Cat In A White Tie And Tails

But Max had to … wait. To not move, shift, or alleviate his pain even by a centimeter. The dark behind him was his shield and trap. That and his magician’s patience to wait, wait, wait for the final triumphant “reveal.” The more cramped the space, the more impossible the position, the better payoff, in illusion and in reality.

The dark tunnel ahead heaved into slithering sound and motion, heading right for him. Max unsprung his torso and leg muscles in a massive motion of relief that propelled him into the unseen obstacle, his right hand clutching the other man’s right wrist as it bent to draw the anticipated weapon.

Max twisted until the snap of bone and the guy’s bitten-back moan. He pressed the whole arm up and back. If he could drive the butt of whatever weapon was in that hand into the man’s own left temple, hard and sharp, it would be a knockout punch.

Panting openly now, Max banged the unconscious man’s hand to the venting floor as his grip relaxed. His rejecting gesture skidded the confiscated commando knife toward the visible exit grille. Then he wrapped his fists into the man’s denim jacket—the stalker hadn’t expected to have to follow Max into a small space—and heaved the inert body halfway behind him, using his chest and shoulder muscles, and crawled on past.

As he dug his elbows against the aluminum surface to crawl toward the light, he saw the grille shudder, then vanish. A hand reached up through the opening to retrieve the knife with its six-inch blade.

Max swallowed his frustration. Great. He wasn’t getting out of here without jumping off into the light at the end of the tunnel, onto his barely healed leg bones, within easy reach of a new enemy forewarned and forearmed.

Chapter 12

Prawn Patrol

“So this is where my no-goodnik son likes to hang out,” Three O’Clock mused, still licking steak ’n’ shrimp atoms off his black whiskers as we gaze at the Neon Nightmare club, a shiny black pyramid off the Strip.

“This is where some suspicious characters of interest hang out, Grandpops.”

“It is true, Louise?” Three O’Clock Louie demands. “You are my boy’s daughter?”

“Not in his address book,” I point out.

“I will mention that in my opinion you have the good looks to be a member of the family.”

“Cut the gallantry. I am running Midnight Investigations, Inc., in the absence of the senior partner and I do not see the name ‘Midnight’ in your curriculum vitae. There will be no nepotism on my watch. You do a decent job, and I will put in a good word for you with Ma Barker.”

“That is all very well, but I have a sweet spot at Gangsters with the Glory Hole Gang guys. I am still the inspiration for their restaurant, even if my name is off the place. Why should I wear my footpads out trekking halfway across the Strip to be ordered around by a wet-behind-the-ears, fresh-from-mama’s-washing kit?”

“Because I will pin your ears to your tailbone just to see how it looks on you.”

“Oh.” He backs off with a playful swagger, shifting from hind foot to hind foot. “I suppose that this, ah, Midnight Investigations, Inc., outfit you mention could use a temp head detective now that the main man is out of town.”