The Shadow Hunter

surging crowd on the dance floor.
    “Need a refill?”
    She glanced up and saw the bartender, a guy she knew by sight, though she’d forgotten his name. “What the hell.”
    The bartender poured another daiquiri. “Who’s your friend?”
    “Nobody.”
    “Ain’t seen her in here before.”
    “She’s just somebody I’ve been clubbin’ with.”
    “I remember when you and Dev went clubbing.” He handed her the drink. “Get over him yet?”
    “What’s it to you?” Sheila asked sourly.
    “Oh, nothing,” the bartender said. “He’s here tonight, that’s all.”
    Sheila looked up slowly. “He’s here? Devin’s here?”
    He shrugged. “Just thought you’d like to know.”
    Lizard Maiden offered a unisex restroom in an alcove near the entrance. The dark-haired woman went past the door, then past a row of pay phones, and stopped at the end of the alcove outside what might have been a supply closet.
    No one was around. She reached into her purse, removed a cell phone, and speed-dialed the first number in the phone’s memory. The music was not so deafening here, and she could speak in a tone of voice that was almost normal.
    “Paul, this is Abby,” she said when the call was answered.
    “You still at Babylon?” Paul Travis asked.
    “No, we’ve moved on. We’ve been bouncing from club to club all night. She’s starting to open up, finally.”
    “Talking about the client?”
    “Yeah. She’s angry, and she could mean business. She keeps touching her purse in a way that makes me think she’s got more than mascara inside.”
    “If she’s carrying, you better watch yourself.”
    Abby smiled. “I always do. Look, I have to get back to her. I’ll update you at the next opportunity. Right now we’re at a place on the Strip called Lizard Maiden.”
    “Lizard Maiden?”
    “They call it the Liz. It’s just west of Bar One—”
    “I know where it is. It’s where
he
is.”
    For a moment Abby couldn’t process what Travis had said. “What?”
    “The client. He’s there. At Lizard Maiden. He showed up a half hour ago. He’s in the VIP Room, goddamn it.”
    “Bodyguards with him?”
    “Two.”
    “Get them on the phone and tell them we’re Code Red. If there’s a way to get him out of the club without being seen, have them do it. But don’t let them move him into the main room, or Sheila may spot him. Got it?”
    “I got it.”
    “I’ll stay close to her. Even if she sees the client, she won’t try anything.”
    “Make sure of it, Abby. Make damn sure.”
    The call ended. Abby stuffed the phone back into her purse, next to the snub-nosed Smith .38 she carried when on the job.
    Naturally Corbal was here. He had to be here, and not in some other club in another part of town.
    “Of all the gin joints in all the world,” she muttered, leaving the alcove.
    Still, it was no big problem. A complication, sure, but as long as she kept Sheila within arm’s reach, nothing would happen. Sheila Rogers was twenty-two, anorexically thin, and highly intoxicated—no match for Abby in any kind of fight. If Sheila made a move for the gun in her purse, Abby could drop her simply by closing off the blood flow in the carotid arteries of the neck. She had done that sort of thing before, in similar circumstances.
    She skirted the dance floor and approached the bar, and that was when she began to be afraid.
    Sheila wasn’t there. The stool she had been using was unoccupied.
    This was bad.
    Abby stood at the bar and signaled to the bartender. He bared his teeth in a predatory smile when he saw her.
    “Hey, sweet thing.”
    She ignored this. “Where’s the woman I was sitting with?”
    “Sheila?” His smile became a smirk. “I think she went to visit a friend.”
    Abby’s heart sped up. “What friend?”
    He leaned close. “Listen, forget about her. She’s a loser anyway. You don’t need to hang with her. I just wanted to get rid of her, so maybe you and me could get to know each other.”
    “So you told her Devin Corbal is here?”
    “How’d you know—”
    “Never mind. Where’s the VIP Room?”
    “Sorry, you can’t go in there. Celebs only. You know, I get off in a couple hours—”
    Abby reached out and grabbed his right wrist, applying painful pressure to the scaphoid bone below the ball of his thumb. “
Where is it?
” she hissed.
    The bartender paled. “Around back,” he said through gritted teeth. “That way.” He jerked his head to the left.
    She released his wrist. He