Dying for the Highlife by Dave Stanton

over drinks. The larger of the two was a burly moose of a man; his shoulders were broad and bulged with muscle and his torso was thick as a barrel. He had a flat face with blunt features, framed by curly, reddish-brown mutton-chop sideburns that nearly met at his chin. When he spoke, I could see one of his front teeth was broken off, almost to the gum.
    “It ain’t my problem you were dumb enough to not bring a coat,” he said.
    “Gimme a break, it was eighty-five in San Jose,” said the other man, a wiry dude with matted-down brown hair. He wore an old pair of jeans and a black T-shirt with sleeves that were too short. Below his shoulder was a scrawled tattoo of a naked female.
    “You said you were resourceful,” the big one said, with a chuckle that was more like a snort. “I’m sure you’ll figure out how to stay warm.”
    The wiry man’s face bunched up in cords of tissue, and his eyes grew flat as pennies.
    “You are truly testing my patience, Sanzini,” he said. “If we’re going to find this dude, you’re going to need me. I can’t ride at night without a jacket. I’m asking you to loan me the goddamn money to buy one.”
    “Sure, how about if I buy you a whore too?”
    I stifled a yawn. The tone of their conversation was one that could be heard endlessly in dive bars. Next they would start talking about how ruthlessly the local cops enforced drunk-driving laws. Or a recent bad-rap domestic violence charge. Or how thirty days in the city jail ain’t really that bad of a gig—hell, it’s three hots and a cot. I was trying to tune them out when one said something that made my head turn.
    “Our whole reason for being here is the guy won the Lotto, right? Forty-three million, right? After I get my share, I’ll pay you back.”
    “We got to find him first,” the one named Sanzini said. He cleared his throat, and then said, “Excuse me,” in a loud voice to the bartender, a stocky, balding man who wore his hair in a short pony tail.
    “I’m trying to hook up with an old buddy of mine,” Sanzini said. “He was here a few nights ago. Blond hair, blue eyes, about six foot, mid-thirties. Does that ring a bell?”
    “Lot of guys fit that description come through here,” the bartender said from around a toothpick.
    “This guy probably was throwing money around like he had it to burn.”
    “Doesn’t sound familiar.”
    “Blowin’ dough like he won the lottery.”
    The man behind the bar shrugged.
    “Who runs this cathouse, then? I need to talk to someone who knows something.”
    The bartender set down a bottle he was holding and leaned forward. “The madam is in charge. She’ll be here later. If you ask her politely, she might be able to help you.”
    “Good,” Sanzini said. The bartender walked away, shaking his head.
    “Hey, Tony, when the madam shows up, let me talk to her. I got a way with older broads.”
    “Huh? Screw you, Rancour. You’re just here because you got the connection with the security company. This is my deal. You stay quiet.”
    “Well, try to use a little charm, then.”
    “Blow yourself.”
    I left the bar and took a seat at a vacant couch, near where the group of prostitutes had congregated. After a minute the Asian woman I’d met before turned to me. She had an exotic aura to her, and I seemed to remember she’d told me she specialized in unusual positions.
    “Meow,” she said.
    “Excuse me?”
    “What’s the matter, don’t you understand pussy?” she said, and the ladies around her all laughed like crazy.
    “So,” she said, taking a seat on the arm of the sofa, “you wanna party?”
    She wore a sheer turquoise gown, and the slit had fallen open, revealing her thigh all the way to her waist. Her legs were long and slinky, and the nipples on her small breasts were extended and pointy against a thin layer of silk that left little to the imagination. She parted her lips and eyed me with a sly expression that looked practiced.
    I had met her during the