there without starting a riot.”
The girl on stage was all legs. Legs and purple hair with a white streak, front to back, dyed on one
side; a punk stripper who looked about as sexy as a stuffed flounder. Weasel Murphy was sitting at
the bar, as close to the action as he could get without getting his nose caught in her C-string. A pair
of worn-out speakers were thumping out a scratched version of “Night Life” as the punker peeled off
her bra and let her ample bosom flop out. The Prussian army could have marched in and Murphy
would have missed it. He had eyes only for the Purple People Eater.
“Wanna just put the arm on him?” said Chino.
“Dutch says try to avoid a ruckus,” Stick said.
“What do we do?”
They sat down at a table the size of a birdbath near the door to think it over. Purple People Eater was
snapping her bra like a slingshot in Murphy‟s face. He stuffed a five-dollar bill in the tip glass and
she kneeled down in front of him, pulled her G-string down to the bar, and let it snap back. He tucked
a twenty in the string, dead center. She ended her performance by seducing an imaginary pony,
complete with squeals of delight and instructions to the invisible animal. Murphy was wired so tight
he was humming.
One of the B-girls slid a chair over to the table and sat down backward. The runs in her hose looked
like black varicose veins. This one had orange hair, no streak. It looked like it had been cut with
pruning shears. She ran a finger along the brim of Stick‟s hat.
“Love it,” she said. “I didn‟t think anybody wore those anymore.”
“It was my grandfather‟s,” Stick said. “How‟d you like to make an easy twenty?”
“We‟re not allowed to do that,” she said coyly. “Just have a drink with the customers.”
“You don‟t even have to do that,” said Stick. “See that dude at the bar, the one who‟s sweating so
hard?”
“You mean the one that looks like a possum?”
“Close enough. See, what‟s happening, we got this bowling club and we just voted him in but he don‟t
know it yet.”
“You‟re into bowling?” she said. She made it sound like child molestation.
“Yeah. Anyway, see, we‟re gonna put the snatch on him, take him out to my boat. The rest of the guys
are out there waiting and we‟re gonna surprise him, tell him he‟s in, y‟know.”
“Sounds like a real great party,” she said, and yawned.
“What we‟d like, see, all you have to do is get him out the side door there, onto Jackson Street. We‟ll
take it from there.”
“This ain‟t some kidnapping or something?” she said suspiciously. “I mean, I ain‟t goin‟ to the
freezer for some snatch job.”
“Look at him,” Zapata said. “His own mother wouldn‟t kidnap him.”
“So how do I get him outside?” she asked.
“For twenty bucks, you can write the script. When he goes through the door, you get the double saw.”
She thought about it for a minute.
“He‟s a big spender,” she said. “The boss might get pissed with me.
Stick took out a twenty and wrapped it around his little finger.
“When‟s the last time the boss laid twenty on you for walking to the door?”
She eyed the twenty, eyed Murphy, who was catching his breath between acts, and looked back at the
twenty.
“I‟ll see what I can do,” she said.
“The Jackson Street entrance. The twenty‟ll be right here on my pinky.”
She giggled. “Pinky! Jesus, I haven‟t heard that since I was in the fourth grade.”
Stick and Zapata went outside and Stick pulled his car around the corner and parked near the door.
“This seems like a lot of time and money when we could just bust his ass and haul him in.”
“Dutch doesn‟t want a fuss.”
“Yeah, you told me. How do we do this? We just cold-cock the son of a bitch or what?”
Stick took out a pair of thumb cuffs.
“When he gets outside, bump into him and knock him into me. I‟ll grab him from behind, get his arms
behind him, and thumb-cuff him, throw him in the car.”
“My hog‟s around the corner.”
“I‟ll see you out at the Warehouse.”
“Okay, but it seems like a lot of hassle.”
They waited about five minutes; then the door opened and the orange-haired punker and Murphy
came out. He was wrapped around her like kudzu around a telephone pole. Zapata bumped into them
and the girl stepped back and Stick grabbed both his elbows and jerked them back, slid his hands
down Murphy‟s arms to his wrist, and twisted both of Murphy‟s hands inward. Murphy hollered and
jerked forward, and as he did, Stick snapped the tiny cuffs on his thumbs, twisted him around‟, and
shoved him into the back seat of the car. The girl saw the wire-caged windows.
“Goddamn it, you‟re the heat, you goddamn lying—”
Stick dangled the twenty in front of her. She snatched it out of his hand and stuffed it down her bosom.
“Better than busting up the place, isn‟t it?” Zapata said as Stick tipped his hat, jumped into his car,
and sped off.
“He‟s like that,” Zapata said, walking toward his hog. “Impetuous.”
“What d‟ya mean, you snatched Weasel Murphy?” Dutch bellowed after Zapata had finished his
story.
“He said you wanted we should hustle Weasel outta that joint and bring him out here on the QT. So
that‟s what we did. He shoulda been here by now, he got two minutes‟ head start on me.”
“Maybe it‟s the international Simon Says sweepstakes,” Kite Lange said.
“Will you stop with the wisecracks, Lange,” Dutch grumbled. “Things‟re bad enough without you
imitating Milton Berle. What I wanna know is, where the hell‟s Stick and Murphy?”
“Perhaps I should put out an all points on Parver‟s vehicle,” Charlie One Ear suggested.
“Why don‟t we just bust everybody in town,” Callahan said. “We can put them in the football stadium