“Because he saw me giving you my phone number.”

“So?”

“So I'd never done that before.”

“I'm flattered.”

“Don't be. I'm just making a point. I come on to a ton of girls and guys and whatever in there. But I never give out a phone number.”

“So why did you give it to me?”

“Because I was curious to see if you'd call. You rebuffed Thrill, so you clearly weren't there for sex. I wondered what you were up to.”

Myron frowned. “That was the only reason?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing about my rugged good looks and brawny body?”

“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot.”

“So what did Pat want?”

“He wants me to bring you to another club tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“How did he know I'd call?”

Again the smile. “Nancy Sinclair might not guarantee an immediate phone call…”

“But Thrill does?”

“Bosoms are empowerment. And if you didn't, he told me I could look up your business number in the phone book.”

“Which is what you did.”

“Yes. He also promised me you wouldn't be hurt.”

“How comforting. And your interest in all this?”

“Isn't it obvious? A story. The Clu Haid murder is huge news. Now you're tying this week's murder-of-the-century to a kinky New York nightclub.”

“I don't think I can help you.”

“Cow dooky.”

“Cowdooky?”

She shrugged.

“What else did Pat say to you?” Myron asked.

“Nothing much. He just said that he wanted to talk.”

“If he wanted to talk, he could have looked up my phone number too.”

“Thrill, not the brightest bulb on the tree, didn't pick up on that.”

“But Nancy Sinclair did.”

She smiled again. It was a damn nice smile. “Tat was also huddled up with Zorra.”

“Who?”

“That's their psycho bouncer. A cross-dresser with a blond wig.”

“Like Veronica Lake?”

She nodded. “He's absolutely nuts. Lift up your shirt.”

“Pardon?”

“He can do anything with that razor heel. His favorite is a Z slash on the right side. You were in the back room with him.”

Made sense. Myron hadn't made him miss. Zorra- Zorra?-just wanted to brand him. “I have one.”

“He's seriously whacked out. Did some sort of stuff in the Persian Gulf War. Undercover. Worked for the Israelis too. There are all kinds of rumors about him, but if five percent of the stories I've heard are true, he's killed dozens.”

Just what he needed-Cross-Dressing Mossad. “Did they talk about Clu at all?”

“No. But Pat said something about your trying to kill somebody.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“They think I killed Clu?”

“I don't think so. It sounded more like they thought you were at the club to find someone and kill him.”

“Who?”

“No idea. They just said you were out to kill him.”

“They didn't say who?”

“If they did, I didn't hear them.” She smiled. “So do we have a date?”

“Guess so.”

“You're not scared?”

“I'll have backup.”

“Someone good?”

Myron nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

“Then I better go(home and strap up my breasts.”

“Need any help?”

“My hero. But no, Myron, I think I can handle it myself.”

“And if you can't?”

“I have your phone number,” she said. “See you tonight.”

Win frowned. “Nonsurgical breast enhancements?”

“Yes. They're an accessory of some sort.”

“An accessory? Like a matching pocketbook?”

“In a way.” Then thinking about it, Myron added, “But they're probably more noticeable.”

Win showed him the flat eyes. Myron shrugged.

“False advertising,” Win said.

“Pardon?”

“Breast enhancements. It's false advertising. There should be a law.”

“Right, Win. But the politicians in Washington- where are they when it comes to the real issues?”

“Then you understand.”

“I understand that you're a snorting pig.”

“A thousand pardons, O Enlightened One.” Win put a hand to his ear and tilted his head to the side. “Tell me again, Myron: What first attracted you to this Thrill?”

“The catsuit,” Myron said.

“I see. So if, say, Big Cyndi came into the office in the catsuit-”

“Hey, c'mon, I just ate a muffin.”

“Exactly.”

“Fine, I'm a pig too. Happy?”

“Yes, ecstatic. And perhaps you misread me. Perhaps I wish to outlaw such accessories because of what they do to a woman's self-esteem. Perhaps I tire of a society that forces unobtainable beauty on a woman-size four dresses with D cups.”

“The key word here being perhaps.”

Win smiled. “Love me for all my faults.”

“What else is there?”

Win adjusted his tie. “FJ and the two oversized hormonal glands that guard him are at Starbucks. Shall we?”

“Let's. Then I want to head over to Yankee Stadium. I need to question a couple of folks.”

“Sounds almost like a plan,” Win said.

They strolled up Park Avenue. The light changed, and they waited at the comer. Myron stood next to a man in a business suit talking on a cell phone. Nothing unusual about that, except the man was having phone sex. He was actually rubbing his, uh, nether parts and saying into the phone, “Yeah, baby, like that,” and other stuff not worth repeating. The light changed. The man crossed, still rubbing and talking. Talk about I Love New York.

“About tonight,” Win said.

“Yes.”

“You trust this Thrill?”

“She checks out.”

“There is of course a chance that they'll just shoot you when you show up.”

“I doubt it. This Pat is part owner. He wouldn't want the trouble in his own place.”

“So you think they're extending this invitation to buy you a drink?”

“Could be,” Myron said. “With my preference-crossing animal magnetism, I'm considered something of a tasty morsel to the swinger set.”

Win chose not to argue.

They headed east on Forty-ninth Street. The Starbucks was four blocks up on the right. When they arrived, Win signaled for Myron to wait. He leaned in and took a quick peek through the glass before backing away. “Young FJ is at a table with someone,” Win reported. “Hans and Franz are two tables over. Only one other table is occupied.”

Myron nodded. “Shall we?”

“You first,” Win said. “Let me trail.”

Myron had stopped questioning Win's methods a long time ago. He immediately stepped inside and headed toward FJ's table. Hans and Franz, the Mr. Universe Bookends, were still wearing the tank tops and the semipajama pants smeared with a pattern that resembled melted paisley. They bolted upright when Myron entered, fingers tightened into fists, necks in midcrack.

FJ was decked out in a light herringbone sports coat, collared shirt buttoned all the way to the top, cuffed pants, and Cole-Haan tasseled loafers. Too natty for words. He spotted Myron and raised his hand in the bruisers' direction. Hans and Franz froze.

“Hi, FJ,” Myron said.

FJ was sipping something foamy; it kinda looked like shaving cream. “Ah, Myron,” he said with what he must have been sure was savoirfaire. He gestured at his table companion. His companion got up without a word and scooted toward the exit like a scared gerbil. “Please, Myron, join me. This is such a strange coincidence.”

“Oh?”

“You saved me a trip. I was just going to pay you a visit.” FJ tossed Myron the snake smile. Myron let it land on the floor and watched it slither away. “I guess it's kismet, huh, Myron? Your coming here. Pure kismet.”

FJ cracked up at that. Hans and Franz laughed too.

“Kismet,” Myron repeated. “Good one.”

FJ waved a modest hand as if to say, / got a million like that. “Please sit, Myron.”

Myron pulled out a chair.

“Care for a drink?”

“An iced latte would be fine. Grande, skim, with a dash of vanilla.”

FJ motioned to the guy working behind the coffee bar. “He's new,” FJ confided.