"Yeah," the black guy added. "Me too. Slut."

"Look, I charge more for talking dirty," the girl said.

Fishnet looked at her in disbelief. "What did you say?"

"There's a surcharge for talking dirty."

"A surcharge?" Fishnet shouted. He was enraged now. "This might come as a surprise to a stupid whore, but we live in the U.S. of A. Land of the free, home of the brave. I can say whatever I want, slut – or haven't you ever heard of freedom of speech?"

A constitutional scholar, Myron thought. Nice to see a man defending the First Amendment.

"Look," the dancer said, "the price is twelve dollars for five minutes, twenty dollars for ten minutes. Plus tip. That's it."

"How about this," Fishnet said. "You dance on both of us at the same time."

"Huh?"

"Like you're dancing on me but stroking him. How's that sound, pig?"

"Yeah," the black guy said. "Pig."

"Look, fellas, there's no two-for-one deals," the dancer said. "Just let me get another girl. We'll take good care of you."

Myron stepped into view. "Will I do?"

No one moved.

"Gee," Myron said, "they're both so attractive. I just can't choose."

Fishnet looked at the black guy. The black guy looked at Fishnet.

Myron turned to the girl. "Do you have a preference?"

She shook her head no.

"Then I'll take him." Myron pointed to Fishnet. "He likes me. I can tell by the erect nipples."

The black guy said, "Hey, what's he doing here?"

Fishnet shot him a look.

"I mean, who is this guy?"

Myron nodded. "Nice recovery. Very smooth."

"What do you want, mister?" Fishnet asked.

"Actually, I was lying."

"What?"

"About how I knew you liked me. It wasn't just the erect nipples, though they were a noticeable – albeit nauseating – tip-off.''

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Your following me around the past two days, that's what gave it away. Next time try the secret admirer route. Send flowers without signing for them. A nice Hallmark card. That kind of thing."

"Come on, Jim," Fishnet said to the black guy, "this guy's nuts. Let's get out of here."

The girl said, "No lap dance?"

"No. We gotta go."

"Someone's got to pay for this," the girl said. "Otherwise the manager's going to fry my ass."

"Get lost, whore. Or I'll whack you."

"Whoa, big man," Myron said.

"Look, mister, I don't got no beef with you. Just get out of my way."

"No lap dance for me either?"

"You're crazy."

"I can offer you a special discount," Myron said.

Fishnet's hands tightened into fists. He'd been ordered to follow Myron, not to be found out or get involved in a physical altercation. "Come on, Jim."

"Why have you been following me?" Myron asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Is it my hypnotic blue eyes? The strong features? The shapely derriere? By the way what do you think of these pants? They're not too tight, are they?"

"Fruitcake." They moved past him.

"Tell you what," Myron said. "You tell me who you're working for and I promise not to tell your boss."

They kept walking.

"Promise," Myron said.

They headed out the door. Another day, another friend. Myron had that knack.

Myron followed them out to the street Fishnet and Jim hurried west.

Win appeared from the shadows across the street. "This way," he said.

They cut through an alley and arrived at the lot before Fishnet and Jim. It was an outdoor lot. The parking attendant was in a little booth watching a Roseanne rerun on a minuscule black-and-white TV. Win pointed out the Cadillac. They ducked behind an Oldsmobile parked two cars away and waited.

Fishnet and Jim approached the booth. They were still looking down the street. Jim was panicking. "How did he find us, Lee? Huh?"

"I don't know."

"What we gonna do?"

"Nothing. We'll change cars. Try again."

"You got another car, Lee?"

"No," Fishnet said. "We'll rent one."

They paid, got a receipt and their keys. Fishnet had insisted on parking the car himself.

"This," Win said, "should be fun."

When they arrived at the Cadillac, Fishnet put his key in the lock. He stopped, looked down, and began screaming.

"Shit! Goddamn fuck!"

Myron and Win stepped out of the shadows.

"Language, language," Myron said.

Fishnet stared down at his car in disbelief. Win had drilled a hole under the lock to break in. He didn't use that particular method when neatness counted, but this was an occasion when he thought it necessary. On top of that, Win's hand had "accidentally" slipped, scratching both driver's-side doors.

"You!" Fishnet shouted. He pointed at Myron, his face red and apoplectic. "You!"

Win turned to Myron. "Quite the vocabulary."

"Yeah, but it's the threads that really make me swoon."

"You!" Fishnet said. "You did this to my car?"

"Not him," Win said. "Me. And may I say you keep the inside lovely. I felt terrible about spilling that maple syrup all over the velour seats."

Fishnet's eyes popped. He looked inside, placed his hand on the inside, and screamed. The scream was deafening. It was so loud, the parking lot attendant almost stirred.

Myron looked at Win. "Maple syrup?"

"Log Cabin."

"I've always been an Aunt Jemima man myself," Myron said.

"To each his own."

"You find anything inside the car?"

"Not very much," Win said. "In the glove compartment were several parking stubs." He handed them to Myron. Myron took a quick glance.

"So," Myron called out, "who are you guys working for?"

Fishnet started walking over. "My car!" he shouted, his face red. "You… my car! My car!"

Win sighed. "Can we get past this, please? Très dull."

"You motherfucker! You…" Fishnet's hands were fists again. He stepped closer, smiling now at Win. It was an ugly smile in every way. "I'm going to break your fucking face, pretty boy."

Win looked at Myron. "Pretty boy?"

Myron shrugged.

Jim stood next to Fishnet. Neither one was armed with a gun, Myron could tell. They might have a blade hidden somewhere, but he wasn't worried.

Fishnet moved to within a yard of Win. Nothing unusual there. The bad guys always honed in on Win. He was smaller than Myron by nearly six inches and thirty-five pounds. Best of all, Win looked like a wimpy rich boy who raised his finger only to call for the butler – everything the discerning bully could want in a punching bag.

Fishnet took one more step and cocked his fist. Whoever had hired these guys had not briefed them well.

The punch whizzed toward Win's nose. He sidestepped it. Sometimes Myron thought Win moved like a cat. But that wasn't accurate. It was more ghostlike. One nanosecond he was there, the next he was two feet to the left. Fishnet tried again. Win blocked it this time. He grabbed Fishnet's fist with one hand and connected with a knife-hand strike to Fishnet's neck. Fishnet backed off, woozy. Jim stepped forward.

"Don't even think about it," Myron said.

Jim ran.

Myron Bolitar. The Intimidator.

Fishnet regained his footing. He charged Win, head lowered, attempting a tackle. Big mistake. Win hated it when an opponent tried to use superior size against him. Win had introduced Myron to tae kwon do during their freshman year at Duke, but he'd been studying it himself since he was five years old. He'd even spent three years in the Far East studying under some of the world's greatest masters.

"Aaaarrrrghhh!" Fishnet shouted.

Again Win stepped to the side, like the smoothest matador against the clumsiest bull. Win connected on a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus and followed up with a palm strike to the nose. There was a sharp crack and blood flowed. Fishnet screamed and went down. He did not get up again.