The tabby goes streaking down the alley. He follows it.

A five dollar cab ride puts him out front of the club. The last rays of the setting sun turn the marquee to liquid gold. A cool breeze off the harbor lifts his hair. He hears a buoy clanging and the soft rumble of a trawler returning from a long day shrimping. A horn echoes across the cove. The marquee reads; See the Haram Crew live! Every Friday and Saturday night.

He pushes through the double doors into a small lobby, suffused with red light and occupied by a large surly-looking bouncer. He’s got a bald head and shoulders in two different time zones.

"Five dollars," he informs Mir in a low voice that perfectly matches his appearance.

Bubble forgot to mention the cover charge. Mir needs to get inside if he wants to check out the customers.

"I’m not here for the floor show," Mir tells him. "I’m an investigator. Looking into the deaths of Foxxy and Rita. I just need to ask a few questions."

"In that case, you get the special price," the bouncer says.

"Which is?"

"Five dollars."

Well, several options play out in Mir's head.

He can give the cash.

However, he can try out another entrance.

Or, he could try climbing up to the second floor.

But, he can try to force his way in.

What should he do? …

"Look, Puny, I’m not going to pay you five bucks to do my job. I was hired by Bubble to look into these deaths. Now step aside."

He scowls at Mir.

"You deaf as well as stupid? I’m walking through that door. If you try to stop me, you might get hurt."

Mir tries to push his way past the bouncer. His giant fist smashes into Mir's stomach. An explosion of pain drops him to his knees. The bouncer hauls him up by the collar and tosses him out the double doors. Mir lands on the pavement in a heap.

Still hurting and out of breath,

he strolls around in back of the club, along a litter-strewn alley, and find a metal door that only opens from the inside and a small window set high on the wall. A pair of trashcans sit under the window. They might help him get high enough to reach.

Mir climbs up on the trash cans and tries to open the window. It’s unlocked and swings open. He pulls himself up for a peak and sees a tiled bathroom with several urinals along one wall and a few cubicles. A fat man is at one of the urinals, one hand on the wall for support. He hasn’t seen Mir. Right beneath the window is an empty toilet stall. He waits for the fat man to finish his business then drag himself through the window. Then, he realises that he can't get his shoulders through the window. He gets his head out to adjust, but his hand slips and then he drops. His head contacts the ground with a solid thwack. Fireworks explode behind his eyelids.

He lies there on the dirty  floor for a moment until the pain in his head subsides.

All this for a measly five bucks? He thinks to himself.

Then pulls himself up using the trashcans for support. Probing his tender skull, he finds a small gash. His finger comes away slick with blood. Feeling light-headed, he uses the handkerchief to remove the blood, and looks for another entrance.

He knocks, then stuff his hands in his coat pockets and tries to look bored. The door is opened by a young fella with a large nose wearing a cook’s apron. He’s holding a spatula and looks at Mir with raised eyebrows.

"Fire marshal," Mir tells him. "Running a little late, son. Can you let me in so I can get this inspection over with?"

"Didn’t know we had an inspection today," he tells Mir.

"Wouldn’t be much of a surprise inspection then, would it?"

The cook presses his lips together. Mir stands there, trying to look like he belongs.

Finally he nods. "Alright, but make it quick. The show starts in a few minutes."

He stands back and Mir slips past him into the kitchen. He strolls around the dirty space, makes a show of inspecting the stove and then takes a cursory glance at the fire extinguisher. Far as he can tell, the whole place might be a fiery death trap. He turns to the cook. "Where’s the toilet?"

"What do you have to inspect in there?"

"I have to pee, kid."

He laughs. "Oh, sure. Through that door and on your right."

Although this whole acting bit was a bit much to save himself a measly five bucks, it was rather fun. Mir smiles to himself as he walks down the hall.

Mir follows his directions, stopping briefly in the john, and then find his way to the main room. He walks into a wall of smoke and sound.

A lot of guys and even a few dolls populate the tables. Most of the lighting is centered on the stage. Small candles on each table illuminate the expectant smiles on the faces of the guests. The bar man is busy but Mir manages to get his attention.

"What’ll ya have?"

Mir is thinking of bribing him to collect information. On the other hand, it feels like a waste of money. Also, ordering a 1 dollar beer seems cheap.

Mir shells out a two clams on a scotch, thanks him and then turn his attention back to the crowd, looking for anyone that stands out.

He doesn’t have long to wait before a lanky man in a powder blue tux struts on stage, a microphone in hand. He’s got receding hair and beady eyes set too close to his nose.

"Hello, hello, hello! Welcome to the show!"

The crowd shows their enthusiasm.

"Are you ready to be captivated?"

More cheers.

"Mesmerized?"

This gets a louder cheer.

"Titillated?"

Loudest applause yet.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," The announcer says. "Please put your hands together for the lovely, the sensual, the sexy, Candy Thirst!"

The velvet curtain draws apart and a single spot light illuminates a tall blonde with her back to the audience. She’s in a backless black cocktail dress. A dark and dreary jazz tune starts up. She exposes one long white leg through a slit in her dress and looks over her shoulder at the crowd. She belts out a better than average version of My Man Ain’t No Good. She’s got a husky voice, like smoke and silk, that does things to Mir's imagination. It takes years of hard drinking to get a voice like that. Miss Thirst knows how to work the crowd. She comes off stage, threading her way through the tables, while she sings. That backless dress with the slits up either side shows just enough leg to make the men shift in their seats. Her eyes do the rest. She’s not young, like Bubble Tease. Must be in her late thirties, but she sure can turn on the charm.

The song ends. The spot light winks out and the curtain falls closed. The audience does their part with claps and whistles. The announcer comes back out, encourages another round of applause for Miss Candy Thirst and then introduces the next act.

"Let’s hear it for our very own Russian trapeze girl, Mevina Charm!"

When the curtain opens again, a wisp of a girl in stockings and garters is swinging back and forth on a trapeze. Candy was seductive, even classy. Mevina’s act is pure lust. She twists and contorts on her trapeze as first one stocking and then the other peels off. Her sequined bra follows. By the time the curtain comes down, Mevina is wearing panties and pasties. The crowd is eating it up.

"Like what you see?" A husky voice purrs in Mir's ear.

While he was distracted by Mevina, Candy Thirst planted herself on the bar stool next to Mir. She’s got a drink in hand, her back to the bar. One carefully sculpted eyebrow arches.

"The first act was better," Mir tells her.

"Don’t patronize me."

"No, really. You have a great voice. When do you go on again?"

She smiles. "That’s it for me. I’m a one-trick pony. Gerard thinks I’m getting too old for club show."

"Gerard’s the manager?"

"That’s right," she says. "And who are you?"

Should he tell her the truth? Or should he try a charming approach to trick her? After a quick thinking,

Mir gives her a once over and says, "I’m looking for someone just like you."

"Mister, I hope that’s not the best line you’ve got," she says with a smile.

"I got a whole book full of them back at my place," He tells her. "You and I could go back there and find one you like better."

She laughs. "Afraid I can’t help you there, Casanova. But you might have better luck with one of the other girls." She looks him over and adds, "Maybe."

"What if I told you I wasn’t here for the show?"

"You wouldn’t be telling me anything I didn’t already know," she says. "You a cop?"

"The name’s Jack. Mir Jack. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking into the deaths of Foxxy and Rita. Know anything?"

She takes a sip from her drink. "They were good girls. Broke my heart when I found out. Guess you could say I’m kind of the mother hen around here. I watch out for these girls. Try to keep them out of trouble." She shrugs. "Guess I didn’t do such a good job."

"Got any theories?"

Candy lets out a bitter little laugh. "Dozens, each as unlikely as the next. How do you explain someone falling out a window that doesn’t open? It makes no sense. All I know is the girls are scared." After a moment she admits, "I’m scared too."

"Well, if it was murder," he tells her, "I’ll catch the one that did it."

Candy looks up at him. Her red lips part slightly. He can see crow’s feet just beginning at the corners of her green eyes, but age hasn’t caught up with her yet. She nods slowly and says, "You know, I almost want to believe you."

"Any reason not to?"

"You already lied to me once. And a girl like me has been lied to by a lot of men, Mr. Jack."

"Call me Mir."

"Call me Candy," she says.