People tell me I know too much about this crap, that the way I stick my nose into things is gonna get it cut off. I figure a man has to make a living somehow. In the realm of criminal endeavor, I’m what you might call a knowledge worker. A dangerous business to be sure, especially since when presented with foreknowledge of Frank Pounder’s unscheduled early release, I do something only the first little pig would do. I nail his girl.
II
Even from prison, Frank means to keep Dahlia on a short leash, but she’s not some compliant lap dog. Before she knew Frank she was a busy girclass="underline" stripper, high-priced call girl, roller derby queen. With him behind bars she figures she’s got some elbow room. Her only problem is one of coinage. The allowance he provides isn’t enough for her live in the style to which she’s accustomed.
I catch up with her not long after Frank got shivved. She’s standing at one end of the rail at the High Tail Inn, the titty bar in the Flats. Typical joint. Central catwalk, three poles, smoke-dimmed stage lights on the ceiling. Twenty, thirty horn dogs nursing pickling gin or industrial beer and staring slack-jawed at the jiggling silicone on stage. Vinyl booths that smell of diluted pine cleaner in the back for private dances. Dahlia is arguing with Biff Steele, the joint’s own er of record. She got her start right there on that stage, and she wants another run. Just a few nights shaking her rubber boobs for sweat-drenched tips, little something to buff the bank account. Biff wants nothing to do with it. Being the owner of record doesn’t count for much when Frank Pounder is the owner of benefit.
“No way, Dahlia. Frank’d feed me my nuts.”
“Don’t be a pussy, Biff. I need money.”
“You wanna drink, I’ll set you up from the top shelf. But I ain’t going against Frank, no matter that he’s up to Little Liver.”
Top shelf at the High Tail is barrel scrapings most anywhere else. Pissed, Dahlia spins and stalks off. Even angry, she’s worth a second look. A floor-to-ceiling beauty, just enough curves, blond hair from an expensive bottle and indigo eyes from Aphrodite’s paintbrush. I watch her take up a post at the other end of the bar and yell for a bottle of champagne. Biff winces. He’s going to have to order in.
Given a choice, most folks would take sliding down a razor blade into a vat of alcohol over crossing Frank Pounder. I choose to sidle up to her, nudge her ass. “Hey, baby. Sounds like you got a problem. Maybe I can help you out.”
She looks me up and down like she’s inspecting road kill. “I’m way outa your price range, pipsqueak.”
Dahlia Miller can have her pick if looks are all she’s after. Tall, dark, and handsome I’m not. But I have something your typical boy toy can’t offer.
“You’d be surprised at my price range.” I lean back, show her the round edge of a roll of green in my pocket. “It might be even bigger, but Frank lived through the shank…”
Her indigo eyes flash. I have her attention. Dahlia Miller might be Frank’s plaything, but it’s no secret the two have a volatile relationship built on a foundation of antagonism. Everyone knows she was basically a peace offering from Miller so Frank would let the old man keep his book after he lost the war for control of Felony Flats.
“You shivved Frank?” Dubious.
I show her a saucy grin. “You can hardly expect me to make an admissible admission in a public place like this.”
“One phone call and you don’t live to see outdoors again, admissible or otherwise.”
“Now where’s the fun in that?” I make a frowny face. “Besides, who says the Incandito Banditos don’t have some reach outside Little Liver themselves?”
She looks around the bar, tries to figure out which of the drooling slam-hounds might be my cover. All eyes are either glazed over or fixed on the pole grinders. I see no percentage in letting her know it’s none of the above.
“You’re taking a big chance, no matter who’s looking out for you.”
“Hey, if you’re not interested-” I slip the wad of cash back into my pocket.
She puts a hand on my forearm, wavering. “How long were you inside?”
“Coupla years on a cook-and-book. Got busted trying to move some meth. My buyer didn’t show and I tripped over my dick into a sting looking for a backup sell.”
She’s thinking about my roll of cash, thinking I ain’t seen a woman who wasn’t in halftone for two years. Thinking she can lead me anywhere she wants to go by my ugly duckling. And she’s bored. That may be what finally sells it. She’s a bored, broke ex-stripper more in love with provoking her man than the man himself. “What’s your name, sailor?”
“Call me what ever you like, Dahl.”
“That’s the way it’s gonna be, huh?” She laughs, puts an arm around my waist. One of her nipples pokes through fabric into my right ear. “Let’s get out of here, find somewhere with a little class.” And so we’re off. On the way out, I see Biff Steele giving me a look, and I know this little scene is going to get back to Frank. I’m fine with that.
III
Dahlia and I head downtown, hit a string of gold-plated joints where she can dance and inhale expensive hooch bought with my green. I’m not drinking as much as she is, but then she’s got a couple of stones on me. By the time we catch the last cab of the night from Old King Cole’s she’s barely walking. We go back to her place, a leather-and-lace doll house in the neutral zone between Miller’s Crossing and the Flats. The first bang is quick, which pisses her off, but I have a couple more in me. We both get my money’s worth, and the next morning I’m gone before she even realizes she’s hungover.
Sure, I’ve given in to my baser instincts. Man in my line of work gets few enough perks. But in the days and weeks that follow, I avoid the Flats and stay on the move, one eye cocked over my shoulder, ear to the rails. I have no illusions Dahlia has any interest in me personally, but given the bankroll in my pocket and my hints about the shank in Frank’s back, I’m sure she’ll come looking for me.
Takes her a while though. Long enough for Frank to recover and achieve his epiphany.
Meanwhile, folks living in Newcastle’s underbelly gossip like lady-bugs at a house fire. By the time I get a call from this simpleton I know who works at Leech and Humors Medical Testing, I’ve already heard the broad strokes of Frank’s seminal conception. Simon sorts test results for the courier, then files the lab copies. He knows just about everyone on staff at clinics and medico offices around town.
“Doc Ciconi has Dahlia Miller scheduled to come in for weekly prenatal vitamin shots,” he tells me.
“And I’m supposed to care because…?”
“Well, I heard you got a sniff of that blossom. Thought you’d be interested.”
“Street talk. If you believe that I got some magic beans to sell you.”
He giggles, then says, “Did you hear about Dingus?”
Dale Dingus is something of a legend around Newcastle, the super cop who first put the squeeze on Old Man Miller’s operation, weakened him enough that Frank was able to push him out. Then Dingus up and takes Frank himself off the street after catching him in the act of dispensing a little Pounder justice on the leader of the Red Riding Hoods over a demand for a piece of the meth trade. Dingus followed up on a tip that took him to a riverfront foundry just as Frank was dipping the errant biker boss feet first into molten lead. At least the poor bastard still had his boots on.