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Gold strode into the smoky little room, keeping a sharp eye out for the Rat. This would be the sort of low brow hole in the wall Nottingham preferred. Gold scanned the shadiest corners. If he knew his guy, Nottingham would be hiding out in one, red-nosed with drink and red-cheeked with the slaps from cigarette girls who preferred their buttocks un-fondled.
No sign of the nasty little guttersnipe, yet. But he’d show. Gold had it on good authority that Nottingham never missed a night that Lacey French was performing.
Wiping off a seat with his handkerchief (and regretting that it was a good silk one – he’d have to throw it out, now) Gold took a seat. A waitress in a short skirt took his order. Scotch, neat. Though he doubted the quality would be anywhere near what he was used to, these days. He was only half facing the stage when the lights began to dim.
He sipped his scotch as he took another glance around the room. Not as bad as he dreaded, but definitely watered down. Chords of something slow and sultry started to play. As the curtain slowly parted, the gathered crowd – mostly men – began to clap and hoot. Nottingham’s face was not yet among them and Gold contemplated taking his leave. But when had that scum ever been on time for anything?
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a woman take the stage. It must be the infamous Lacey French, he thought. Men were such simple creatures. Flash them a bit of skirt and they turned into gibbering idiots. The noise of the onlookers rose to a cacophony and he swiveled his head to the front, curiosity getting the better of him.
His mouth went dry.
Beneath the glaring lights was the most exquisitely beautiful woman he had ever seen. Bright eyes twinkled from within a fringe of long, dark lashes. Her pale, heart-shaped face was framed by a waterfall of auburn curls. Her dress was gaudy and cheap but the amount of leg it left on display was nearly criminal. The music swelled and the surrounding noise died to a low murmur.
He swallowed hard as Lacey opened her mouth to sing. Smoky and sweet, she crooned an old ditty from the days before the war. When she took a deep breath, her breasts strained against fabric of her plunging neckline. It was obviously intentional, probably practiced in the mirror of her dressing room. The thought of this never dampened the effect one iota. She moved to the music, undulating gently and swiveling her hips.
The rest of his surroundings all but fell away as Lacey filled Gold’s mind with her raw sensuality. He pictured himself dragging her backstage, peeling away that flimsy costume. He imagined stealing kisses from her full, red mouth and wondered if she would taste as sweet as she sounded.
He shook himself. Gold was not a man given to schoolboy fantasy. Even if the dame in question did have the voice of an angel and a body built for sin.
Besides, a glance to his right revealed the dirty crook he’d come into this low end juice joint to find. Nottingham was staring, transfixed at the stage. Gold felt a knot of unwarranted jealousy in his stomach over the raw lust in the younger man’s eyes.
Not that Keith Nottingham was any competition for the girl. Dead men tell no tales and they certainly chase no tail. By the end of the night, the only thing bedding down with Nottingham would be some very hungry fishes.
But that could wait, at least until the end of the set. He’d slip out with his target in between performances and take care of business.
Maybe he could even come back after and see if Lacey French was up for a night cap before the place closed…