uncertainty
moved across the fantasy of his sunny future.
Unfortunately, the success of his moneymaking
scheme depended on his partner, and he was beginning
to doubt her trustworthiness. In fact, doubt was
burning his gut as fiercely as the cheap whiskey he'd
been drinking all evening. When it came right down
to it, he didn't trust her any farther than he could
throw her.
He sat down on a stool at the end of the bar and ordered
another drink. The maroon vinyl seat had once
borne a leather grain imprint, but it had been worn almost
slick from supporting decades of hard drinkers.
Except for needing to keep a low profile, he wouldn't
have patronized a low-class tavern like this. He had
come a long way since hanging out in joints of
this caliber. He had moved up from where he'd
started. Way up. Upwardly mobile, that was Bobby Trimble.
Bobby had cultivated a new image for himself,
and he wasn't about to give it up. One couldn't help
what he'd been born into, but if he didn't like it, if he
knew instinctively that he was destined for bigger
and better things, he could sure as hell shake one
image and create another. That's what he had done.
It was this acquired urbane appeal that had landed
him the cushy job in Miami. The nightclub owner
had needed a guy with Bobby's talents to act as host
and emcee. He looked good and his line of bullshit
drew the ladies in. He took to the job like a duck to
water. Business increased significantly. Soon the
Cock'n'Bull was one of the most happening
nightspots in Miami, a city famous for happening
nightspots.
The nightclub had been packed every night with
women who knew how to have a good time. Bobby
had cultivated and then nurtured its raunchy reputation
to compete with the other ladies' entertainment
clubs.
The Cock'n'Bull made no apology for having a
down-and-dirty floor show that appealed to women, not ladies, who weren't afraid to really let their hair
down. On most nights, the dancers went all the way
down to the skin. Bobby kept his tuxedo on, but he
talked the talk that whipped the women into a sexual
frenzy. His verbal come-ons were more effective than
the thrusting pelvises of the dancers. They adored his
dirty dialogue.
Then one night a particularly enthusiastic fan
climbed up on the stage with one of the dancers,
dropped to her knees, and started doing the nasty
thing on him. The crowd went wild. They loved it.
But the vice squad working undercover didn't.
They secretly called for backup, and before anyone
realized what was happening, the place was
lousy with cops. He had been able to sneak out the
back door--but not before helping himself to all the
cash in the office safe.
Because of a fondness for the racetrack, and a recent
streak of very bad luck, he had been in debt to a
loan shark, who wouldn't have understood that the
club's closing amounted to a temporary cessation of
income, which would have been reversed soon.
"Soon" wasn't in a loan shark's vocabulary.
So, with the club owner, the cops, and the loan
shark on his tail, he had fled the Sunshine State, with
nearly ten thousand dollars lining the pockets of his
tuxedo. He had his Mercedes convertible painted a
different color and switched the license plates on it.
For a time, he traveled leisurely up the coast, living well off stolen money.
But it hadn't lasted forever. He'd had to go to
work, plying the only trade he knew. Passing himself
off as a guest of the luxury hotels, he hung out at the
swimming pools, where he worked his charm on
lonely women tourists. The money he stole from
them he considered a fair exchange for the happiness
he gave them in bed.
Then, one night, while sipping champagne and
sweet-talking a reluctant divorcee out of her room
key, he spotted an acquaintance from Miami across
the dining room. Excusing himself to go to the men's
room, Bobby had returned to his hotel, hurriedly
packed his belongings into the Mercedes,
moved across the fantasy of his sunny future.
Unfortunately, the success of his moneymaking
scheme depended on his partner, and he was beginning
to doubt her trustworthiness. In fact, doubt was
burning his gut as fiercely as the cheap whiskey he'd
been drinking all evening. When it came right down
to it, he didn't trust her any farther than he could
throw her.
He sat down on a stool at the end of the bar and ordered
another drink. The maroon vinyl seat had once
borne a leather grain imprint, but it had been worn almost
slick from supporting decades of hard drinkers.
Except for needing to keep a low profile, he wouldn't
have patronized a low-class tavern like this. He had
come a long way since hanging out in joints of
this caliber. He had moved up from where he'd
started. Way up. Upwardly mobile, that was Bobby Trimble.
Bobby had cultivated a new image for himself,
and he wasn't about to give it up. One couldn't help
what he'd been born into, but if he didn't like it, if he
knew instinctively that he was destined for bigger
and better things, he could sure as hell shake one
image and create another. That's what he had done.
It was this acquired urbane appeal that had landed
him the cushy job in Miami. The nightclub owner
had needed a guy with Bobby's talents to act as host
and emcee. He looked good and his line of bullshit
drew the ladies in. He took to the job like a duck to
water. Business increased significantly. Soon the
Cock'n'Bull was one of the most happening
nightspots in Miami, a city famous for happening
nightspots.
The nightclub had been packed every night with
women who knew how to have a good time. Bobby
had cultivated and then nurtured its raunchy reputation
to compete with the other ladies' entertainment
clubs.
The Cock'n'Bull made no apology for having a
down-and-dirty floor show that appealed to women, not ladies, who weren't afraid to really let their hair
down. On most nights, the dancers went all the way
down to the skin. Bobby kept his tuxedo on, but he
talked the talk that whipped the women into a sexual
frenzy. His verbal come-ons were more effective than
the thrusting pelvises of the dancers. They adored his
dirty dialogue.
Then one night a particularly enthusiastic fan
climbed up on the stage with one of the dancers,
dropped to her knees, and started doing the nasty
thing on him. The crowd went wild. They loved it.
But the vice squad working undercover didn't.
They secretly called for backup, and before anyone
realized what was happening, the place was
lousy with cops. He had been able to sneak out the
back door--but not before helping himself to all the
cash in the office safe.
Because of a fondness for the racetrack, and a recent
streak of very bad luck, he had been in debt to a
loan shark, who wouldn't have understood that the
club's closing amounted to a temporary cessation of
income, which would have been reversed soon.
"Soon" wasn't in a loan shark's vocabulary.
So, with the club owner, the cops, and the loan
shark on his tail, he had fled the Sunshine State, with
nearly ten thousand dollars lining the pockets of his
tuxedo. He had his Mercedes convertible painted a
different color and switched the license plates on it.
For a time, he traveled leisurely up the coast, living well off stolen money.
But it hadn't lasted forever. He'd had to go to
work, plying the only trade he knew. Passing himself
off as a guest of the luxury hotels, he hung out at the
swimming pools, where he worked his charm on
lonely women tourists. The money he stole from
them he considered a fair exchange for the happiness
he gave them in bed.
Then, one night, while sipping champagne and
sweet-talking a reluctant divorcee out of her room
key, he spotted an acquaintance from Miami across
the dining room. Excusing himself to go to the men's
room, Bobby had returned to his hotel, hurriedly
packed his belongings into the Mercedes,
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