The walls were corked and thus soundproof. The floor was cheap linoleum. Easier to clean, he guessed. Despite that, there were specks of blood on it. Not his. These specks were old and dried. But they were there. No mistaking them for something else. And Myron knew why. In a word: intimidation.
This was a classic pounding room. Lots of places have them. Especially sports arenas. Not so much now as in the old days. There was a time when an unruly fan was more than just escorted out of the stadium. The security guards took him into a back room and pounded on him a bit. It was fairly safe. What could the unruly fan claim after the fact? He was drunk off his rocker, had probably gotten into a fight in the stands, whatever. So the security boys added a few extra bruises for good measure. Who’s to say where the bruises came from? And if the unruly fan threatened to press charges or make noise, stadium officials could whack him back with charges of public drunkenness and assault and whatever else they could dream up. They could also produce a dozen security guards to back their story and none to back the unruly fan’s.
So the fan let it drop. And the pounding rooms remained. Probably still do in some places.
Veronica Lake giggled. It was not a pretty sound. “Care to dance, dreamboat?” he-she asked again.
“Let’s wait for a slow song,” Myron said.
A third cross-dresser stepped into the room. A redhead. He-she looked a lot like Bonnie Franklin, the plucky mother on the old sitcom One Day at a Time. The resemblance was, in fact, rather uncanny—the perfect mix of determination and cutes. Spunky. Scrappy.
“Where’s Schneider?” Myron asked.
No reply.
Veronica Lake said, “Stand up, dreamboat.”
“The blood on the floor,” Myron said.
“What?”
“It’s a nice touch, but it’s overkill, don’t you think?”
Veronica Lake lifted her right foot and pulled on her heel. It came off. Sort of. The heel was a covering actually. A sheath. For a steel blade. Veronica showed it to Myron with an impressive display of martial art high kicks, the blade gleaming in the light.
Bonnie Franklin and Mall Girl started giggling.
Myron kept the fear at bay and looked steadily at Veronica Lake. “Are you new at cross-dressing?” he asked.
Veronica stopped kicking. “What?”
“I mean, aren’t you taking the whole stiletto heel thing too far?”
Not his best joke, but anything to stall. Veronica looked at Mall Girl. Mall Girl looked at Bonnie Franklin. Then Veronica suddenly threw a sweep kick, leading with the blade heel. Myron saw the glint of steel shoot toward him. He rolled back, but the blade still sliced through his shirt and into his skin. He let out a little cry and looked down wide-eyed. The cut wasn’t deep, but he was bleeding.
The three spread out, making fists. Bonnie Franklin had something in her hand. A black club maybe. Myron did not like this. He tried to spring to his feet, but again Veronica threw a kick. He leaped high, but the blade still hit his lower leg. He actually felt the blade get caught on the shin bone before scraping itself off.
Myron’s heart was pounding now. More blood. Jesus Christ. Something about seeing your own blood. His breathing was too fast. Keep cool, he reminded himself. Think.
He faked left to the spot where Bonnie Franklin stood with the baton. Then he coiled right, his fist at the ready. Without hesitating, he threw a punch at the advancing Mall Girl. His knuckles landed flush below the eye and Mall Girl went down.
That was when Myron felt his heart stop.
There was a zapping sound and the back of his knee exploded. Myron spun in pure agony. His body jolted. Searing pain burst out of the nerve bundle behind the knee and traveled everywhere in an electric surge. He looked behind him. Bonnie Franklin had merely touched him with the baton. His legs seized up, lost power. He collapsed back to the floor and writhed fish-on-boat-deck fashion. His stomach clenched. Nausea consumed him.
“That was the lowest setting,” Bonnie Franklin said, voice high-pitched little girl. “Just gets the cow’s attention.”
Myron looked up, trying to stop his body from quaking. Veronica lifted his leg and placed the heel blade near his face. One quick stomp and he was done. Bonnie showed him the cattle prod again. Myron felt a fresh shiver go through him. He looked through the one-way glass. No sign of Big Cyndi or any cavalry.
Now what?
Bonnie Franklin did the talking. “Why are you here?”
He focused on the cattle prod and how to avoid experiencing its wrath again. “I was asking about someone,” he said.
Mall Girl had recovered. She-he stood up over him holding her-his face. “He hit me!” Her tone was a little deeper now, the shock and hurt dropping the feminine facade a bit.
Myron stayed still.
“You bitch!”
Mall Girl grimaced and threw a kick as though Myron’s rib cage were a football. Myron saw the kick coming, saw the heel blade, saw the cattle prod, closed his eyes, and let it land.
He fell back.
Bonnie Franklin continued with the questions. “Who were you asking about?”
No secret. “Clu Haid.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to know if he’d been here.”
“Why?”
Telling them he was looking for his killer might not be the wisest course of action, especially if said killer was in the room. “He was a client of mine.”
“So?”
“Bitch!” It was Mall Girl again. Another kick. It again landed on the bottom tip of the rib cage and hurt like hell. Myron swallowed away some bile that had worked its way up. He looked through the one-way glass again. Still no Big Cyndi. Blood flowed from the knife wounds to his chest and leg. His insides still trembled from the electric shock. He looked into the eyes of Veronica Lake. The calm eyes. Win had them too. The great ones always do.
“Who do you work for?” Bonnie asked.
“No one.”
“Then why would you care if he came here?”
“I’m just trying to put some things together,” he said.
“What things?”
“Just general stuff.”
Bonnie Franklin looked at Veronica Lake. Both nodded. Then Bonnie Franklin made a show of turning up the cattle prod. “‘General stuff’ is an unacceptable response.”
Panic squeezed Myron’s gut. “Wait—”
“No, I think not.” Bonnie reached toward him with the cattle prod.
Myron’s eyes widened. No choice really. He had to try it now. If the prod hit him again, he’d have nothing left. He just had to hope Veronica would not kill him.