In Bed With The Wild One

Discounted merchandise in the alley? Emily glanced one way and then the other, looking for the catch. This sounded like a real swindle, like someone selling stolen watches out from under his overcoat, or hot VCRs on the back of a truck. And the saleswoman had so many piercings in her head she probably whistled like a teakettle every time she drank a hot beverage.

But still…the colorful piles of clothing and jewelry did look interesting, and too unique to be stolen.

“Did you make these?” Emily asked, holding up a sequined red jacket in one hand and a pair of lavishly embroidered bell-bottoms in the other.

“It’s vintage,” the Amazing Pierced Lady replied. “I pick up all kinds of ratty things at thrift shops and then add all the good stuff, recut them, you know, spruce them up, make them cool.”

Ratty things from thrift shops, repackaged and sold in an alley? Her mother would kill her if she ever found out she’d bought secondhand clothes. But come on! These things were great. The workmanship was first-rate, and all the handiwork was beautiful.

“I’m going for it,” she said to the saleswoman. “When am I ever going to see anything like this again?” She mulled over a tie-dyed pile—did she want the halter or the crop top?

“I’d go with the halter,” her fashion advisor offered. “The cropped stuff just doesn’t make it without a pierced navel.”

Emily was willing to concede that point. She reached for the tie-dyed halter top and an embroidered denim miniskirt, holding them up to check the size. They looked like they would fit perfectly. “How much?”

But the saleswoman had more sales in mind. “Did you see these?” she inquired, coming up with a box of shoes that had been set off to one side. “These are my bestsellers. If you take the halter and the skirt, I’ll throw in the shoes and take fifty dollars for the whole bunch.”

Ooh, the shoes were to die for. Ms. Pierced had apparently taken some clunky wooden platform sandals from the seventies, and then carved and painted monkeys and palm trees into the wood. One of a kind was an understatement. Emily had to have those sandals. Without further ado, she located her size and went for her wallet. But as she peeled off a fifty-dollar bill and handed it over, she happened to glance in the other direction.

And there, on the other side of the street, Emily caught sight of a very large man, shaped something like a chunk of concrete. He was tooling down the sidewalk, headed somewhere in a big hurry.

“Oh, my God,” she said under her breath. “That’s Slab!”

As Ms. Pierced dutifully stuffed the clothes and shoes into the bag with the lingerie, Emily grabbed her purchases and rushed out of the alley, not wasting a moment. Even though it was growing darker, the street was brightly lit, plus Slab was a very easy person to tail—he was so huge he could hardly just fade into the crowd.

Still, he had long strides, 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 eavesdropping so shamelessly at the Rainbow Rest-O-Rant, Emily recognized his inflection immediately.

It was gross to press her ear and her clean hair into the dirty duct, but she had to hear more.

She caught Tyler’s acerbic tones, something about jumping bail and Fat Mike, and then demanding a list of who exactly knew Slab was back in San Francisco and who else had claims to the money.

“Wow,” she murmured. This was simply riveting.

Tyler’s voice grew louder and more intense. “Somebody looking for you busted into my room at my friend’s place,” he said angrily, “and tried to rough up an innocent bystander.”

Emily knew who that referred to. Her. She winced, not feeling all that innocent.

“I can’t help it—” Slab began, but then there were choking sounds, as if someone had grabbed the big guy and stopped him in midsentence.

“You tell your friends to stay away from Emily, do you hear me?” Tyler ordered in a savage tone.

Yikes. Tyler was defending her, and with physical violence. Emily didn’t know whether to be flattered or scared out of her wits.

The female voice interjected, “I’m real sorry your little tootsie got in the way, Ty. But it’s got nada to do with me.”

Little tootsie? Oh, God, she means me. And Tyler didn’t even correct her. What was a “tootsie,” anyway? Was that like a girlfriend, or more of a slut-type person?

“Shanda, he told me he left the money with you. Do you think I’m the only one who’s going to come looking for you?” Tyler asked impatiently. “You’re involved whether you like it or not.”

“He didn’t leave no money with me!” she insisted. There was a thwack, as if somebody had gotten slapped. “You big dope! Why’d you go around telling people you left your stash with me?”

“I didn’t. I swear!” Slab protested. “Yeow! Stop it, Shan. Quit hittin’ me!”

The two of them argued back and forth for several minutes, with more smacking noises and more cries of “ouch!” and “yeow!” in Slab’s distinctive whine. It sounded as if Tyler tried to intercede and pull them apart a few times, but Shanda kept up the assault.

Sweet Shanda? Not so you could notice. For being the best time Slab had ever had, Shanda was one tough cookie.

“I guess I didn’t need to fly to San Francisco to protect her,” Emily murmured. “Slab was going to take her apart with his bare hands, huh? Sounds like vice versa to me.”

But their tiff was cut off by the sound of splintering wood, as if a door had been forced open, and heavy footsteps that boomed right over Emily’s head. Now another angry voice joined the fray.

“Slabicki!” the new person growled. “I heard you was back in town.”

From this set of noises, Emily could conclude that this was all happening one floor up, in whatever was on the third floor of The Flesh Pit over the bathroom. As she kept her ear pressed to the register, she heard Slab and the third man trade insults, plus another set of feet stomp around.

How many people were up there?

As if he were right next to her ear, Tyler muttered, “Damn it all to hell. This is just what I need. More mopes. The damn place is crawling with mopes.”

“Who you calling a mope?” the third man demanded. “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m nobody,” Tyler retorted. “I’m not even here.”

“Yeah, well, you’re in my business now!”

And then he pounded across the floor, and there was the sickening sound of a fist meeting a face.

Tyler’s face? She gasped, almost pitching right off her perch on the sink. Not Tyler’s face!

She knew what she had to do, and she leaped off the sink so fast she skidded into the first stall. It didn’t matter. Her mind honed in on one thought and one thought only.

Save Tyler.

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