“Sal and Ron- the bartenders- don’t carry anything on them, but there’s a small silver revolver underneath the register. The bouncers got nothing but muscles.”

I handed Candy the envelope. “I don’t know what your plans are, but I wouldn’t come back here.”

She opened the envelope, thumbed through the bills briefly, then stuffed the cash into her jeans. “Don’t worry. I ain’t ever coming back to this shithole.” And she was gone.

I entered the dim hall and closed the door behind me. A few quick steps brought me to the girls’ dressing room. A curtain on the left led to the stage, and the door on the right opened into a long hall that led to the kitchen. So far, it had been just like Benny told me it would be. I took a few seconds to check my guns. The twin.45s hung snug in their shoulder holsters, and the.38 with the three-inch barrel was clipped tight to my belt just below my belly. I used to wear a little.380 on my ankle, but I’d never needed it and it made movement awkward.

My last touch was a pair of latex gloves. You can get a whole box of them for free when you see your doctor for a routine checkup. A little compensation for having to read two-year-old magazines in the waiting room. Anyway, I wasn’t eager to leave fingerprints.

I drew the.45 automatics and slipped down the hall toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was completely dark except for the dusty light that spilled in from the lounge beyond. I could hear men’s voices and the clink of glasses floating in from the next room. I crept up to the edge of the doorway, staying in the shadow, and peeked in. One of the big bouncers still sat on his perch near the front door. He looked bored and tired and leaned heavily against the red velvet wallpaper, his eyes drooping. Both bartenders washed and dried glasses behind the bar, and the guy who had to be Myron sat at one of the big tables in the center of the room with two of the suits. Both suits looked clean-cut and serious.

I watched from the shadows for two more minutes, and my patience paid off. The other two suits returned and pulled chairs up to Myron’s table. Myron was bent over some papers, reading hard and fast. The other bouncer was still unaccounted for, but I felt good enough about the situation to go in. I made a mental note of the order I wanted to start shooting people. From where I stood, I couldn’t get a clear shot at everyone, so I needed to be on the move.

I started pulling triggers as soon as I stepped into the light.

The shouting and confusion erupted like it always did. Men pushed chairs away from the table, went for pistols inside jackets. Another thing about strip clubs: most are wall-to-wall mirrors, and the effect was that blazing death had descended on them from all directions. The thick-necked bouncer awoke on his stool, his eyes widening with panic.

I swung the automatics in a deliberate arc, squeezing lead into the four suits. They spun around in a shower of blood, guns halfway out of their holsters. Myron dove under the table, and I left him for the moment, turned my attention to the bar. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the bouncer’s back as he disappeared through the front door. I was vaguely aware of a shotgun blast outside.

Behind the long, wooden bar, both bartenders were in motion. The first bolted for the kitchen door. The other went for the pistol beneath the register, and I followed him with a rain of lead. Booze bottles danced and shattered behind him, but I had to abandon him and attend to the second bouncer who emerged from the dancers’ dressing room with a sawed-off shotgun. He stood center stage and blew a chunk of wood out of the table I’d overturned for cover. I stood and emptied both clips into him, and he fell into a lifeless heap on the stage.

I dropped the empty automatics, deciding it would be quicker to pull the.38 from the belly holster than it would be to shove another clip into one of the.45s. I thumbed back the hammer and rolled along the tile floor until I was up against the bar.

The bartender might still be crouched near the register, but if he was smart he’d have crawled two-thirds of the way to the other end, so he could pop up and squeeze off a few shots at me. But I didn’t know if he was smart or not, so I watched the bar in the mirror on the other side of the room.

I guess he wasn’t too smart, because he popped up about ten seconds later, still near the register, holding the little silver revolver in front of him like he was trying to choke it. After the rage of gunfire, the club was now strangely quiet.

“Dave?” he called. “You okay? You get him?”

I double-checked his position in the mirror, then stood and fired. I caught him solid right behind the ear. Blood surged fleshy and wet. He slumped forward over the bar. The pistol fell out of his hand and clattered across the tile.

I thumbed back the hammer again and slowly approached the table in the center of the club. I crouched, the.38 leading the way, and found Myron flat on his stomach with his hands over his head. I was about to turn his lights out when he said something interesting.

“Who are you? You want it? Just take it. Okay? Leave me alone.” He thrust a finger over his head. “In the briefcase.” Myron was a portly, sweaty man with fat arms and fat legs and stubby fingers and a nose that looked like a little fist. A cowering blob in a nice suit. I’d seen a hundred like him, but I was suddenly curious.

“You stay put.” I kept the revolver on him. I couldn’t afford to be too curious. The shots would bring the sirens soon enough, but I had this gut feeling that there was more going on here than the after-hours strip club routine. I tried the briefcase, but it was combination locked with a three-digit code. The initials A. A. in gold.

I waved Myron out from under the table. “Open it.”

“Sure, pal. You got it. I’m cooperating, see?” Myron worked the combination, flipped the latch and reached into the case.

I saw his shoulders tense and twisted away from him just as his fat hand came out of the case with a snub-nose revolver. He fired once where my midsection had been. I felt the hot kiss of the slug glance along a rib as it passed through my shirt and jacket. My side grew warm and wet with my own blood.

The.38 jerked in my hand three times. The bullets sprouted red across Myron’s chest. He twitched once and fell across the table, slamming the briefcase closed. Locks clicking shut again.

I checked myself. The wound stung like hell, but it wasn’t too bad. I kicked Myron away from the table and grabbed the briefcase. On my way out, I passed over one of the dead suits. A brassy hint of metal sticking out of his jacket caught my eye. By all the rules, I should have hauled my ass out the back door a long time ago. But some strange little tickle in the back of my brain made me stop and poke my nose into things that were none of my business. My job was done. I should be gone. But that little tickle.

I bent and shoved back the suit’s lapel, revealing the shiny hunk of metal pinned to his vest.

It was a badge.

My heart shifted into passing gear, and I swallowed hard. A quick check revealed three more badges on the others. I’d just pulled the plug on four cops. This wasn’t in the game plan. Not by a long shot. I pocketed one of the badges, picked up my automatics. And left Toppers through the same door I’d come in. Benny and Bob looked impatient.

“Christ,” said Bob. “We almost left you. Get in the van, and let’s get out of here.”

“Listen, guys, something’s fucked up,” I said.

“Something’s always fucked up,” said Bob. “Let’s talk about it in the van.”

I flashed him the badge, and his eyes got big as hubcaps. “I took it off one of the marks in there. There’s three more just like it. Somebody’s not telling us everything. The shit’s going to hit the fan. I just thought we should get ready to duck.”