The Devil You Know by P.N. Elrod Page B

unoccupied left elbow out. “Hang it here.”
    I did so, and she looked very pleased with herself, walking between us. “What gives?”
    “How many times do I get to ankle into a swank club with two handsome men to look after my every wish?” she asked.
    “ One handsome man,” said Barrett.
    “Aw, don’t sell yourself short, big boy,” she said in a comforting tone.
     
    * * * * * * *
     
    * * * * * * *
     
    The club’s lobby was impressive, taking all comers who could afford the outrageous two-fifty cover charge. On a weeknight? Barrett beat me to the punch, but I grabbed the tickets for our hats and coats when we checked them.
    The music was loud; I leaned in close so Barrett and Izzy could hear. “You two are Mr. and Mrs. Howard, got that?”
    “No wedding ring,” said Izzy.
    “Keep your gloves on.”
    “And if I meet anyone I know?”
    “Tell them about your romantic elopement, Mrs. Howard. I’m Mr. Taylor, and from this point on you both do what I say. Got it?”
    They got it, but looked amused.
    The evening’s first show had just ended and patrons were leaving. A hostess led us to a table near the dance floor and a moment later a waiter came to see if we were thirsty. Barrett and I took coffee, and with a straight face Izzy ordered a Shirley Temple.
    “Nothing stronger?” I asked.
    “I don’t like the taste of booze.”
    She’d also seen what it was doing to Clapsaddle. I wondered how deep their working relationship ran.
    Barrett discussed the possibility of obtaining a steak for the lady. The waiter was encouraging. I looked around, studying the operation. I couldn’t help but compare it to my own club.
    Lady Crymsyn was swank, but not on the same scale as this joint. The stage and dance floor were huge; there were five times as many tables, and the bouncers certainly outnumbered the drunks. It was packed. During the week I was lucky to fill half the tables. Weekends were when I made the real profit. This one was doing two shows a night to full houses.
    Different town, different patrons , I thought. Apples and oranges .
    But some things would not be different.
    I excused myself from the table and went up to the nearest bouncer. He didn’t look unfriendly.
    “Is he in?” I asked. “There is always a “he” for an operation like this.
    “Is who in?” he rumbled back.
    “You know. Tell him John Taylor’s here about that problem on Long Island.”
    “Why should I?”
    “Wait and find out. You won’t like it.”
    “You a cop?”
    “Funny guy. I’m gonna bust a rib laughing. Pass the word.”
    I returned, sat down, and looked the other way. He would either move the problem along or not. My money was on the latter.
    “What did you do?” asked Barrett.
    “Gave him my calling card. Izzy, are you sure Brogan’s here?”
    “It’s a little late to ask, but yes, he is. That’s him in the gray suit at the end of the bar.”
    Which would put him behind me. I couldn’t think of a good reason to casually turn around, so I did it not-so-casually. He’d want to check me out before talking, anyway.
    There’s no mistaking the boss for certain kinds of jobs. Brogan lounged with one arm on the bar, his back to a wall, a drink within reach, the whole of the club within view, its lord and master keeping an eye on his investment. I did the same thing at my place, but without the drink. A brown-suited minion was busy bending his ear, and nearly had to stand on tiptoe to do it.
    Men of all sizes and shapes are in the gangs, but the big guys tend to have a natural instinct for intimidating their way to the top. Brogan was one of those, about my height, but much more solid, more obviously muscled, and in his prime. He had a thinning widow’s peak of blond hair, doughy, pockmarked features, and looked like he chewed nails with his morning coffee because he enjoyed the sensation.
    His gaze focused on me for a long moment, showing no change of expression. He might be used to people coming in and