and she was huffing a little by the time he turned into a crumbling, garishly painted building with a flashing neon sign. It was something called The Flesh Pit. Charming.
But Emily was game. Calming herself, she squared her shoulders and followed him right in the open door, undaunted. Or at least she pretended to be undaunted. The ground floor appeared to be a tattoo parlor, with various tough-looking people loitering around and lots of bizarre designs on display on the walls. In the back, there was a staircase with a big arrow pointing to the second floor. Above the arrow, the words “Live Entertainment” flashed on and off in red lights.
Slab was disappearing up those steps, his massive frame blocking out all but “ment.” Since raucous music, jeers and catcalling drifted down from upstairs, Emily could only guess that whatever was going on up there was even worse than down here.
Okay, so she was scared. It wasn’t her fault if she stood out like a sore thumb in this tattooed, pierced and generally tough crowd. No wonder so many people were staring at her. She had to face it—she was dressed more like Suzy Suburbs than someone who should be scanning the tattoo chart downstairs at The Flesh Pit.
Gathering her courage, Emily traipsed nonchalantly over to the staircase, fully intending to follow Slab right into the bowels of hell—or whatever it was up there—if that was what it took. After all, Tyler was looking for Slab. She had found Slab. No way she was going to let him go. Not when producing him would certainly show Tyler that she meant business and deserved to be allowed to help him on this caper.
The music and noise above her intensified with every step. She got as far as the upstairs landing, where a couple of brawny bouncers stepped into her path.
“Where ya goin’?” one of them demanded, crossing his beefy arms over his chest.
“In there?” she asked hopefully, pointing to the smoky, dimly lit room behind him. She could barely make out a scantily clad woman gyrating around a pole on a raised area with footlights, while clusters of men yelled and hooted from small cocktail tables. It looked pretty vile from here. She had a feeling it would be even nastier close up.
Was that Slab’s silhouette over by the stage? The shoulders were vaguely shaped like a refrigerator. Who else could it be?
“I don’t think you need to go in there,” the bouncer told her, giving her a cynical once-over. “You don’t look like our kind of customer.”
“I can pay the cover charge.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. What are you, writing a book?” he asked with a sneer. “Or maybe looking to save the strippers, drag ’em off to some halfway house? We’ve seen your kind before.” He tapped a square, poorly lettered sign attached to the stand behind him. It said We Reserve The Right To Exclude You If We Don’t Like How You Look. “Consider yourself excluded, doll.” He shook his head. “Don’t make me get tough with you.”
“Hmm.” Emily frowned at the stage. She wouldn’t have thought the things that woman was doing to that pole were humanly possible. “She’s certainly…talented, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.” Big Bruiser actually cracked a smile. “That’s Shanda. She’s our headliner. She knows what to do.”
Emily’s ears perked up. She’d heard that name before. Coffee shop. Slab. His voice echoed inside her ears. Sweet Shanda. Best time I ever had… “You did say Shanda, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, sure. She’s a major star in the strip game. Shanda Leer. You heard of her?”
“Shanda Leer?” As in chandelier. Good heavens. But this Shanda Leer had to be the mysterious girlfriend Slab had left Chicago to see. How many Shandas could there be running around North Beach?
Emily felt the thrill of discovery. She’d not only found Slab, but Shanda, too! Putting her miles ahead of Tyler. Now he would have to admit that he needed her help. Just wait until she got back to the B and B and made him beg her to tell him what she’d discovered.
As she contemplated just how she would hold Tyler’s feet to the fire, there was a brassy, musical flourish of sorts inside The Flesh Pit, and Shanda slithered offstage after an enthusiastic hand from the rabble. Slab’s large shadow rose from its place near the stage and skirted the tables, moving toward a back exit.
Emily had to get in there, too. She made her move, but the bouncer stopped her before she’d gone two steps.
“I’m sorry, doll, but you’ll have to step aside,” he told her. “We got real customers coming up.” He inclined a fat thumb down the stairs, and Emily absently glanced that way as she plotted her next move.
Uh-oh, speak of the devil. Tyler was just planting his foot on the first step, a really cranky look on his fabulous face. Even if she had wanted to see him now, which she didn’t, she also didn’t want to face the indignity of being turned away at the door while he marched right in, smirking at her.
So she relied on the first rule of female avoidance tactics: the ladies’ room.
“Excuse me,” she asked politely, leaning in over the bouncer’s podium, “but do you have a rest room I could use?”
“Yeah. Over there. Behind the stairs. Second door on your left.”
Emily beat a quick path down the hall he’d indicated, but it wasn’t pretty. There was one bare bulb screwed into the ceiling, and only a trail of grimy linoleum to lead the way. She pushed open the swinging door marked Girls and barged right in. Empty. It probably didn’t get a whole lot of use except by the strippers themselves.
So she frowned into the mirror, trying to give herself enough time to think up a way into the main room of the strip joint. Since there was a back exit, perhaps there was also a back entrance, like a stage door. Or what if she changed into the halter and miniskirt she’d just bought on the street? Would her looks be more acceptable to the bouncer?
While she pondered, she realized she really did look like Sweet Polly Purebred in her plain white shirt and pearls under the navy jacket. Or maybe it was the hair.
“I should’ve changed it years ago,” she said darkly, fingering the obscenely boring medium brown strands of her chin-length bob. Sure, her hair was shiny and neat, but not very va-va-va-voom. She fussed with her bangs and tucked the sides behind her ears. “Maybe some barrettes or clips or something.”
As she fluffed and fussed with her hair, she found herself glancing absently at the air duct over the mirror. How very strange. She could swear there were voices coming through the filthy grate.
Was that Slab’s distinctive high-pitched whine she heard? She couldn’t be sure, but it certainly sounded like him.
Emily dropped her bag of clothes and her purse and boosted herself up onto the sink, teetering there, grabbing the top of the first stall for balance, as she leaned in closer to the vent to hear better.
Definitely Slab, she realized with a certain triumph. His voice was unmistakable. The words were muddled, but he was pleading with somebody about something, and denying all over the place, that much was clear.
A woman’s voice cut in, telling him to “cram it.” Shanda? No way to tell. She didn’t sound too sweet, that was for sure.
And then another, lower, more irritated voice joined in the conversation. “Tyler,” she whispered. After
