The Kumquat Hustle

Florida City 11:55 PM A ’58 Plymouth Belvedere skidded to a stop outside the Skank Tank. Flannigan jumped out and sauntered in under the awning. He approached a hulking bouncer sporting a goatee, gold earrings, and ponytail. The bouncer scrutinized him from head to toe and rolled his eyes. “Identification and forty-dollar cover, pops.” The detective flashed a badge. “Flannigan, homicide.” “Gramps, I don’t care if you’re homo-anal-cide.” The bouncer planted a hand on Flannigan’s corduroy sleeve. “I still need a driver’s license and forty bucks cover.” Flannigan turned to the right, shifted back, and clocked the bouncer hard under the chin. The bouncer went down and out. “No touching the threads, jocko.” The detective maneuvered his way through the crowd. Loud music thumped and flashing lights streaked throughout the room. “…Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap!…” Flannigan glanced up at the main stage. The attraction was a dancer in her fifties who’d lost her battle with gravity. She slipped off her panties for a gaggle of soldiers. He ambled to the rear of the club. On a side stage he came upon a buxom young redhead, whirling on a pole. After her last whirl he thrust a mug shot in her face. “Seen this handsome peacock before, miss?” “You can’t be a cop.” “Guilty.” The woman swaggered offstage into a lighted hallway. She eyeballed Flannigan’s outfit—a wrinkled sport coat and Stetson hat. A motif of little tiki-heads and palm trees adorned his shirt. “What are you supposed to be, pal—a tropical Indiana Jones on a budget?” Flannigan whipped out his badge and again flashed the mug shot. “Has he been in here or not, Miss Kitty?” She scanned the photo, stuck a thumb in her garter belt, and inspected the ceiling. “I can’t be sure.” Flannigan slipped a fifty-spot into her garter. “How’s your memory now, princess?” “I haven’t seen the man in your photo for over a year. But back then, he always came in with a few friends of his, plus this one chubby black dude. The porky black guy was in here the other day.” Flannigan slid a toothpick between his lips. “Who was the black gent with? Did they say where they were going?” The stripper licked her finger and moistened a taut breast above the nipple. She pointed at the spot and winked. Flannigan stuck a twenty on her boob. The woman looked down. “For twenty, all I remember is the man was black and plump.” The detective deposited another twenty on her other breast. He gestured with a thumb to the main stage, where the mature dancer balanced a bottle of Moet between her butt cheeks. “Is that your mother up there? You must be awfully proud.” The girl smirked and tossed her hair over her shoulder. She wiggled the bills under her garter. “Easy now, big fella. We’re shorthanded. Your African American was in here with two white bubba dopers, and they left with two women who work here. Tall black chick named Gurlonda and a dwarf named Candy. No idea where they went. Beyond that, I don’t know diddly.” Flannigan turned away. “Thanks, Mother Teresa.”