she was going to let him go. Not when producing him would certainly show Tyler that she meant business and deserved to be allowed to help him on this caper.
The music and noise above her intensified with every step. She got as far as the upstairs landing, where a couple of brawny bouncers stepped into her path.
“Where ya goin’?” one of them demanded, crossing his beefy arms over his chest.
“In there?” she asked hopefully, pointing to the smoky, dimly lit room behind him. She could barely make out a scantily clad woman gyrating around a pole on a raised area with footlights, while clusters of men yelled and hooted from small cocktail tables. It looked pretty vile from here. She had a feeling it would be even nastier close up.
Was that Slab’s silhouette over by the stage? The shoulders were vaguely shaped like a refrigerator. Who else could it be?
“I don’t think you need to go in there,” the bouncer told her, giving her a cynical once-over. “You don’t look like our kind of customer.”
“I can pay the cover charge.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. What are you, writing a book?” he asked with a sneer. “Or maybe looking to save the strippers, drag ’em off to some halfway house? We’ve seen your kind before.” He tapped a square, poorly lettered sign attached to the stand behind him. It said We Reserve The Right To Exclude You If We Don’t Like How You Look. “Consider yourself excluded, doll.” He shook his head. “Don’t make me get tough with you.”
“Hmm.” Emily frowned at the stage. She wouldn’t have thought the things that woman was doing to that pole were humanly possible. “She’s certainly…talented, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.” Big Bruiser actually cracked a smile. “That’s Shanda. She’s our headliner. She knows what to do.”
Emily’s ears perked up. She’d heard that name before. Coffee shop. Slab. His voice echoed inside her ears. Sweet Shanda. Best time I ever had… “You did say Shanda, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, sure. She’s a major star in the strip game. Shanda Leer. You heard of her?”
“Shanda Leer?” As in chandelier. Good heavens. But this Shanda Leer had to be the mysterious girlfriend Slab had left Chicago to see. How many Shandas could there be running around North Beach?
Emily felt the thrill of discovery. She’d not only found Slab, but Shanda, too! Putting her miles ahead of Tyler. Now he would have to admit that he needed her help. Just wait until she got back to the B and B and made him beg her to tell him what she’d discovered.
As she contemplated just how she would hold Tyler’s feet to the fire, there was a brassy, musical flourish of sorts inside The Flesh Pit, and Shanda slithered offstage after an enthusiastic hand from the rabble. Slab’s large shadow rose from its place near the stage and skirted the tables, moving toward a back exit.
Emily had to get in there, too. She made her move, but the bouncer stopped her before she’d gone two steps.
“I’m sorry, doll, but you’ll have to step aside,” he told her. “We got real customers coming up.” He inclined a fat thumb down the stairs, and Emily absently glanced that way as she plotted her next move.
Uh-oh, speak of the devil. Tyler was just planting his foot on the first step, a really cranky look on his fabulous face. Even if she had wanted to see him now, which she didn’t, she also didn’t want to face the indignity of being turned away at the door while he marched right in, smirking at her.
So she relied on the first rule of female avoidance tactics: the ladies’ room.
“Excuse me,” she asked politely, leaning in over the bouncer’s podium, “but do you have a rest room I could use?”
“Yeah. Over there. Behind the stairs. Second door on your left.”
Emily beat a quick path down the hall he’d indicated, but it wasn’t pretty. There was one bare bulb screwed into the ceiling, and only a trail of grimy linoleum to lead the way. She pushed open the swinging door marked Girls and barged right in. Empty. It probably didn’t get a whole lot of use except by the strippers themselves.
So she frowned into the mirror, trying to give herself enough time to think up a way into the main room of the strip joint. Since there was a back exit, perhaps there was also a back entrance, like a stage door. Or what if she changed into the halter and miniskirt she’d just bought on the street? Would her looks be more acceptable to the bouncer?
While she pondered, she realized she really did look like Sweet Polly Purebred in her plain white shirt and pearls under the navy jacket. Or maybe it was the hair.
“I should’ve changed it years ago,” she said darkly, fingering the obscenely boring medium brown strands of her chin-length bob. Sure, her hair was shiny and neat, but not very va-va-va-voom. She fussed with her bangs and tucked the sides behind her ears. “Maybe some barrettes or clips or something.”
As she fluffed and fussed with her hair, she found herself glancing absently at the air duct over the mirror. How very strange. She could swear there were voices coming through the filthy grate.
Was that Slab’s distinctive high-pitched whine she heard? She couldn’t be sure, but it certainly sounded like him.
Emily dropped her bag of clothes and her purse and boosted herself up onto the sink, teetering there, grabbing the top of the first stall for balance, as she leaned in closer to the vent to hear better.
Definitely Slab, she realized with a certain triumph. His voice was unmistakable. The words were muddled, but he was pleading with somebody about something, and denying all over the place, that much was clear.
A woman’s voice cut in, telling him to “cram it.” Shanda? No way to tell. She didn’t sound too sweet, that was for sure.
And then another, lower, more irritated voice joined in the conversation. “Tyler,” she whispered. After eavesdropping so shamelessly at the Rainbow Rest-O-Rant, Emily recognized his inflection immediately.
It was gross to press her ear and her clean hair into the dirty duct, but she had to hear more.
She caught Tyler’s acerbic tones, something about jumping bail and Fat Mike, and then demanding a list of who exactly knew Slab was back in San Francisco and who else had claims to the money.
“Wow,” she murmured. This was simply riveting.
Tyler’s voice grew louder and more intense. “Somebody looking for you busted into my room at my friend’s place,” he said angrily, “and tried to rough up an innocent bystander.”
Emily knew who that referred to. Her. She winced, not feeling all that innocent.
“I can’t help it—” Slab began, but then there were choking sounds, as if someone had grabbed the big guy and stopped him in midsentence.
“You tell your friends to stay away from Emily, do you hear me?” Tyler ordered in a savage tone.
Yikes. Tyler was defending her, and with physical violence. Emily didn’t know whether to be flattered or scared out of her wits.
The female voice interjected, “I’m real sorry your little tootsie got in the way, Ty. But it’s got nada to do with me.”
Little tootsie? Oh, God, she means me. And Tyler didn’t even correct her. What was a “tootsie,” anyway? Was that like a girlfriend, or more of a slut-type person?
“Shanda, he told me he left the money with you. Do you think I’m the only one who’s going to come looking for you?” Tyler asked impatiently. “You’re involved whether you like it or not.”
“He didn’t leave no money with me!” she insisted. There was a thwack, as if somebody had gotten slapped. “You big dope! Why’d you go around telling people you left your stash with me?”
“I didn’t. I swear!” Slab