"Thank you," she said.

Then I went to work.

Crossfire

1

"Be careful with it," the man told the uniformed parking valet. "It cost me a bundle," he added unnecessarily, the gleaming black Mercedes 600SL coupe making that statement on its own.

"Yes sir," the valet responded, throwing a half–salute, palming the ten–dollar bill and sliding behind the wheel all in one smooth motion.

The man entered the Runway Club slowly, his eyes sweeping the main room as he paid the cover charge. The joint sat in the shadow of the airport, but its name came from the long T–shaped platform that bisected the interior, not its location.

The man made his way to a small round table toward the back, a good distance from the end of the runway. It was harder to see the girls from there–early on a Tuesday night, the man was surrounded by pools of shadow.

A blonde waitress approached, wearing a tiny black Spandex skirt over fishnet stockings and spike heels. A fine black mesh blouse did little to conceal her breasts as she bent over to take the man's order.

"Absolut rocks, water on the side," the man told her, not making eye contact.

When the waitress returned with two glasses on a small lacquered tray, the man pulled a folded sheaf of bills from his shirt pocket and handed her a twenty. "A gambler," the waitress thought to herself, noting where the man carried his money. She returned with a ten–dollar bill and one single, laying them across the tabletop so they were slightly separated. The waitress took one step back, watching, her hands clasped in front of her to squeeze her breasts into deeper cleavage.

The man drew a wider separation between the two bills, this time catching her eyes–his were a bright China blue, startling under a Las Vegas tan. Then he took a gold coin from his jacket pocket, turned it in his fingers so the waitress could see both sides–a Queen's head and a maple leaf. The man pointed at the separated bills, bull's–eye tattoo prominent on the back of his hand.

"Feel lucky?" he asked.

"Go for it," the waitress smiled.

The man flicked the coin with his thumb. As it turned gently in the smoky–blue air of the club, the waitress called out "Tails!"

The man caught the coin in a cupped palm, slapped it against the back of his other wrist. He removed his hand to show the waitress the maple leaf.

"You're a winner," he said.

The waitress bent forward, delicately scooped up the sawbuck and blew the man a kiss, switching her hips as she walked away in a good–bye wave.

2

The man watched the runway dancers patiently, not reacting as one after another stepped down and continued to dance at various spots throughout the room. Other men were stuffing bills into garters or G–strings, applauding as the girls danced on tabletops. Occasionally, one of the dancers would perch on a patron's lap, but the man passed up all such offers, sipping at his drink, watching quietly.

The waitress watched too. Watched the man's slouchy–cut black silk suit, the diamond flashing on his left ring finger, the wafer–thin gold watch. She made two more trips to his table, each time opting to risk her tip, each time winning,

"Tails have always been lucky for me," she said to the man, standing hip–shot, "but I like heads too."

"Do you?" the man asked.

"Very much," she said, licking her lips.

"You're a smart girl," the man said. "You pay attention, don't you?"

"When I'm supposed to," she said, her eyes on the gold chain around the man's neck, barely visible under the open collar of his white silk shirt.

The man reached into his shirt pocket, thumbed off a bill without looking, tossed it on the table. A hundred.

"Yours," he said. "For a little favor."

"Tell me," she said, bending forward, reaching.

The man covered her hand with his, the bull's–eye tattoo holding her eyes.

"Tell Reba to come over this way," the man said.

"This isn't her spot," the waitress said. "I could…"

"Just tell her," the man said, removing his hand.

The waitress picked up the bill, said, "I'll see what I can do," and walked off, spike heels clicking on the tile floor.

3

The brunette was tall, extravagantly built, her hair a thick, wild mane falling past her bare shoulders. Her height was exaggerated by a pair of dark stockings, anchored by thick black bands around the top, flowing out of high spike heels. Her only other article of clothing was a black G–string.

"You asked for me, honey?" she said.

"Yeah," the man replied, his eyes scanning her face, not stopping until they located a tiny scar just past the corner of her right eye.

"Well, I hope it's gonna be worth it, baby….It costs me fifty to switch my spot."

The man reached forward, stuffed a couple of bills into the top of her stocking. The brunette held out a hand, so the man could help her onto the tabletop. But the man pulled her down instead, into his lap. The brunette squirmed, purring "Lap dancing costs–"

"Just do it," the man said quietly, his right hand around her waist. With his left hand, he reached into his shirt pocket, tossed several bills on the table.

The brunette tried to turn so she could throw one leg over the man's lap and face him, but he held her firmly with one hand. She wiggled her buttocks hard against the man's lap, making practiced sounds of pleasure, throwing back her head so she was cheek–to–cheek with the man, facing forward.

As she reached one hand out for the money, the man whispered in her ear, "You wanted to see me?"

She sat up, startled, but the man's hand on her waist held her close. 'You told Lucinda you wanted to see me?" he said again.

The brunette relaxed, leaning back again, her mouth close to the man's ear." You're Cross?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"I thought you'd look…I don't know…different."

"Tell me what you want," he said, voice flat.

She shifted her weight, still wiggling in time to the music, whispering, "I want a gun. A cold gun. Never used. Lucinda said you could…"

"What do you want it for?"

"A fucking paperweight for my coffee table, what do you think?" she snapped.

"I don't sell guns," the man said. "Not individual guns. You want to buy a crate, we can talk. One piece, go visit a pawnshop."

"I'll pay–"

"Tell me what you want," the man said again.

"Not here. Pick me up after work. I'll–"

"Won't the boss–?"

"I don't have a boss," the brunette said. "I rent this space. What I do after work is my own business."

"What time do you–?"

"I'll be out front at four."

4

She was standing on the apron to the parking lot at 4 A.M. when a white Cadillac sedan pulled up. The driver stepped out, a pudgy man with black hair plastered across his forehead, wearing a voluminous calf–length coat despite the summer heat. The driver walked around behind the Cadillac, opened the back door. Then he stepped close to the woman, said, "Mr. Cross is waiting," and swept his hand toward the opened door in an invitational gesture.