“Don’t be shy, Diane,” she said flatly. “You got something to say, say it.”
St. Regis stabbed the cigarette at her.
“Look, skank, maybe you think your—”
Mustang kicked the legs out from under the chair. They broke and went skittering over the dirty rug as the seat dropped to the floor with a bang. The recently arrived stripper let out a gasp and gaped. Dakota just watched.
“Bitch, you’re going to regret that.” St. Regis was on her butt, trying to get off the floor. Before she could, Mustang sent the backpack upside her head knocking her sideways. Then she loomed over her, pointing down at the dazed dancer.
“I won’t tell you how to shake that saggy rump of yours,” she said, “and you damn sure better keep your trap shut when it comes to my business. Nod if you understand, or I’m happy to make your head go up and down.”
St. Regis glared venomously, but did as commanded.
“Glad we could have this little chat, and clear the air and shit.” She threw the backpack over her shoulder—it held the money, her costume, platform boots, and a flashlight with two D batteries. As she moved to leave, Tricky Ricky stepped to the doorway.
“Boss would like a word with you, Suzi,” he said. “Says it’s in your best interests.”
“Tell him I got a date tonight, Ricky.”
“He won’t like that as an answer.”
“Is that right?” she said, slipping past him. “I guess you’ve gotta break the bad news to him then.” Pushing through the side exit, she stepped out into the chill air.
As usual, there were a couple of men who, augured by booze and delusional lust, looked to spark it up, impress her with a wad of dough and the promise of fancy dinners and jewelry if only they could have a date—a real date.
It wasn’t about sex, oh no.
Tonight was no different. One of the regulars—Chuck something, she recalled—was standing at the base of the metal steps, a raft of roses in his hand. Over the door was a cowled light bulb. She almost felt pity for the poor bastard. As she descended, she could see the lighter band of skin on his left hand, where normally his wedding ring would be.
“These are for you, Suzi.”
No kidding. “That’s sweet, but club rules state we can’t fraternize with the customers.”
“B-but I’m more than a c-customer,” he stammered, “I’m an admirer.”
“Look, Chuck—it’s Chuck, right?”
“Dave.”
“Dave. I’m flattered but the rules are the rules.” She tried to move past, but using the cellophane-wrapped bouquet like a truncheon, he levered them toward her face. Instinctively she pushed them away.
“Hey!” she said loudly.
“Please, you mustn’t rush,” he said. “Everybody’s in a rush in this town.”
Something dropped out of the flowers, and pinged when it hit the pavement. It was a diamond ring. Or at least an imitation one. Dave was wearing corduroys and sneakers, and didn’t look like he was made of money.
Looking down, then up, he said, “Th-that was supposed to be a surprise.”
“It was,” someone said off to her left.
Mustang turned to see the beefy man with the cap standing there. The logo on the cap was a piece of machinery, with the company name in a semicircle above the picture.
“Get on home, Dave,” the newcomer said. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Now see here,” Dave began, “who are you to order me around?” While the other man was taller and more muscular, Dave obviously spent too much time sitting behind a desk. Nevertheless, the allure of Suzi Mustang had fired a courage originating in his libido.
“Hi, Brad,” she said.
“Hey, baby.”
Dave looked as if he’d been punched in the gut, but he got the message. Pocketing the ring, he dropped the flowers on the bottom rung of the steps, and retreated quickly, if not gracefully.
“Who needs Batman, when I have you?” Mustang said, beaming. She put her arm in the crook of his, they moved out of the alley, and walked along the nearly deserted street.
“Sorry I wasn’t waiting for you,” he said. “When I got in past dawn today, I sacked out, and then after I got up and had a bite to eat, I rushed right over here. But the cab was kind of messy from the road, and I wanted to straighten it up for my lady.”
“Nothing to worry about, honey.”
He grinned down at her, patting her hand. They got to his bobtail truck. The same logo was printed on the side, along with a name.
Tri-State Freight
Brad Ashford was the owner-operator of a fleet of one truck. Tonight, however, he was looking to expand his enterprise—an expansion not without its share of risk. Yet Ashford was willing to roll those dice when it came to the woman who walked beside him.
Unlocking the passenger side door, he placed a hand under her elbow, and she stepped up into the truck. She wrinkled her nose at the fruity smell. Overkill, but that was Brad. Once he was in, he was all the way in. Once she’d talked him into becoming a criminal, he was determined to give it his best.
Ashford got behind the wheel, turning the key. The engine roared to life and they rumbled away from the Lacy Pony.
“You nervous?”
“A little,” she admitted, “but Palmares set this up, so these guys shouldn’t be trying any funny business.” She always made sure to refer to the drug lord by his last name when she was with Ashford. She didn’t want him to know what was going on between her and the boss.
Or that this was all about the money.
He turned on the radio-cassette deck, tapped a button, and tape could be heard whirring. The volume set to low. Rather than the usual country-and-western tune coming out of the cab’s speakers, a crooner sang a love ballad.
What a sap.
Mustang stared out the windshield, her mouth set in a grim line. This was it. After tonight, her life would be completely different or more likely she’d be dead. She reviewed everything as they drove along. Given that Giggle Sniff was a local product, Palmares didn’t have to worry about sneaking the stuff in by the ports or rails, and having to pay off any of the mob families. He maintained several distribution centers in the greater Gotham area, and was determined to keep them hidden.
One of Palmares’ distributors, Jo-Jo Gagan, had up and suddenly disappeared. That had to mean he was worm food, she concluded. But the hole he left in the organization, his campus men getting busted, had been the opportunity for which she’d been waiting. Sure enough, she’d tried to sound properly pleased when Palmares had called her.
Following her directions, Ashford brought them into the Robbinsville area along a highway overpass, exited, and moved down into a cement roadway lined with one- and two-story buildings. This was Airplane Alley, known as such because it had been a manufacturing area specializing in single-engine aircraft and related parts production. The name had stuck, even though the aviation industry had long ago moved away. Today the facilities turned out everything from wooden window blinds to pre-fab bookcases. It wasn’t unusual to see a truck like Ashford’s coming and going, not even at night.
“There’s the place,” she said, pointing. She glanced down the street, but didn’t see anyone else. Good, she thought.
“Right.” He pulled to a stop at a nondescript stucco building with a large rollaway door. There was a faded, block-letter sign above the entrance.
SIKORSKY CAMSHAFTS
The engine idling, the truck’s headlights shone dull white on the corrugated surface of the door. A metallic grinding sound came from inside the building as a chain and pulley was worked, and the rollaway slid up. Ashford eased his vehicle inside the dimly lit loading dock and shut off the engine. They got out, squinting into the shadows.
The door remained open.
Mustang’s eyebrows went up as a man in a dark windbreaker stepped from the rear of the establishment. At first glance she thought this was Two-Face, but quickly realized it was only the skin o
n one of the man’s cheeks. Deformed not from acid, like the former district attorney, but by acne scars. It had a pock-marked, waxy look to it. She had to remind herself not to stare.
He was flanked by two men carrying assault rifles.
Behind him in the half-light, bolted to what had been the shop floor, were the drill presses, lathes, and other types of machinery once used to turn out the camshafts. Though solid and seemingly intact, their disuse was evident from the cobwebs and a thick layer of dust. Here and there were gloves, goggles, even coffee mugs and empty bottles.
The man spoke. “You know how this works,” he said. There was a large empty table off to one side, and he moved over to it.
“What about the goods?” Ashford said.
The man smiled crookedly. “Of course.” He didn’t seem to make any sort of gesture but a third hood, wearing a handgun in a shoulder holster, stepped into view. He carried two stuffed gym bags, and set these on the table with a dull thud. Then he unzipped one and stepped back, hands clasped before him.
“Go ahead, check it out,” said the pock-marked man.
Stepping away from Ashford, Mustang went over to the unzipped bag. It was stuffed with glassine packets stamped with a black round oval with a distorted wide white laughing mouth. She wondered if this was how the Joker saw himself, when he looked in a mirror, and smiled grimly at the thought. Casually she opened one of the packets. Touching the tip of her little finger to her tongue, she sampled some of the drug.
“Oh, yes,” she said, snorting and squinting. She zipped up the bag and reached for them both. The pock-marked man put a hand on her wrist. Ashford tensed but a sharp look from Mustang cooled him down.
“Python’s taking a hell of a chance on you.” His gaze was steady on her.
“I’m a big girl, I know what I’m doing.”
“You better.”
Mustang nodded at Ashford. He went to the truck’s cab. One of the hoods went with him, rifle held at the ready. The trucker took out a paper grocery bag, rolled shut, and handed it to the hood who took it back to the scarred man. He put the bag on the table and opened it up to look inside at the rubber-banded stacks of money.
“Looks like you’re a Giggle Sniff investor.” He refolded the top of the paper bag.
“Aren’t you gonna count it?” Ashford said. The way he understood it from Suzi was they were putting up a certain amount of money, the bulk of the funds. Aside from what he’d put in the kitty, he was still not clear how she’d obtained such. Sure her having a bodacious bod had all those hooting drunks raining twenties on her in the club, but there seemed to be way more than that in the bag.
Still, the idea was that in the other gym bag was an amount that Palmares was advancing them, twice what they’d brought. The money and the Giggle Sniff were their calling cards, so to speak, to expand Palmares’ operation in other cities. In particular the money was to be used to grease the wheels, bribing this or that cop or judge in the other municipalities.
The scarred man frowned and fixed his gaze on the truck driver, then shot a glance to his men.
“You looking to short us?” That earned a chuckle from the muscle with the shoulder holster.
“No, it’s just that—” Ashford began.
“It’s okay, Brad,” Mustang said, touching his arm. To the head man she said, “We’re good.”
One of the hoods carried one of the gym bags and the paper sack, the three of them walking over to the truck. Abruptly there was a squealing sound out on the street, and through the maw of the rollaway door she saw two vehicles come screaming around the corner. One was a tricked-out Camaro, lowered in front and raised in the rear on dual fat drag-racing tires. The windows were smoked, and a supercharger stuck out of the hood.
In its wake came a van with mag wheels, keeping pace with its companion as they passed under a street light. Airbrushed on the side of the van were two absurdly muscled barbarians, one a female with balloon-like tits. Each brandished a gleaming sword.
“The hell?” The guy with the shoulder holster went for his weapon. He shot them an angry glare.
Mustang raised her hands like she was being held up, shaking her head side to side. Inwardly she tried her best to hold off panic.
Where the fuck…?
The Camaro fishtailed, skidding to a stop on the street, with the passenger side facing them. The power window came down and a figure in a scarecrow’s mask opened fire with a machine gun.
23
“Get cover,” somebody yelled as bullets flew everywhere.
One of the hoodlums holding a rifle unleashed a clutch of rounds. His body was held upright as he jerked spasmodically, then he collapsed, seemingly swallowed up in his heaped clothes.
The machine-gunner in the scarecrow mask opened the door and stepped out of the car, his gun rattling and the barrel smoking. The van pulled to a stop, blocking the loading dock entrance, and the side door slid open. Two more guys, also wearing scarecrow masks, jumped out. One brandished a shotgun, and the other had a .45 in each fist.
Mustang and Ashford took cover behind his truck.
The scarred man ducked behind an upright drill press. The machine gun’s rounds pinged off the industrial machine’s thick iron body. Without showing the slightest hint of alarm, he reached inside his windbreaker and produced a grenade. Pulling the pin he tossed it underhanded at his targets.
“Oh shi—”
Before the scarecrow could finish the device exploded directly to his right, where the Camaro was. The car’s gas-filled tank sparked and it went up in a loud blast of fire and flame. The guy was thrown through the air and his head struck an exposed steel beam in the doorway. He was dead before his body fell to the grease-stained concrete floor.
The passenger door of the Camaro went flying end over end through the air and careened off of the wall.
“Babe, we need to get out of here fast,” Ashford said. She looked through the loading dock doorway. The hulk of the Camaro was still on fire, and fuel burned and smoked in puddles on the ground near the remains. More scarecrows exited the van, also focused on the drug dealers. She noticed the driver’s door was open.
“I’ll get the van,” Mustang said. “You’ve got to get the other two bags.” In the confusion, the hood who’d been carrying the two bags of money had tossed them aside to shoot at the invaders.
He paused, frowning.
“Both of them, Brad,” she emphasized.
“Okay,” he said quickly. “Be careful.”
“You too.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and ran, thankful her boots had short heels. She held one of the gym bags full of Giggle Sniff. As the firefight continued, punctuated by cursing and a moan of pain, she reached the van.
The interior was like something out of one of those beach blanket movies she used to watch as a kid. There was shag carpeting, a bed in back with heart-shaped red pillow, and the seats up front covered in Naugahyde. Fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror, completing the cliché.
The engine was running and she slammed the van into gear. An errant round pierced the windshield, but missed her entirely. She backed the van up, tires squealing, clearing the exit and the burning vehicle. From overhead a beam of light pierced the darkness.
Oh, crap!
A loud, amplified voice filled the air from the GCPD patrol blimp.
“You down there, patrol cars and the fire department are on their way,” it boomed from the sky. “They will be heavily armed. Cease all hostilities and place your firearms on the ground where we can see them. Otherwise we cannot guarantee your safety.”
As Mustang hit the brakes, she glanced into the side rearview mirror. Smoke from the burning car had drifted across the building’s opening. She couldn’t see anything that was happening. Ashford hadn’t emerged and the gunfire continued and she began to fear the worst.
She glanced at the seat beside her, and the bag full of dope the addicts couldn’t get enough of in Gotham. How much was that worth on the street? T
he damn law wasn’t here yet, and she still could make a clean break. The blimp would stay where the action was, and as long as another one didn’t show up, she could slip away. It wasn’t the plan, but if she was going to change her life…
Well, shit, a girl’s gotta improvise.
She gunned the gas. She’d been playing Brad for a chump anyway, so this was how it was going to end for him, sooner or later. He got stuck in there—okay, too bad, he didn’t deserve that—but the dope game wasn’t for the faint-hearted. She was almost to the end of the street when she saw what she was looking for and stomped on the brakes.
A lone figure ran over and opened the passenger door.
“Where the fuck were you?” she demanded, then didn’t give the newcomer a chance to answer “I gotta go back for him.” The figure stopped halfway in the van.
“I’ll go with you.” It was a woman.
“No, if this goes bad, you’ll just get yourself killed,” she said. “No sense in that. Besides, if I don’t get shot, I may need you to bail me out.” She smiled grimly.
“Okay, then take these,” the other one said, placing two black canisters on the seat. They had pull pins and fit easily in the palm of a hand.
“Wish me luck,” Mustang said.
The other woman leaned over and kissed her on the lips.
“Good luck, baby.”
Wearing a shit-eating grin Mustang wheeled the van around, rear tires smoking and screeching on the asphalt as she did a donut.
Now who’s a sap? She chuckled.
She raced back toward the building. As she came closer, damned if Ashford didn’t come stumbling out of the haze. He was bleeding from the side of his head and limping, and there was a dark stain on his slacks, but he had the bloody grocery bag under his arm and the other gym bag at his side. One of the scarecrows also emerged from the pall. He was bleeding from his torso and took aim with his shotgun, pointing it at Ashford’s back.
Mustang rammed the masked robber with the van. With a sickening thump he flew several feet and caromed off a street light.
DC Comics novels--Batman Page 13
