22

Susan “Suzi Mustang” Klosmeyer sat in the cramped dressing room of the Lacy Pony, balanced on a rickety chair reading a paperback about the habits of successful people. All she wore was a short robe, bikini bottom, and fishnets. The air in the tiny space was hot and close.

Canned music thumped through the walls, rattling the plastic hydrogen peroxide bottles and makeup tubes on the twin vanities. The traditional bump and grind music, favoring the sax and bombastic drums, had been replaced on the sound system with synthesizer electronics like the soundtrack to a science fiction flick, and beats that seemed to repeat endlessly. Worse was that mess they called rap that occasionally got thrown into the mix, and made her grit her teeth.

The music died down and the catcalls and whoops rose from the assembled mouth breathers. Mustang sighed and set aside her book, using an old tassel as a bookmark. She rose as Diane Jalivarez—who went by Lilly St. Regis—breezed in from the stage. She held a decent amount of wrinkly cash, clutching it to her substantial sweaty breasts. Most of it was of the one-dollar variety, Suzi observed smugly as St. Regis plopped the bills onto one of the tabletops. A few drifted to the floor.

At the other vanity sat a girl who only went by the name Dakota. She sat with her back to the mirror, legs crossed and filing her nails.

“Oh, how I love me my frat boys,” Jalivarez gushed. She dropped to her knees to get the bills off the floor, and made it a production as she counted her take from that position. It was some kind of goofball good luck thing she did after each set. Dakota and Mustang exchanged a look.

Then it was Mustang’s turn as the strip joint’s disc jockey Tricky Ricky announced her. She pulled together her outfit, including leather gloves with sleeves that went up her forearms, and had brass studs along the seams.

“And now the one you’ve been salivating for,” Ricky said theatrically. “The one who can bring life to the dead, and make the blind see when she wiggles those God-given magnificent melons. The one, the only… Suziiii Mustaaang.”

The music cranked up again to an eardrum-pulsing level, drowning out the clapping and hooting. Mustang steeled herself as she stepped through the gap in the sequined curtain. Overhead, twirling light balls splayed reflected bright white all over the stage, the backdrop, and Tricky Ricky at his control board off to the side. Mini spotlights, operating on synchromesh rotors, jittered her form in circles of red, orange, and yellow.

“Oh, baby, I’m in love,” a heavyset man yelled. He wore glasses too small for his round head.

“I’m in lust!” another shouted, gulping down a bottle of overpriced beer. He had on a sweatshirt for Gotham University’s rowing team.

“Come on boys,” Mustang said, launching into her spiel as she began dancing. “Don’t be shy, ’cause I sure won’t be.”

That got them going. She’d taken a cue from the old pros, updating the opera gloves with the leather. Over her bikini bottom she wore a leopard-spotted loin cloth like a pin-up version of a cave girl, and a matching top that barely covered her ample bosom.

Then she started to dance, focusing on the moves. Long ago she’d learned that she could do it on autopilot, but that would show on her face and how she moved her body. The droolers might throw some bills her way, but that would be on autopilot, too. To get them into the moment, make them feel as if they were sharing this time of intimacy, Mustang had to act. Had to make it seem as if the music was flowing through her, and give it all she had.

She had to keep the men drinking, too, since that made the house happy.

“Yeah, baby, that’s what Mama likes,” she said, slipping a leg over one guy’s shoulder and pumping her hips lasciviously. All the men roared save for one. He sat back from the others, big arms folded over his barrel chest, his baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. She saw him back there in the dimness, and they shared a brief smile. Then she turned around, bent over and jiggled her rear. That got the pipeline flowing, and the bills cascaded onto the stage—not singles but twenties.

When her top came off another roar went up. Mustang threw her arms in the air and put a smile on her face, letting her head loll back as she basked in the adoration.

She knew the audience was putting on an act, too, for they were in the moment, but she didn’t care. If any of them passed her on the street, and she was dressed in normal clothes, they wouldn’t recognize her. It wasn’t as if any of them even knew what her face looked like. To them she was only an object of sexual desire, and there was a comforting degree of anonymity in that. Here Mustang wielded the power.

But it would be Susan Klosmeyer who reaped the benefits.

The music wound down, and the colored spotlights went dark. Her set over, she blew a kiss to the lonely and the lurking. Gathering up her money, she exited to the dressing room, where another dancer had arrived for her shift. Breathing heavily, Mustang grabbed up a towel to blot at her face and upper body. That done, she put her money in the damp towel, and folded the cloth over.

“Aren’t you going to impress us with your stack?” St. Regis said acidly.

“I wouldn’t want to make you jealous,” she replied. She began to change into street clothes. This had been her last set, and she wanted to get out of here.

“Uh-huh. Like you’re all that.”

The Lacy Pony’s owner encouraged the girls to work so-called “after hours” sets, which meant giving lap dances. If a customer was particularly generous in his donation, that dance could include various extras, and the boss only took twenty percent off the top.

St. Regis was all about those extras.

Mustang knew she should ignore the snark, but small-timers like St. Regis had to be reminded there were people not to mess with. Tucking her bundled towel in a backpack, she walked over to where St. Regis sat on the rickety chair, smoking a cigarette.

“Don’t be shy, Diane,” she said flatly. “You got something to say, say it.”

St. Regis stabbed the cigarette at her.

“Look, skank, maybe you think your—”

Mustang kicked the legs out from under the chair. They broke and went skittering over the dirty rug as the seat dropped to the floor with a bang. The recently arrived stripper let out a gasp and gaped. Dakota just watched.

“Bitch, you’re going to regret that.” St. Regis was on her butt, trying to get off the floor. Before she could, Mustang sent the backpack upside her head knocking her sideways. Then she loomed over her, pointing down at the dazed dancer.

“I won’t tell you how to shake that saggy rump of yours,” she said, “and you damn sure better keep your trap shut when it comes to my business. Nod if you understand, or I’m happy to make your head go up and down.”

St. Regis glared venomously, but did as commanded.

“Glad we could have this little chat, and clear the air and shit.” She threw the backpack over her shoulder—it held the money, her costume, platform boots, and a flashlight with two D batteries. As she moved to leave, Tricky Ricky stepped to the doorway.

“Boss would like a word with you, Suzi,” he said. “Says it’s in your best interests.”

“Tell him I got a date tonight, Ricky.”

“He won’t like that as an answer.”

“Is that right?” she said, slipping past him. “I guess you’ve gotta break the bad news to him then.” Pushing through the side exit, she stepped out into the chill air.

As usual, there were a couple of men who, augured by booze and delusional lust, looked to spark it up, impress her with a wad of dough and the promise of fancy dinners and jewelry if only they could have a date—a real date.

It wasn’t about sex, oh no.

Tonight was no different. One of the regulars—Chuck something, she recalled—was standing at the base of the metal steps, a raft of roses in his hand. Over the door was a cowled light bulb. She almost felt pity for the poor bastard. As she descended, she could see the lighter band of skin on his left hand, where normally his wedding ring would be.

“These are for you, Suzi.”

No kidding. “That’s sweet, but club rules state we can’t fraternize with the customers.”

“B-but I’m more than a c-customer,” he stammered, “I’m an admirer.”

“Look, Chuck—it’s Chuck, right?”

“Dave.”

“Dave. I’m flattered but the rules are the rules.” She tried to move past, but using the cellophane-wrapped bouquet like a truncheon, he levered them toward her face. Instinctively she pushed them away.

“Hey!” she said loudly.

“Please, you mustn’t rush,” he said. “Everybody’s in a rush in this town.”

Something dropped out of the flowers, and pinged when it hit the pavement. It was a diamond ring. Or at least an imitation one. Dave was wearing corduroys and sneakers, and didn’t look like he was made of money.

Looking down, then up, he said, “Th-that was supposed to be a surprise.”

“It was,” someone said off to her left.

Mustang turned to see the beefy man with the cap standing there. The logo on the cap was a piece of machinery, with the company name in a semicircle above the picture.

“Get on home, Dave,” the newcomer said. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Now see here,” Dave began, “who are you to order me around?” While the other man was taller and more muscular, Dave obviously spent too much time sitting behind a desk. Nevertheless, the allure of Suzi Mustang had fired a courage originating in his libido.

“Hi, Brad,” she said.

“Hey, baby.”

Dave looked as if he’d been punched in the gut, but he got the message. Pocketing the ring, he dropped the flowers on the bottom rung of the steps, and retreated quickly, if not gracefully.

“Who needs Batman, when I have you?” Mustang said, beaming. She put her arm in the crook of his, they moved out of the alley, and walked along the nearly deserted street.

“Sorry I wasn’t waiting for you,” he said. “When I got in past dawn today, I sacked out, and then after I got up and had a bite to eat, I rushed right over here. But the cab was kind of messy from the road, and I wanted to straighten it up for my lady.”

“Nothing to worry about, honey.”

He grinned down at her, patting her hand. They got to his bobtail truck. The same logo was printed on the side, along with a name.

Tri-State Freight

Brad Ashford was the owner-operator of a fleet of one truck. Tonight, however, he was looking to expand his enterprise—an expansion not without its share of risk. Yet Ashford was willing to roll those dice when it came to the woman who walked beside him.

Unlocking the passenger side door, he placed a hand under her elbow, and she stepped up into the truck. She wrinkled her nose at the fruity smell. Overkill, but that was Brad. Once he was in, he was all the way in. Once she’d talked him into becoming a criminal, he was determined to give it his best.

Ashford got behind the wheel, turning the key. The engine roared to life and they rumbled away from the Lacy Pony.

“You nervous?”

“A little,” she admitted, “but Palmares set this up, so these guys shouldn’t be trying any funny business.” She always made sure to refer to the drug lord by his last name when she was with Ashford. She didn’t want him to know what was going on between her and the boss.

Or that this was all about the money.

He turned on the radio-cassette deck, tapped a button, and tape could be heard whirring. The volume set to low. Rather than the usual country-and-western tune coming out of the cab’s speakers, a crooner sang a love ballad.

What a sap.

Mustang stared out the windshield, her mouth set in a grim line. This was it. After tonight, her life would be completely different or more likely she’d be dead. She reviewed everything as they drove along. Given that Giggle Sniff was a local product, Palmares didn’t have to worry about sneaking the stuff in by the ports or rails, and having to pay off any of the mob families. He maintained several distribution centers in the greater Gotham area, and was determined to keep them hidden.

One of Palmares’ distributors, Jo-Jo Gagan, had up and suddenly disappeared. That had to mean he was worm food, she concluded. But the hole he left in the organization, his campus men getting busted, had been the opportunity for which she’d been waiting. Sure enough, she’d tried to sound properly pleased when Palmares had called her.

Following her directions, Ashford brought them into the Robbinsville area along a highway overpass, exited, and moved down into a cement roadway lined with one- and two-story buildings. This was Airplane Alley, known as such because it had been a manufacturing area specializing in single-engine aircraft and related parts production. The name had stuck, even though the aviation industry had long ago moved away. Today the facilities turned out everything from wooden window blinds to pre-fab bookcases. It wasn’t unusual to see a truck like Ashford’s coming and going, not even at night.

“There’s the place,” she said, pointing. She glanced down the street, but didn’t see anyone else. Good, she thought.

“Right.” He pulled to a stop at a nondescript stucco building with a large rollaway door. There was a faded, block-letter sign above the entrance.

SIKORSKY CAMSHAFTS

The engine idling, the truck’s headlights shone dull white on the corrugated surface of the door. A metallic grinding sound came from inside the building as a chain and pulley was worked, and the rollaway slid up. Ashford eased his vehicle inside the dimly lit loading dock and shut off the engine. They got out, squinting into the shadows.

The door remained open.

Mustang’s eyebrows went up as a man in a dark windbreaker stepped from the rear of the establishment. At first glance she thought this was Two-Face, but quickly realized it was only the skin on one of the man’s cheeks. Deformed not from acid, like the former district attorney, but by acne scars. It had a pock-marked, waxy look to it. She had to remind herself not to stare.

He was flanked by two men carrying assault rifles.

Behind him in the half-light, bolted to what had been the shop floor, were the drill presses, lathes, and other types of machinery once used to turn out the camshafts. Though solid and seemingly intact, their disuse was evident from the cobwebs and a thick layer of dust. Here and there were gloves, goggles, even coffee mugs and empty bottles.

The man spoke. “You know how this works,” he said. There was a large empty table off to one side, and he moved over to it.

“What about the goods?” Ashford said.

The man smiled crookedly. “Of course.” He didn’t seem to make any sort of gesture but a third hood, wearing a handgun in a shoulder holster, stepped into view. He carried two stuffed gym bags, and set these on the table with a dull thud. Then he unzipped one and stepped back, hands clasped before him.

“Go ahead, check it out,” said the pock-marked man.

Stepping away from Ashford, Mustang went over to the unzipped bag. It was stuffed with glassine packets stamped with a black round oval with a distorted wide white laughing mouth. She wondered if this was how the Joker saw himself, when he looked in a mirror, and smiled grimly at the thought. Casually she opened one of the packets. Touching the tip of her little finger to her tongue, she sampled some of the drug.

“Oh, yes,” she said, snorting and squinting. She zipped up the bag and reached for them both. The pock-marked man put a hand on her wrist. Ashford tensed but a sharp look from Mustang cooled him down.

“Python’s taking a hell of a chance on you.” His gaze was steady on her.

“I’m a big girl, I know what I’m doing.”

“You better.”

Mustang nodded at Ashford. He went to the truck’s cab. One of the hoods went with him, rifle held at the ready. The trucker took out a paper grocery bag, rolled shut, and handed it to the hood who took it back to the scarred man. He put the bag on the table and opened it up to look inside at the rubber-banded stacks of money.

“Looks like you’re a Giggle Sniff investor.” He refolded the top of the paper bag.

“Aren’t you gonna count it?” Ashford said. The way he understood it from Suzi was they were putting up a certain amount of money, the bulk of the funds. Aside from what he’d put in the kitty, he was still not clear how she’d obtained such. Sure her having a bodacious bod had all those hooting drunks raining twenties on her in the club, but there seemed to be way more than that in the bag.

Still, the idea was that in the other gym bag was an amount that Palmares was advancing them, twice what they’d brought. The money and the Giggle Sniff were their calling cards, so to speak, to expand Palmares’ operation in other cities. In particular the money was to be used to grease the wheels, bribing this or that cop or judge in the other municipalities.

The scarred man frowned and fixed his gaze on the truck driver, then shot a glance to his men.

“You looking to short us?” That earned a chuckle from the muscle with the shoulder holster.

“No, it’s just that—” Ashford began.

“It’s okay, Brad,” Mustang said, touching his arm. To the head man she said, “We’re good.”

One of the hoods carried one of the gym bags and the paper sack, the three of them walking over to the truck. Abruptly there was a squealing sound out on the street, and through the maw of the rollaway door she saw two vehicles come screaming around the corner. One was a tricked-out Camaro, lowered in front and raised in the rear on dual fat drag-racing tires. The windows were smoked, and a supercharger stuck out of the hood.

In its wake came a van with mag wheels, keeping pace with its companion as they passed under a street light. Airbrushed on the side of the van were two absurdly muscled barbarians, one a female with balloon-like tits. Each brandished a gleaming sword.

“The hell?” The guy with the shoulder holster went for his weapon. He shot them an angry glare.

Mustang raised her hands like she was being held up, shaking her head side to side. Inwardly she tried her best to hold off panic.

Where the fuck…?

The Camaro fishtailed, skidding to a stop on the street, with the passenger side facing them. The power window came down and a figure in a scarecrow’s mask opened fire with a machine gun.