The right-wing head shots were all “autographed.” Jesse Helms's read: “I'm sore all over, Love and kisses, Jesse.” Blunt. Several Xs and Os followed. There was also a big lipstick kiss impression as though Jesse himself had puckered up and laid down a wet one. Eeeuw.

Pat started cleaning out a beer mug with the dishrag. Casually. Myron half expected him to spit in it like in an old western. “So what can I get you?”

“Are you a sports fan?” Myron asked.

“You taking a poll?”

That line. It was always such a riot. Myron tried again.

“Does the name Clu ttaid mean anything to you?”

Myron watched for a reaction but didn't get one. Meant nothing. The guy looked like a lifetime bartender. They show about as much range as a Baywatch regular. Hmm. Now why was that show on his mind?

“I asked you-”

“Name means nothing to me.”

Big Cyndi said, “Please, Pat.”

He shot her a look. “You heard me, Big C. I don't know him.”

Myron pressed it. “Never heard of Clu Haid?”

“That's right.”

“How about the New York Yankees?”

“I haven't followed them since the Mick retired.”

Myron put the photograph of Clu Haid on the bar. “Ever seen him in here?”

Someone called out for a draft. Pat drew it. When he came back, he spoke to Big Cyndi. “This guy a cop?”

“No,” Big Cyndi said.

“Then the answer is no.”

“And if I was a cop?” Myron asked.

“Then the answer would be no… sir.” Myron noticed that Pat had never so much as glanced at the photograph. “I might also add a little song and dance about how I'm too busy to notice faces in here. And how most peopie, especially celebrities, don't show their real faces in here anyway.”

“I see,” Myron said. He reached into his wallet, took out a fifty. “And if I showed you a photograph of Ulysses S. Grant?”

The jukebox changed songs. The Flying Machine started crooning for Rosemarie to “smile a little smile for me, Rosemarie.” The Flying Machine. Myron had remembered the group's riame. What did that say about a man?

“Keep your money,” Pat said. “Keep your picture. Keep your questions. I don't like trouble.”

“And this guy means trouble?”

“I haven't even looked at the picture, pal. And I don't plan to. 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 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.