eight seconds.
A light was snapped on. Myron touched his forehead and felt something sticky. Blood. He looked up at his attackers.
Two women.
No, cross-dressers. Both with blond wigs. One had gone with early-eighties Mall Girl hair-lots of height and teased more than a bed-wetter. The other one-the one with the soft yellow cardigan sweater (monogrammed, for those who cared)-had hair like Veronica Lake on a particularly nasty bender.
Myron started to get to his feet. Veronica Lake let out a squeal and threw a side kick. The kick was fast and landed hard on his chest. Myron heard himself make a noise like "pluuu" and landed back on his rear. His hand automatically reached for his cellular. He'd hit the memory button and call Win. Then stall.
The phone was gone.
He looked up. Mall Girl had it. Damn. He took in his surroundings. There was a great view of the bar and Pat
Big Cyndi stepped in. "Pat," she said, "please can't you help"-she batted her eyelashes; picture two crabs on their backs in the blazing sun-"for me?"
"Hey, Big C, I love you, you know that. But suppose I came into Leather-N-Lust with pictures? You gonna be anxious to help?"
Big Cyndi thought about that. "I guess not."
"There you go. I got customers."
"Fine," Myron said. He picked up the photograph. "Then maybe I'll stick around. Pass the picture around the room. Ask some questions. Maybe I'll stake this place out. Indiscreetly. Take photos of people entering and leaving this fine establishment."
Pat shook his head, smiled a bit. "You're one dumb son of a bitch, you know that."
"I'll do it," Myron said. "I don't want to, but I'll camp out on your doorstep with a camera."
Pat gave Myron a long look. Hard to read. Part hostile maybe. Mostly bored. "Big C, head out of here for a few minutes."
"No."
"Then I don't talk."
Myron turned to her, nodded. Big Cyndi shook her head. Myron pulled her aside. "What's the problem?"
"You shouldn't make threats in here, Mr. Bolitar."
"I know what I'm doing."
"I warned you about this place. I can't leave you alone."
"You'll be right outside. I can take care of myself."
When Big Cyndi frowned, her face resembled a freshly painted totem pole. "I don't like it."
"We have no choice."
She sighed. Picture Mount Vesuvius bubbling up a bit of lava. "Be careful."
"I will."
She lumbered toward the exit. The place was packed and Big Cyndi took up a wide berth. Still, people parted with a speed that would have made Moses jot notes. When she was all the way out the door, Myron turned back to Pat. "Well?"
"Well, you're a dumb asshole."
It happened without warning. Two hands snaked under Myron's arms, the fingers locking behind his neck. A classic full nelson. The hold was tightened, pushing back his arms like chicken wings. Myron felt something hot rip across his shoulder blades.
A voice near his ear whispered, "Care to dance, dream-boat?"
When it came to hand-to-hand combat, Myron was no Win, but he was no slouch either. He thus knew that if the peipetrator was good, there was no way to break a full nelson. That was why they were illegal in real wrestling matches. If you were standing, you could try to stomp on the person's instep. But only a moron fell for that, and a moron would not have had the speed or the strength to get this far. And Myron was not standing.
Myron's elbows were high up in the air, marionette fashion, his face helplessly exposed. The powerful arms locking him were covered in cardigan. Soft yellow cardigan, as a matter of fact. As in a soft yellow cardigan sweater. Jesus. Myron struggled. Nothing doing. The cardigan-clad arms pulled Myron's head back and then snapped it toward the bar, face first. Myron could do nothing but close his eyes. He tucked his chin just enough to keep his nose from taking the brunt of the blow. But his head bounced off the varnished teak in a way it was never intended to, jarring his skull. Something on his forehead split open. His head swam. He saw stars.
Another set of hands scooped up Myron's feet. He was in the air now and moving and very dizzy. Hands emptied his pockets. A door opened. Myron was carried through it into a dark room. The grip was released, and Myron fell like a potato sack onto his tailbone. The whole process, from the onset of the full nelson to the moment he was dumped on the floor, took all of eight seconds.
A light was snapped on. Myron touched his forehead and felt something sticky. Blood. He looked up at his attackers.
Two women.
No, cross-dressers. Both with blond wigs. One had gone with early-eighties Mall Girl hair-lots of height and teased more than a bed-wetter. The other one-the one with the soft yellow cardigan sweater (monogrammed, for those who cared)-had hair like Veronica Lake on a particularly nasty bender.
Myron started to get to his feet. Veronica Lake let out a squeal and threw a side kick. The kick was fast and landed hard on his chest. Myron heard himself make a noise like "pluuu" and landed back on his rear. His hand automatically reached for his cellular. He'd hit the memory button and call Win. Then stall.
The phone was gone.
He looked up. Mall Girl had it. Damn. He took in his surroundings. There was a great view of the bar and Pat
