Strip for Murder by Richard S. Prather

piggy-back. And before you carry me, I'll have to be unconscious. So how about telling the boss he's got a visitor?”
    Husky grinned at me. “I might carry you out, at that.” He glanced around at the crowd and shrugged. “Have it your way.”
    He spun on his heel, went to the red drapes and through them. I let out some breath and looked at the bartender, who seemed to be purposely ignoring me. It was as if the Castle Norman employees had been told in advance that the big egg with white hair was contagious.
    I never did get the damn drink. In a couple of minutes Husky was back. “OK, tough man. Let's go see the boss.”
    I slid off the stool as he turned and headed back toward the drapes. There was a big door beyond the drapes, and though it was painted to look like wood, when he rapped on it there was the ring of metal. The door opened, and we walked through.
    There was noise here, too, but more subdued, mixed with the unmistakable whir of that little ivory ball in its slot on the roulette wheel, the clank of one-armed bandits. Here were the tables Three Eyes had told me about.
    On my left were two roulette wheels separated by a dice table; on the other side of the room were two tables for craps and one for roulette. Slot machines lined three walls, and there were also half a dozen twenty-one tables.
    Following Husky past one of the dice tables, I saw a blonde head that looked familiar. The nice slim body was in an orange jersey gown this time, but even from the rear it was Vera Poupelle. I got a look at her profile as she swallowed at something in a cocktail glass.
    My guide kept trudging ahead as I stopped by Vera. “Hello,” I said. “Making millions?”
    She turned and let blue eyes roam over my face. “Not making anybody.” She smiled. “Mr. Scott,” she said. “How nice. And you?”
    I grinned at her. “I haven't even started playing.”
    Her smile faded and I noticed her eyes were a little glassy. “That's right,” she said. “I don't like you, I remember.”
    â€œSure you do.”
    â€œNo. If Andon doesn't like you, then I don't like you.”
    â€œNow, why wouldn't Andon like me?”
    â€œAsk him.” She pointed with her cocktail glass.
    Poopy hadn't even noticed me, he was so intent on the game. Stacks of blue and red chips were lined up in front of him.
    â€œThat's enough,” a voice said on my right. It was Husky, my guide. “Come on,” he said.
    â€œJust as soon as I say hello to my friends.”
    â€œYou must not of heard me, Mac.” He wrapped his fingers around my arm. “Come on.”
    â€œRelax, friend. Relax the fingers.”
    He must not have heard me, either. He yanked and said, “Mr. Norman doesn't like to wait for guys.”
    I grabbed his fingers and squeezed them a little. The wrong way. He started looking vicious.
    I excused myself from Vera and walked around the table. Husky rubbed his fingers a second, then came after me.
    I stopped by Poupelle. “Hi.” He turned toward me, preoccupied with the play, and I didn't give him a chance to get set. As soon as his eyes fell on me I said quietly, “What ever happened to Brad Bender, Poupelle?”
    He gasped and his face was suddenly drained of color. His jaw sagged, and for a moment I thought maybe he was going to faint, but then he recovered slightly, clicked his teeth together, and turned away from me. He fumbled with the chips in front of him, but his hands were shaking and he was toppling stacks all over the “Don't pass” line.
    I'd got more with that crack than I'd bargained for. I'd damn near scared his pants off him. And then there were those fingers on me again. Husky yanked me hard, swung me around to face him, and said angrily, “All I got to do is whistle, you bastard, and there'll be ten men here playing games with your head.”
    Some people you just can't coexist with. Husky's left