Free Runaway by Ed McBain Page B

sitting there and not shooting. There was a surging power behind the music, an eerie cacophony that wasn’t quite cacophony, a dissonance that never became quite that. You expected a clinker, and then those black fingers spread over the white keys, and the clinker wasn’t that at all; it became part of the melody again, a skillful twisting and intertwining of chords until the melody was almost obscured but never allowed to be completely smothered. It was good stuff, stuff with too much class for a dump like the Club Yahoo. The tenor and trumpet came in together, two B-flat horns blowing smoothly together, soft this time, but with that quiet roll of rhythm behind them. They scattered chords like gold pieces raining from the ceiling. They rode that melody like a chariot, and Johnny listened and lost himself in the music, lost himself in the swirling smoke and hushed voices, the clink of glasses at the bar, the dim lighting. With a band like that, a man had no need for a mootah high. The band gave you all the high you needed, and he listened and the music swelled inside him.
    He felt the hand on his arm, and he turned his head abruptly.
    The girl standing next to him was a light tan color, and she was wearing almost nothing but her color. Sary had decked her out in long black net stockings and a skirt that barely covered her. The skirt was a part of a one-piece affair that hung loosely over her breasts, advertising the obvious fact that she wore no bra beneath it. Sary, a man who catered to fetishes, had given the girl garters to hold up the stockings, and the garters bit into her flesh tightly. She smiled brightly and leaned forward a little, the top of her garment falling away.
    â€œCheck your coat, sir?” she said.
    â€œNo,” he answered. “No, thanks.”
    The girl kept her smile, but it lacked conviction now. The boys on the bandstand played a cue four bars that told the crowd they were taking a break, and Johnny huddled back against the wall, keeping away from the slightly brighter light of the check room. He didn’t see Cindy anywhere around, but it was about time for her second show, and he figured it was safer waiting out here than going back to her. He’d try to catch her eye when she came on, and meanwhile he’d make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
    He was trying to do just that when he spotted Hank Sands.
    Sands was sitting at the bar, and he swung around on his stool and eyeballed the joint, his gaze passing the check room and then lingering on Johnny for an instant. Johnny wasn’t sure he’d been seen. He started to turn his back, but he saw the smile come onto Sands’ narrow mouth, and he cursed silently and waited.
    Sands picked up his drink and sidled off the stool. The waiters were already hitting the tables, peddling their liquor during the band intermission. Sands worked his way through the activity, inching his way forward like a mole. He was a small man with a perpetual smirk on his mouth. He combed his hair in a high pompadour, aided by the various hair-straighteners he used. He also wore elevator shoes, but all his combined trickery didn’t help his height any. He still looked like some kind of rodent, and the pegged pants and long jacket didn’t help to conceal the slope of his shoulders or the narrowness of his chest or the mincing steps he took.
    He was the kind of guy who made you feel slimy. There were a few guys like that in Johnny’s immediate circle of acquaintances. Guys who could just stand there and say nothing and somehow make you feel as if spiders were crawling up your behind. Maybe it was the smirk Sands wore, like an open switch-blade knife. Or maybe it was his piggy little eyes. Or maybe it was the way he undressed every girl who came within three feet of him, sucking out her navel with his eyes. He’d visually undressed Cindy more times than Johnny could remember, and Sands certainly didn’t try to hide the fact