“Word’s the noise is coming from here.” West held her ground.

She started walking toward the lounge, Brazil with her, the dudes moving out of their way. Fat Man’s was a depressing, dark den, smoke hanging in the air and music playing, but not too loudly. Men were drinking at wooden tables, watching a woman on stage, in g-string and tassels, as she twirled heavy, sagging breasts. Brazil didn’t want to stare too hard, but he was pretty sure that the left one was tattooed with the planet Saturn, bright yellow, with rings orbiting fast. In big circles. These were, without a doubt, the biggest breasts he had ever seen in person.

The stripper, whose stage name was Minx, needed another Valium. She was thirsty, had to have a cigarette, and damn it all, the fucking cops were here. What this time? She started twirling the other way, then did two different directions at once. This usually got the men going, but tonight’s stingy crowd was about as excitable as a cemetery. Minx smiled. The boy cop couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“Never seen tits before?” she asked him as he went by.

Brazil was indifferent. West shot Minx a cool look, and thought the stripper’s fried egg tattoo on her left breast was rather clever, not to mention apropos. Lord, this one even had stretch marks, cellulite, her clients not interested in anything that wasn’t in a glass. Colt, the bouncer, was the exception. He was heading at the cops like a freight train on a mission. He was big and scary in a shiny black suit, thick gold chains, and a red leather tie. He looked like he might hurt them, starting with Brazil.

“We got a complaint of loud music,” West said to Colt.

“You hear it?” Colt lifted his heavy jaw, veins like ropes in his powerful neck.

He was full of hate toward these white cops, especially the bitch. Who did she think she was anyway, strutting into Fat Man’s in her fancy uniform with all its shiny shit meant to hurt hard-working people like him? He glanced at Minx, making sure she wasn’t letting up. It seemed not a night went by when he didn’t have to smack a little more energy into her, give her pain someplace where it wouldn’t show, encouraging her to do her job. She was slinging away. Nobody cared. Nobody tipped. Two of the regulars were getting up, and leaving, the night still young. The cops were to blame.

Colt jerked open the side door leading out into an alleyway. He grabbed Brazil by the front of his uniform shirt with such force, it ripped.

“Heyyyy!” Brazil yelled.

Colt lifted the punk off his feet and threw him outside in the trash, where he belonged. Garbage cans clattered against pavement, bottles clanging. It was just a good thing Brazil was dirty, anyway. He got to his feet in time to see West whipping out her handcuffs. Colt had her by her uniform shirt, intending to pitch her, too, as the little shit yelled “Mayday! Mayday!” into his police radio.