Free Strip for Murder by Richard S. Prather Page B

bald guy in his early twenties, maybe two inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than I. He'd been a star center in college, and once, while he'd been carrying a big rally sign that said “Football,” the sign had got torn and he'd run around carrying the part that said “Foo.” He'd carried that name into his postcollege and extralegal activities, and because he was a youthful Chinese egg and bald, and because hoods are hoods, his moniker had become, almost inevitably, Young Egg Foo.
    Foo had played center on that team so long that something had happened to his brain. Besides which, he had become suspicious of everybody. And he had no sense of humor, no graciousness. Ask him what time it was and he'd hit you over the head with the clock. That kind of guy.
    With him at the table was a lop-eared gunman named Strikes. I remembered the gal as an ex-queen of the burlesque circuit. Five years ago she'd been in the big time, right at the top, known as Bebe Le Doux. But now she was Babe Le Toot, and in her set there were lots of gags like “Hey, boys, let's go on a Toot,” and “I got a Tootache,” and so on. The two other hard-looking men sat on either side of Babe.
    â€œHi, Foo,” I said finally.
    There was no reply, no more conversation, so I walked to the bar. In the wall behind me, beyond a pane of thick glass, soft lights illuminated a bunch of fake trees and vines, and a couple of dozen odd-looking tropical birds with brilliant plumage. A small dance floor was a little to my left and behind me as I climbed onto a stool.
    The white-jacketed guy went behind the bar and I said, “Got a beer?”
    â€œPlace don't open till seven. What you want to talk about?”
    Foo said from the table, “Give him a beer, Joe. It's on us, Scott.”
    I said thanks without turning around.
    The bartender opened a bottle of Acme and slid it over the bar. “You don't use a glass, do you?”
    â€œNot here. Tell me, Joe, did you get to know Paul Yates very well when he was hanging around here?”
    He was wiping the bar top with a limp rag, and when I said “Paul Yates” he paused for a fraction of a second, then went on wiping. The soft buzz of conversation behind me stopped at the same time.
    â€œDon't think I know the man,” Joe said.
    â€œYou must know him. I understand he was around here quite a lot. Here last Saturday night. A soft heel.”
    â€œLike you?”
    â€œNot quite. He's dead.”
    The buzz of conversation behind me hummed again. A wall mirror ran left and right behind the bar; in the dimness I could see the five of them. Just so there were five of them.
    â€œStill don't know the man,” Joe said.
    â€œTry these. Andon Poupelle.” No reaction. “Garlic.” He kept on wiping the bar. I said, “Juanita. Ever hear of anybody named Juanita?”
    He grinned. “Can't say I have. Don't know anybody you mention. I'm never gonna know anybody you mention, chump.”
    I took a long pull at the beer, set the empty bottle on the bar, and said, “Joe, I'll bet you don't even know what day this is.”
    He looked puzzled.
    â€œThis is the day you got hurt,” I said. “You cracked so wise you threw your whole face out of joint.” I grinned at him and looked at my watch. It was almost five P.M. “At five o'clock it happened,” I said. “Just a couple of minutes from now. So let me ask you again about Yates.”
    There was movement in the mirror. While Joe stood there licking his lips as if they had molasses on them, I watched the mirror. There wasn't any sound of chairs being pushed back, but three figures stood up around the table. Behind the glass wall, a couple of birds flapped around. Two of the guys walked toward the bar. The other one went to the front door and stood there with his back, to it.
    Young Egg Foo sat down on the stool to my right. The other guy was one of the two I didn't know. He