The Mugger by Ed McBain

American Legion Hall?”
    “Too big.”
    “Oh.”
    “I figured one of these cellar clubs. This is an unusually nice one.”
    “Yeah,” Hud said. “Done it all ourselves.” He walked over to the record player, seemed ready to put the records down, then turned, changing his mind. “Listen, for what night is this?”
    “A Saturday,” Kling said.
    “That’s good—because we have our socials on Friday and Sunday.”
    “Yes, I know,” Kling said.
    “How much you want to pay?”
    “That depends. You’re sure the landlord here won’t mind our bringing girls down? Not that anything funny would be going on or anything, you understand. Half the fellows are married.”
    “Oh, certainly,” Hud said, suddenly drawn into the fraternity of the adult. “I understand completely. I never once thought otherwise.”
    “But there will be girls.”
    “That’s perfectly all right.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Sure. We have girls here all the time. Our club is coed.”
    “Is that right?”
    “That’s a fact,” Hud said. “We got twelve girls belong to the club.”
    “Girls from the neighborhood?” Kling asked.
    “Mostly. From around, you know. Here and there. None of them come from too far.”
    “Anybody I might know?” Kling asked.
    Hud estimated Kling’s age in one hasty glance. “I doubt it, mister,” he said, the glowing bond of fraternal adulthood shattered.
    “I used to live in this neighborhood,” Kling lied. “Took out a lot of girls around here. Wouldn’t be surprised if some of the girls in your club aren’t their younger sisters.”
    “Well, that’s a possibility,” Hud conceded.
    “What are some of their names?”
    “Why do you want to know, pal?” a voice from the archway said. Kling whirled abruptly. A tall boy walked through the arch and into the room, zipping up the fly on his jeans. He was excellently built, with wide shoulders bulging the seams of his T-shirt, tapering down to a slender waist. His hair was chestnut brown, and his eyes were a deeper chocolate brown. He was extremelyhandsome, and he walked with arrogant knowledge of his good looks.
    “Tommy?” Kling said.
    “That’s my name,” Tommy said. “I didn’t get yours.”
    “Bert Kling.”
    “Glad to know you,” Tommy said. He watched Kling carefully.
    “Tommy’s president of Club Tempo,” Hud put in. “He gave me the okay to hire the place to you. Provided the price was right.”
    “I was in the john,” Tommy said. “Heard everything you said. Why’re you so interested in our chicks?”
    “I’m not interested,” Kling answered. “Just curious.”
    “Your curiosity, pal, should concern itself only with hiring the club. Am I right, Hud?”
    “Sure,” Hud answered.
    “What can you pay, pal?”
    “How often did Jeannie Paige come down here, pal?” Kling said. He watched Tommy’s face. The face did not change expression at all. A record slid from the stack Hud was holding, clattering to the floor.
    “Who’s Jeannie Paige?” Tommy said.
    “A girl who was killed last Thursday night.”
    “Never heard of her,” Tommy said.
    “Think,” Kling told him.
    “I am thinking.” Tommy paused. “You a cop?”
    “What difference does it make?”
    “This is a clean club,” Tommy said. “We never had any trouble with the cops, and we don’t want none. We ain’t even had any trouble with the landlord, and he’s a louse from way back.”
    “Nobody’s looking for trouble,” Kling said. “I asked you how often Jeannie Paige came down here.”
    “Never,” Tommy said. “Ain’t that right, Hud?”
    Hud, reaching for the pieces of the broken record, looked up. “Yeah, that’s right, Tommy.”
    “Suppose I am a cop?” Kling said.
    “Cops have badges.”
    Kling reached into his back pocket, opened his wallet, and showed the tin.
    Tommy glanced at the shield. “Cop or no cop, this is still a clean club.”
    “Nobody said it was dirty. Stop bulging your weight-lifter muscles and answer my questions