Right as Rain by George P. Pelecanos Page B

guess.”
    “Damn right you do,” said Strange, glancing back to see the subject of Quinn’s attention.
    Strange saw Quinn watch Richard Coles as he headed off down the hall past the end of the bar.
    “Here you go, man,” said Strange, paying the bartender, taking his receipt.
    “Appreciate it,” said the bartender, and Quinn turned and read the man’s name, Dante, which was printed on a tag he wore pinned to his white shirt.
    “You ready?” said Strange to Quinn.
    “Gotta take a leak.”
    “Another one? You just ran some water through it five minutes ago.”
    “The upstairs head was out of order. I’ll see you out at the car.”
    Strange said, “Right,” and walked from the bar. Quinn waited until he was gone and then headed down the hall.
    On his way out, Strange told the doorman he’d be right back. He walked quickly to his car and pulled a set of handcuffs and a sap from the trunk, sliding the sap into the breast pocket of his jacket, then went back into the club. He took the steps up to the second floor two at a time and moved through the table area to the four—top where Sherman Coles still sat.
    Coles’s eyes widened, watching Strange moving in his direction, purpose in his step. Coles’s neck jerked, birdlike, as he looked around the bar, searching frantically for a familiar face.
    “Right here, Sherman,” said Strange, and he kicked the table into Coles, sending him to the floor in a shower of drink and live ashes.
    Strange got Coles up to his feet, turned him, and yanked his arms up, forcing Coles to his knees. Strange put his own knee to Coles’s back while he cuffed him, and then he pulled Coles to his feet.
    Strange drew his wallet, flipped it open, and showed his license to the room in general.
    “Investigator!” shouted Strange. “Don’t no one interfere and everything’s gonna be all right!”
    He did this in situations like this one, and nearly every time it worked. It wasn’t a lie, and to most people, “investigator” meant cop. The waitresses and patrons and the men who were being lap—danced all stopped what they were doing, but no one came near him and no one interfered.
    Strange kept his wallet open, holding it out for all to see, as he pushed Coles along toward the stairs.
    “Where my brother at, man?” said Coles.
    “That white man I was with, he’s talking to him, I expect.”
    “Richard’ll kill him.”
    “Keep walkin’, man.”
    On the stairs, Coles lost his footing. Strange pulled him back upright with a jerk to his arms.
    Coles looked over his shoulder and said, “Bounty hunter, like I thought.”
    “They call us bail agents now, Sherman.”
    “Knew you’d be back,” mumbled Coles. “You had that look in your eye.”
    “Yeah,” said Strange. “But you didn’t know I’d be back so soon.”
    QUINN walked down the hall, shakily singing along under his breath to another Prince tune that was playing now in the main portion of the club. There were small speakers hung in the hall, but their sound was trebly, not bass heavy like out near the stages, and this thin, shrill tone made his blood jump, as did the thought of what he was about to do.
    “Gonna be a beautiful night, gonna be a beautiful night… .”
    Quinn went straight back to the end of the hall, pushed on a swinging door, and went through the frame into a fluorescent—lit, dirty kitchen. The light came up bright off the steel prep tables that were spread about the room.
    “Amigo,” said Quinn to a small Salvadorian with a thin mustache, wearing a stained white apron, leaning against a prep table near the back of the kitchen and smoking a cigarette.
    The man said nothing and his eyes said nothing. The kitchen radio blared in the room.
    “Dante sent me back here,” said Quinn, shouting so the man could hear. Quinn scanned the kitchen quickly and went to where a steel tenderizing mallet lay atop an industrial microwave oven. He picked up the mallet, measured its weight in his hand, waved it