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I glanced again in the direction of the goblin with the grey eyes, those eyes that had seen too much over the years. He was watching Clunie closely, then his head swept back in my direction. I ignored him, finished my cigarette and took another swallow of the bourbon. Clunie didn't know about the photographs, I was sure of it; no-one can act that well. She might know more than she was letting on, and Vale could have told me where the photos had been taken, if he could have been bothered. I stared at the drink and wondered what to do next. The band ceased its production of wallpaper music abruptly, and struck up a much louder and jazzy piece. The lights went down and two spotlights roved over the tinsel curtain at the back of the stage. Suddenly, the curtain was swept back, and the limelights bracketed the club's torch singer. As the band worked their way through the introduction with much robust blaring of saxophone and trombone, the entertainer wiggled and strutted up and down the stage, waving to a few - probably imagined - fans in the back rows, and acknowledging the hand-claps and wolf-whistles from the closer tables. She wore one of those "less" dresses - a backless, strapless affair in electric blue, sparkling with sequins, slit nearly to the waist up her leg and down to her waist between her breasts. Large earrings sparkling with what were probably supposed to be mistaken for diamonds glittered from her fetchingly pointed ears. It made the outfit the hostess had been wearing look prim and positively dowdy. Even so, her looks weren't a patch on Clunie's. Call me an old-fashioned guy, but I prefer the goods presented just a little less overtly. She could sing, though, and she proceeded to belt out a couple of old favourites to the very evident approval of the - mostly male - clientele. The band kept it together, never quite overpowering the husky throaty voice of the singer. I could see why some people would return night after night, drink too much and send flowers backstage in the forlorn hope of meeting her in private. Poor saps. "Mind if I join you?" The gravelly voice at my ear was not really a surprise, but I affected a slow twist of my head, drawing back and looking quizzically at the speaker. It was the well-dressed goblin with the grey eyes who had been watching us earlier. "Sure," I drawled, waving a nonchalant hand at the chair opposite. He sat down, not taking his eyes off me, and signalled a waitress - not Clunie - who brought a glass immediately without bothering with an order. Scotch whiskey, single malt, a large measure. He was part of the management, then. "Findo Gask," I said, extending a hand over the table. He looked at my hand for a long moment, then took it in his own disdainfully. "I know who you are, Mister Gask," he said, "What I don't know is why you're here." "Well, a guy's got to get out and about, you know," I replied, "Enjoy the show, meet some ladies. Might even chance my luck at the tables later on." He said nothing, just stared at me levelly. "So who are you, then," I added. "The name's Hosh. I run this joint." "Pleased to meet you. So what do you want?" He shook his head slowly. "Wanted to make sure you're enjoying yourself. You need anything, just ask for me." "Sure thing," I said. Hosh turned and snapped his fingers for the waitress, who hurried up with a bright smile on her face, one which masked an underlying worry. "Another drink for Mister Gask," he said, "On the house." The waitress disappeared. Hosh put his hands flat on the table and levered himself upright. "See you around, Mister Gask," he said, leaning forward, "Don't be a stranger."
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Part 6