“Are you Mike Hammer? ” a voice said, which clearly had come to terms with a way to be heard over the deafening crap that Velda had told me as was called techno music.

I turned and the guy standing there was handsome in a sharp-featured way, in a gray sports jacket that probably cost a grand and a white t-shirt that cost a couple bucks and dock pants that cost who gives a shit, an ensemble set off by a black eye-patch that screamed for a parrot on his shoulder.

“Parker Beigen,” I said, not quite yelling. “I read about you in the papers. Congratulations on your success.”

“I read about you in the papers, too…as a kid!”

Hadn’t everybody? Me and Flash Gordon.

“Word of advice?” I said.

“Sure!”

I nodded toward the couple sitting a few squared-off metal stools down from me who were sharing a coke-lined mirror, employing a use for a hundred-dollar bill that I’d never tried.

He grinned. He winked with the visible eye. “You disapprove!”

“I don’t give a damn what people do,” I said, though that wasn’t entirely true. At the old Club 52 I had once flushed a pile of coke down the john and got criticized for it. I was more a live-and-let-live guy now.

He seemed amused, his smile as wry as my drink. “Then what’s the problem, Mike? If I may?”

“You may. It’s just too wide open. It’ll catch up with you.”

He shrugged. “I pay handsomely for the privilege.”

“Someday you’ll run into an honest copper or an administration less corrupt than most, and you’ll be finished. A little friendly advice from an old soldier.”

“Appreciated.” He gestured grandly. “I just don’t like to rain on people’s parades.”

“I hear you. Look, I’m trying to find Vincent Colby.”

He frowned just a little.

I said, “Not to bother him. He’s in no trouble. I work for his old man. Consider me a friend of the family.”

The techno crapola stopped and a song I recognized came on—“Heart of Glass,” Blondie. Kind of liked that one, besides which the singer was a foxy little thing. But that song was an oldie, for this place anyway. Like me.

My host said, “Well, Vincent’s here. Out on the dance floor somewhere, I’d expect. I could probably find him for you…unless he’s up in the Dungeon. That’s his favorite of our special rooms, and I’d hate to bother him.”

The fabled S & M Room. Every boy needs a hobby.

I said, “I’d appreciate you trying.”

He patted me on the back. “Listen, Mike. You’re welcome here any time. I don’t believe those crazy rumors about you flushing a fortune in coke down the drain.”

“Yeah! You’re right not to believe everything you hear. But why do you want my business?”

He grinned big. “I don’t want your business. I want your presence.” Another wink. “I’ll put you on the list.”

“Most of the lists I’m on start with the letter ‘s.’ What’s this one about?”