To Trust a Stranger Read Free

possibility.
    Then good sense reasserted itself There was no trap; he was too valuable to the organization for that. And she could not possibly have known he was there unless she was psychic.
    The most logical explanation was that some sort of emergency had arisen. What, he didn't know, but then, he didn't need to know. The pertinent thing was that, sooner or later, she would be back.
    And he would be waiting.
    The certainty of that was calming. Glitches of this sort happened even to consummate professionals such as himself.
    Acknowledging that, Basta felt better. Circling back around behind the house, he even began to hum. When he realized what the song was, he felt a spurt of amusement at the sheer appropriateness of it.
    “Time is on my side .... “
     
    2
     
    “I DON'T WANT TO HURT YOUR FEELINGS or anything, McQuarry, but you sure are one ugly-ass woman.”
    Mac shot his partner a withering look. Hinkle, walking beside him, was snickering openly. It was a suffocatingly hot Friday night in July, and the two of them had just met up in the parking lot of the Pink Pussycat, one of Charleston's most notorious gay bars.
    “Hey, I feel pretty, all right? Back off.”
    'I wouldn't date you, that's for sure.” “You are dating me, so shut the hell up.” Mac's spike heel caught on a crack in the pavement and he stumbled, nearly twisting his ankle. Grabbing Hinkle's arm, he recovered his balance with no harm done beyond a warning twinge. “Shit. How women walk in these things beats the hell out of me. My feet hurt already. I'll be a cripple before the night's over.” Chortling, Hinkle pulled his arm free. “You better be keeping them hands to yourself, homes. Rawanda's the jealous type. She'll kick your ass, she catches you molesting me;” “You're just lucky the guy's fucking prejudiced. Otherwise your black ass'd be in this getup.” “I'd be lookin' good, too, unlike some people I could name. Hey, man, you can't go scratchin ' yourself if you're gonna hang with me. It's not ladylike.” “I'm not scratching myself, I'm pulling up my fricking panty hose.” Mac gave the waistband, which seemed more determined to head south than General William Tecumseh Sherman on his Civil War-era march to the sea, another savage tug. “Shut up, here we go.” They joined the throng on the sidewalk in front of the bar. Located in the middle of a run-down area taken over long since by girlie bars and porn shops, the Pink Pussycat was a three-story cinderblock building painted flaming flamingo with a giant, reclining neon cat swilling a martini affixed to the front wall. The small curtained windows were outfitted with black iron bars like a prison. A bouncer checking IDs stood just outside the door. It was near midnight, and there was a line. At least half the patrons, Mac was relieved to see, looked as freaky as he felt. He was six-one barefoot, maybe six-four or six-five in the damned spindly heeled shoes, which meant that at the moment he towered over the crowd. Oh, well, at least being able to see over everybody's head would make it easier to spot their target. According to his sources, Clinton Edwards had a thing for buxom blond drag queens. And since Edwards' wife was paying through the nose so she could nail him good in their divorce, Mac was willing to turn himself into a buxom blond drag queen, wired for pictures and sound, to get the dirt. He hated domestic cases, hated them with a passion, and this one was even slimier than most, but McQuarry and Hinkle, Private Investigators, were not successful enough to be particular about the jobs they took. In other words, if it paid, he sashayed. “That'll be ten bucks.” The bald, multi-earringed bouncer looked them over without interest. In the spirit of getting into his role, Mac almost batted his heavily mascaraed eyelashes at him. But nah, the guy was shorter than he was but stocky, one of those weight-lifter types, and who knew, he might get into it. Fending off a two