The Final Detail
Page 42
the bartender's back. He remembered the mirror. Of course. One-way glass. The patrons saw a mirror. The people back here saw, well, everything. Hard to steal from the till when you never knew who was watching.
The walls were corked and thus soundproof. The floor was cheap linoleum. Easier to clean, he guessed. Despite that, there were specks of blood on it. Not his. These specks were old and dried. But they were there. No mistaking them for something else. And Myron knew why. In a word: intimidation.
This was a classic pounding room. Lots of places have them. Especially sports arenas. Not so much now as in the old days. There was a time when an unruly fan was more than just escorted out of the stadium. The security guards took him into a back room and pounded on him a bit. It was fairly safe. What could the unruly fan claim after the fact? He was drunk off his rocker, had probably gotten into a fight in the stands, whatever. So the security boys added a few extra bruises for good measure. Who's to say where the bruises came from? And if the unruly fan threatened to press charges or make noise, stadium officials could whack him back with charges of public drunkenness and assault and whatever else they could dream up. They could also produce a dozen security guards to back their story and none to back the unruly fan's.
So the fan let it drop. And the pounding rooms remained. Probably still do in some places.
Veronica Lake giggled. It was not a pretty sound. "Care to dance, dreamboat?" he-she asked again.
"Let's wait for a slow song," Myron said.
A third cross-dresser stepped into the room. A redhead. He-she looked a lot like Bonnie Franklin, the plucky mother on the old sitcom One Day at a Time. The resemblance was, in fact, rather uncanny-the perfect mix of determination and cutes. Spunky. Scrappy.
"Where's Schneider?" Myron asked.
No reply.
Veronica Lake said, "Stand up, dreamboat."
"The blood on the floor," Myron said.
"What?"
"It's a nice touch, but it's overkill, don't you think?"
Veronica Lake lifted her right foot and pulled on her heel. It came off. Sort of. The heel was a covering actually. A sheath. For a steel blade. Veronica showed it to Myron with an impressive display of martial art high kicks, the blade gleaming in the light.
Bonnie Franklin and Mall Girl started giggling.
Myron kept the fear at bay and looked steadily at Veronica Lake. "Are you new at cross-dressing?" he asked.
Veronica stopped kicking. "What?"
"I mean, aren't you taking the whole stiletto heel thing too far?"
Not his best joke, but anything to stall. Veronica looked at Mall Girl. Mall Girl looked at Bonnie Franklin. Then Veronica suddenly threw a sweep kick, leading with the blade heel. Myron saw the glint of steel shoot toward him. He rolled back, but the blade still sliced through his shirt and into his skin. He let out a little cry and looked down wide-eyed. The cut wasn't deep, but he was bleeding.
The three spread out, making fists. Bonnie Franklin had something in her hand. A black club maybe. Myron did not like this. He tried to spring to his feet, but again Veronica threw a kick. He leaped high, but the blade still hit his lower leg. He actually felt the blade get caught on the shin bone before scraping itself off.
Myron's heart was pounding now. More blood. Jesus Christ. Something ^bout seeing your own blood. His breathing was too fast. Keep cool he reminded himself. Think.
He faked left to the spot where Bonnie Franklin stood with the baton. Then he coiled right, his fist at the ready. Without hesitating, he threw a punch at the advancing Mall Girl. His knuckles landed flush below the eye and Mall Girl went down.
That was when Myron felt his heart stop.
There was a zapping sound and the back of his knee exploded. Myron spun in pure agony. His body jolted. Searing pain burst out of the nerve bundle behind the knee and traveled everywhere in an electric surge. He looked behind him. Bonnie Franklin had merely touched him with the baton. His legs seized up, lost power. He collapsed back to the floor and writhed fish-on-boat-deck fashion. His stomach clenched. Nausea consumed him.
"That was the lowest setting," Bonnie Franklin said, voice high-pitched little girl. "Just gets the cow's attention."
Myron looked up, trying to stop his body from quaking. Veronica lifted his leg and placed the heel blade near his face. One quick stomp
The walls were corked and thus soundproof. The floor was cheap linoleum. Easier to clean, he guessed. Despite that, there were specks of blood on it. Not his. These specks were old and dried. But they were there. No mistaking them for something else. And Myron knew why. In a word: intimidation.
This was a classic pounding room. Lots of places have them. Especially sports arenas. Not so much now as in the old days. There was a time when an unruly fan was more than just escorted out of the stadium. The security guards took him into a back room and pounded on him a bit. It was fairly safe. What could the unruly fan claim after the fact? He was drunk off his rocker, had probably gotten into a fight in the stands, whatever. So the security boys added a few extra bruises for good measure. Who's to say where the bruises came from? And if the unruly fan threatened to press charges or make noise, stadium officials could whack him back with charges of public drunkenness and assault and whatever else they could dream up. They could also produce a dozen security guards to back their story and none to back the unruly fan's.
So the fan let it drop. And the pounding rooms remained. Probably still do in some places.
Veronica Lake giggled. It was not a pretty sound. "Care to dance, dreamboat?" he-she asked again.
"Let's wait for a slow song," Myron said.
A third cross-dresser stepped into the room. A redhead. He-she looked a lot like Bonnie Franklin, the plucky mother on the old sitcom One Day at a Time. The resemblance was, in fact, rather uncanny-the perfect mix of determination and cutes. Spunky. Scrappy.
"Where's Schneider?" Myron asked.
No reply.
Veronica Lake said, "Stand up, dreamboat."
"The blood on the floor," Myron said.
"What?"
"It's a nice touch, but it's overkill, don't you think?"
Veronica Lake lifted her right foot and pulled on her heel. It came off. Sort of. The heel was a covering actually. A sheath. For a steel blade. Veronica showed it to Myron with an impressive display of martial art high kicks, the blade gleaming in the light.
Bonnie Franklin and Mall Girl started giggling.
Myron kept the fear at bay and looked steadily at Veronica Lake. "Are you new at cross-dressing?" he asked.
Veronica stopped kicking. "What?"
"I mean, aren't you taking the whole stiletto heel thing too far?"
Not his best joke, but anything to stall. Veronica looked at Mall Girl. Mall Girl looked at Bonnie Franklin. Then Veronica suddenly threw a sweep kick, leading with the blade heel. Myron saw the glint of steel shoot toward him. He rolled back, but the blade still sliced through his shirt and into his skin. He let out a little cry and looked down wide-eyed. The cut wasn't deep, but he was bleeding.
The three spread out, making fists. Bonnie Franklin had something in her hand. A black club maybe. Myron did not like this. He tried to spring to his feet, but again Veronica threw a kick. He leaped high, but the blade still hit his lower leg. He actually felt the blade get caught on the shin bone before scraping itself off.
Myron's heart was pounding now. More blood. Jesus Christ. Something ^bout seeing your own blood. His breathing was too fast. Keep cool he reminded himself. Think.
He faked left to the spot where Bonnie Franklin stood with the baton. Then he coiled right, his fist at the ready. Without hesitating, he threw a punch at the advancing Mall Girl. His knuckles landed flush below the eye and Mall Girl went down.
That was when Myron felt his heart stop.
There was a zapping sound and the back of his knee exploded. Myron spun in pure agony. His body jolted. Searing pain burst out of the nerve bundle behind the knee and traveled everywhere in an electric surge. He looked behind him. Bonnie Franklin had merely touched him with the baton. His legs seized up, lost power. He collapsed back to the floor and writhed fish-on-boat-deck fashion. His stomach clenched. Nausea consumed him.
"That was the lowest setting," Bonnie Franklin said, voice high-pitched little girl. "Just gets the cow's attention."
Myron looked up, trying to stop his body from quaking. Veronica lifted his leg and placed the heel blade near his face. One quick stomp
