The gang moved along the southern row of lap-dance booths, maintaining its security envelope around the Eel. A second guard broke away to check the restrooms.
“… You dropped the bomb on me! Baby, baby …”
One of the entourage pulled out a chair for their leader, who took a seat at the edge of the catwalk. From the neckline of a shirt, a jellylike blob glowed a fluorescent, toxic-waste green in the club’s dim light. The rest of the gang remained standing in their protective ring, backs to the Eel, looking out toward empty seats that would soon begin filling.
A bodyguard returned. Restrooms clear.
Curtains at the back of the club parted. A malnourished peroxide-blonde with science-fiction tits strutted out in lingerie.
Another guard returned from his outside rounds. He leaned to the Eel and whispered. Bad news. Two-tone Javelin in the alley. Lingerie fell to the stage.
The Eel snapped his fingers. Others knew what to do.
A pair of the crew jumped up on the back of the catwalk. Another bouncer appeared from the curtains. He couldn’t be heard above the pounding music, but his emphatic gestures said: You can’t go back there!
“… Super freak! Super freak …”
The bouncer recovered from a hard shove and followed the men to the dressing room. At the opposite end of the club, the front door opened again. Four G-men with white shirts and thin black ties.
Across the street, Mahoney observed the other agents enter the club. A fifth G-man spotted the Javelin in the alley and stood watch, leaning against the orange trunk. Mahoney pulled the front brim of his fedora low over his eyes, trotted across the road and went inside. He kept his head down, looking away from the starched white shirts, now luminous blue, and commandeered a seat in the darkest booth at the back of the club.
The catwalk’s curtains flew open. Bodyguards jumped down from the stage and walked quickly up the aisle toward the Eel, shaking their heads: no sign of Serge. The Eel motioned for one of his goons, whispering instructions to stand guard in the alley by the Javelin. He ran out the front door. The Eel slipped a twenty in a garter belt.
The dancer sashayed out of sight through the curtains, which opened again as quickly as they had closed. New dancer, redhead in pig-tails, cheerleader uniform. Tempo changed.
“… You!… Shook me allllllll night long!…”
The dispatched guard entered the west end of the alley and took up position, leaning against the Javelin’s front hood. He nodded at the state agent by the trunk.
Back inside, the Eel leaned forward with another twenty and a slimy grin. The dancer stepped over the fallen pom-poms, cocked her knee forward and stretched an elastic garter.
More dancers and music. The Eel became increasingly engrossed. Patrons trickled in, and the bodyguards tightened their outward-facing semicircle around the Eel’s chair, cynically evaluating each new customer.
Then the main attraction. Another theme song.
“… Devil in a blue dress, blue dress, blue dress …”
Story pushed through the curtains in a long, blue bedroom gown and launched into an impressively aerobic routine on a fire pole. One of the crusty regulars sitting along the other side of the catwalk held out a dollar bill. He looked up from under a wig and fake mustache that kept having to be pressed back in place. “Pssst! Story, it’s me, Serge!”
She glared back, sliding down from the pole into a split.
From the other side of the catwalk, the Eel made a slight waving motion with another twenty. Story shed the gown and swaggered over. The bill motioned her closer. She squatted right in front of him in a catcher’s crouch. His eyes were not on her face.
Story began a slow, rhythmic thrusting of her pelvis. The Eel licked his lips. She grabbed the top edge of her lace panties, just below a pierced belly button, and pulled them down at a teasingly slow rate. The customers on the other side of the catwalk had a prime angle: Story’s great ass and a slender, odd bulge in the backside of her underwear.
The Eel extended his arm with the twenty. Music pounded louder. Story reached a hand behind her back.
. . Devil in a blue dress, blue dress …”
Serge cupped his hands around his mouth: “jellyfish!”
The Eel barely heard it above the music, but heard it nonetheless. He tilted his head and peeked around Story’s left leg for the source of the insult.
The split second of distraction was all she needed to grab the straight razor from her panties, flip it open and swing with a firm crossing motion.
The bodyguards scrutinized a rambunctious new group of customers. Conventioneers. Dismissed as minimal threat. One of the goons felt dampness on his arm. “What the hell-“
A second guard got hit with jugular spurts. He wiped his cheek and turned. The Eel slumped facedown on the edge of the catwalk, gurgling. The gang looked up, where a man in a wig had jumped onto the stage, taken Story by the hand and was racing her back through the curtains.
“Get them!”
