It Was a Very Bad Year by Robert J. Randisi Page A

around as he got behind the wheel.
    â€˜I don’t think anyone saw us, or the car,’ I commented.
    â€˜Unless somebody came out of the clubs to get a blowjob behind the building.’
    I looked over at the parking lots of both clubs as we pulled out. Only a few cars, probably belonging to employees.
    â€˜I think we’re in the clear,’ I said, with more confidence than I felt.
    â€˜Don’t worry, Mr G.,’ Jerry said. ‘Even if somebody saw the car we can just say we were lookin’ for Irwin.’
    â€˜For over an hour?’
    Jerry shrugged. ‘So we decided to wait a while to see if he came home.’
    â€˜That sounds plausible.’
    â€˜It’s all plausible,’ Jerry said, ‘just as long as when you lie, you stick to it.’

FIFTEEN
    I walked into Clipper’s just before six. I wondered why Irwin had picked this place. One of the strip clubs near his house might have been better for him.
    I saw him first, didn’t spot Danny right away, but then saw him sitting at the very end of the bar. Beyond him I could see the foyer with pay phones, and restrooms. I don’t even know how I missed him. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, with vivid yellows, oranges and reds. But I figured he must know what he was doing, because I
did
miss him, at first.
    Clipper’s was a typical neighborhood joint, the same as in Brooklyn, LA, or Vegas. A worn bar, chafed wooden floors, the smell of booze, smoke and sweat. The locals would all turn whenever the door opened, greet regulars or stare at strangers for a few moments before turning back to their drinks.
    Danny saw me, played it so relaxed he almost looked sleepy.
    Irwin spotted me and jerked his head. He got up from the bar with a beer and walked to a booth. I got a beer from the bartender, and joined him. His clothes were still glaring. I mean, who
ever
wears white shoes? Except Pat Boone.
    â€˜I put this on your tab,’ I told him, sitting.
    â€˜Yeah, yeah,’ he said, sourly. He was wearing a short-sleeved, button-down shirt, and I could smell that he didn’t use deodorant. It was hot, but it was more sweat from nerves than from heat.
    â€˜You got something for me?’ I asked.
    He looked around the place, then raised his hand. The bartender came out from behind the bar carrying a brown envelope that looked like it had been used as a coaster.
    Irwin put the envelope on the table and slid it across to me.
    â€˜This is what you want,’ he said.
    I pushed my beer aside and opened the envelope. We were out of sight in the booth so I pulled the contents out. Photos and negatives. I put the negatives back into the envelope. The photos were all eight by tens of a young Abby Dalton. They were cheesecake, mostly bathing-suit shots, all one piece, but revealing. I stuffed them back into the envelope, pushed it aside and grabbed my beer.
    â€˜Not what I wanted, Barney,’ I said.
    â€˜Whataya mean?’ he asked. ‘Those are the pictures I got of the kid.’
    â€˜None of these are nudes.’
    â€˜I don’t do—’
    â€˜You forget what you were doing when we walked in on you yesterday?’ I asked.
    â€˜That was – I didn’t used to do that back then,’ he said. ‘Things is tough, so I’m doin’ it now.’
    â€˜I don’t buy it,’ I said. ‘You expect me to believe you had a dish like Abby Dalton in front of your lens and you didn‘t try to get her naked?’
    â€˜I didn’t say I didn’t try,’ he said. ‘I tried like hell, but she wouldn’t go for it. She had too much class.’
    Abby had all but admitted to me that there were nude photos. A teenager anxious for fame can be forgiven for a lapse in judgment, no matter how classy she actually was.
    â€˜Barney—’
    â€˜I’m tellin’ ya,’ he said, spreading his hands, ‘I got no nudes of her. If I did I’d sell ’em to