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.

He had been planning the move for the past ten seconds. Now he rolled all the way back over his neck and head. He landed on his feet and without warning shot himself forward as though from a cannon. The three cross-dressers backed off, prepared for the attack. But an attack would be suicide. Myron knew that. There were three of them, two armed, at least one very good. Myron could never beat them. He needed to surprise them. So he did. By not going for them.

He went instead for the one-way glass.

His legs had pushed off full throttle, propelling him rocket-ship fashion toward the glass. By the time his three captors realized what he was doing, it was too late. Myron squeezed his eyes shut, made two fists, and hit the glass with his full weight, Superman style. He held nothing back. If the glass did not give, he was a dead man.

The glass shattered on impact.

The sound was enormous, all-consuming. Myron flew through it, glass clattering to the floor around him. When he landed, he tucked himself into a tight ball. He hit the floor and rolled. Tiny shards of mirror bit into his skin. He ignored the pain, kept rolling, crashing hard into the bar. Bottles fell.

Big Cyndi had talked about the place's reputation. Myron was counting on that. And the Take A Guess clientele did not disappoint.

A pure New York melee ensued.

Tables were thrown. People screamed. Someone flew over the bar and landed on top of Myron. More glass shattered. Myron tried to get to his feet, but it wasn't happening. From his right, he saw a door open. Mall Girl emerged.

"Bitch!'"

Mall Girl started toward him, carrying Bonnie's cattle prod. Myron tried to scramble away, but he couldn't get his bearings. Mall Girl kept coming, drawing closer.

And then Mall Girl disappeared.

It was like a scene from a cartoon, where the big dog punches Sylvester the Cat, and Sylvester flies across the room and the oversize fist stays there for a few seconds.

In this case the oversize fist belonged to Big Cyndi.

Bodies flew. Glasses flew. Chairs flew. Big Cyndi ignored it all. She scooped Myron up and threw him over her shoulder like a firefighter. They rushed outside as police sirens clawed through the milky night air.
Chapter 16
Back at the Dakota, Win tsk-tsked and