The Identity Thief (8 page)

X reached up and tucked a $5 tip in the passing redhead's G-string. She grinned broadly. "$20 for a table dance, $30 for a lap."

It sounded a bit steep, but X was inexperienced in such matters, and furthermore didn't really have time to negotiate.

"A lap."

"Good choice. We're gonna have some FUN!'

X watched her flaming hair bounce as she guided him to a purple leather chair and pushed him gently into it.

The girl unfastened her bra and straddled him, her double D's wobbling impressively in front of him. Her flesh was dotted with freckles, he noted upon closer inspection. Maybe she was a genuine redhead.

Out of the corner of his eyes X could see the first of the trio approaching and presumed that his own face was just as visible. With infrared night-vision goggles, his features would probably be distinct. He had to get the girl closer to him, to hide completely.

"What's your name?" he asked, as casually as he could.

The girl leaned in to whisper into his ear. Her erect nipples grazed his chest and his face vanished into her flowing orange hair.

"Party. What's yours?" You had to hand it to her: the moniker was something of a novelty.

"Steve."

"Where do you hail from, Steve?"

"South Carolina," he replied, having already adopted the appropriate drawl. "You?"

"Wisconsin."

This time, at least, the accent matched the purported place of origin.

Peeking through the girl's hair, he could see the agents moving through the crowd, discreetly probing the darkened bar with tiny flashlights. Every time Party started to lean away from him, presumably to give him a better view of her silicone-enhanced breasts, X would renew the conversation, luring her in closer.

"Have you been dancing long?" he asked.

"Three years. I quit for a few months when I found Jesus and did some waitressing, but this place is in my blood."

"I'm sure it pays better."

"So true," she said. "Speaking of a whole lot of loot, did you hear about that huge reward they're offering for that motherfucker?"

"Beg pardon?"

"That rag-head terrorist who's loose in Vegas."

"Oh yeah, saw something about that on TV," he said weakly.

"With that money, wow - I could like produce a movie and star in it," she said, a dreamy look in her eyes, "You know, like Drew Barrymore."

He nodded. "Yes, I could see you as maybe one of those teachers who turns an inner-city school around."

"Wow, you're like reading my mind." Then, growing thoughtful, she added, "But honestly, I would turn that guy in even if there was no reward. My uncle was killed in Afghanistan. We all have to do our part. I would personally cut off that creep's balls if I had the chance."

"Your patriotism is truly admirable," X remarked.

On the TV screen, the words "This just in" appeared under a computer-generated image of X - without a beard.

The redhead expanded on her point. "I don't mean with scissors. I mean with garden shears. No, a bolt cutter."

"Outstanding," X whispered, turning paler by the minute.

The song - "Bad Influence" by Pink - abruptly ended.

"Want another?" Party asked.

"You bet." X dug into the policeman's wallet for another $20.

The redhead swiveled around in his lap so that her pert round buttocks were perched on his groin. The position, fortunately, put the TV out of her line of sight.

But his face was exposed again. X could see the broad-shouldered, square-jawed Agent No. 2 just feet away. To his alarm, the fugitive saw that the lawman was turning in his direction. X leaned forward and kissed the exotic dancer between the shoulder blades, so that his face disappeared from the agent's view.

"You're sweet," she giggled.

"I love your perfume," he whispered with all the enthusiasm he could muster.

She giggled again and, as a raunchy rap tune by 50 Cent poured out of the speakers, she began to gyrate her thong-clad rump vigorously in his lap. Despite himself, X found he was swiftly growing hard for the second time that day. He disliked the feeling of losing control over his own body. He tried to fight it off, but resistance was futile, as the Borg liked to say.

"Whoa, you've got a big dick for a guy with such small hands," Party cooed appreciatively.

"Thanks - I think," he whispered in her ear, keeping his face nestled in that red mane. "You've got a really ..." he groped for the appropriate adjective, "impressive little caboose on you."

"Oh, not so little," she giggled. "Not with all the pizza I eat."

* * *

At the command center, Normand stood in a sprawling room surrounded by walls of giant video monitors, with incoming data and images flashing up on the screen from all 360 degrees.

"I'm getting a headache," he groaned. "Who designed this display? I swear to God, I'm going to have an epileptic fit in a minute."

"The IT people based it on the Bourne movies," said an aide manning one of 12 consoles.

"Remind me to ask our friends at the CIA to terminate that producer."

Traci Kingsmith pointed to one of the giant screens, filled by the face of a fat, grinning Asian man.

"We're getting human and/or electronic intel from every building and street within a two-mile perimeter. That's coming in from a strip club a half mile from the hotel. We commandeered the club's surveillance cameras and the feed is being digitally enhanced and run through the facial recognition program."

Male faces, some leering, some blank, some with eyes fluttering in passion flashed on and off the screen.

A nearby screen displayed a feed from three mini-cameras built into the penlights borne by the three agents on site and also run through the automated video analysis software. The video was much shakier and more indistinct, as the cameras probed the dark recesses of the club. Murky (and somewhat disturbing) images of breasts, thongs and dollar bills emerged and vanished into the gloom.

"Do we have live mikes in there?" Normand asked.

"Coming from the agents' communicators," Traci replied. "The system is searching for key words now."

The program analyzed complex sounds by using advanced psychoacoustic modeling (the science behind how humans distinguish and understand the meaning of sound). Cutting through even levels of ambient noise, it would not only pick out key words like "bomb" or "Allah" but even subtle vocal changes that suggested anger or fear.

An agent wearing headphones yanked them off excitedly and pointed to the computer monitor at his station.

"Mr. Normand, look. On the screen the phrase "has great artillery" was flashing in big white letters.

Normand sighed. "That's '50s slang. It means boobs. The guy must be 80."

"Three cheers for Viagra!" said Malloy, coming up behind the boss. "We've identified the cell phone Nazeer used to contact New York. We'll have the point of origin pinpointed within four minutes."

"Now that's more like it. Any word on the New York cell?"

"A team raided it 12 minutes ago. Just missed them."

Normand buried his face in his hand.

"I guess I picked the wrong week to quit cocaine."

When he removed his hand he saw that Traci was staring at him.

"It's from
Airplane,
" he assured her.

"Yes, I know, I'm just surprised that ... never mind, sir."

* * *

In the bowels of the Pink Panther, Party was squirming to the thumping beat.

"Damn," she moaned. "It feels like a broomstick back there. Hey, are you going commando, Steve?" X remembered that he indeed hadn't had time to don any underwear and grunted in the affirmative.

She giggled again. "Naughty, naughty!"

Unexpectedly, Party bent forward at the waist, arching backward into him. Under other circumstances, X would have no objection, but now his face was exposed again - and, he observed with some dismay, Agent No. 3 was approaching.

X knew from the prominently displayed warning sign at the entrance that touching a dancer with his hands was a no-no, but risking a screech was necessary. He gently touched Party's arms and pulled her back until her shoulder blades mashed against his chest.. He buried his face in her mass of curly hair, so deep he could smell shampoo. So it wasn't a wig.

Through the red locks, X could see first the pants leg and then the whole body of the third agent. The giant of a man - who looked as if he could easily hurl X through a plate-glass window - stood stock still, slowly turning his head to survey the crowd.

Meanwhile the redhead was enthusiastically clenching her buns together.

"You're making me so goddamn horny," she claimed.

"I'm glad you enjoy your work," he gasped.

"Seriously, you're exactly my type."

He wondered what type that was - a full wallet?

Out of the corner of his eye, X saw the third agent striding straight at him. The big man was no more than four feet away when he abruptly stopped, put his finger to his earpiece and nodded. He spoke into his lapel and then, much to the identity thief's relief, he and his fellow agents retreated from the club as stealthily as they'd entered it.

Nine blocks away, the taxi carrying the bachelor-party quartet was being pulled over and surrounded by dozens of lawmen. The four occupants howled in drunken protest as they were dragged out and tossed to the ground. One of the agents roughly frisked the groom-to-be and arose brandishing the stolen cell phone.

"Where did you just come from?" the agent demanded, rolling the guy over and, shoving the muzzle of a shotgun up to the guy's nostrils. The terrified bridegroom looked at him blankly for a moment, then sputtered, "The Pink Panther."

The agent barked into a walkie talkie: "Units five and six, get back to the club, immediately. I repeat, get back to the club."

The car bearing the agents from the club, who were speeding toward the scene and had traveled four blocks, made a screeching U-turn.

Meanwhile, the dancer bounced up and down on X with gusto, like a teenybopper testing out a new pogo stick. X was biting his lower lip and fighting back the urge to climax. Fortuitously, at that moment the song wound down and the redhead looked over her shoulder expectantly. "Another dance?" she murmured.

X had held $100 in reserve.

"I want you to do something for me," he whispered.

"If you want any extras, you need to take me into a VIP room," she said with a lascivious grin. "Oh, Steve, baby, I'm really gonna rock your world."

What exactly comprised an "extra" X would never know. He waved one of the Ben Franklins in front of her greedy lime-green eyes.

"Is there another way out of here?" he asked. She hesitated, but the easy money was irresistible and she snatched it from his fingers.

"Sometimes a girl will get stalked by one of the ATMs. Y'know some loser who blows all his money on you - no offense meant - "

"None taken."

"And who falls in 'love' and wants to date you. There's a back exit in the dressing room so we can sneak out without getting hassled."

Before surrendering his last C note - leaving the stolen wallet empty - he whispered: "And there's one more thing."

Two minutes later, just as the agents burst into the club, Party bolted to her feet and screamed at the top of her lungs, "Raid!"

Pandemonium erupted in the den of inequity, with panicked half-naked girls darting in all directions like cockroaches surprised by a kitchen light. Plastered customers stumbled to their feet, knocking over chairs. Perhaps few of them knew what a "raid" might constitute in the post-burlesque-show era - but obviously, it couldn't be a good thing.

X had already snuck into the dressing room, where a skinny blonde sat with a pair of jeans around her ankles, attempting to pull them off. She hadn't applied her makeup yet and had the despondent demeanor of a teenage runaway.

"What the hell are you doing in here?' the girl demanded, covering her bra-clad bosom with surprising modesty and showing a mouthful of braces. "You're not allowed back here, dude."

"All hell has broken loose out there," he informed her. "The place is crawling with cops. I don't know about you, but I'm getting the hell out of here."

The girl cocked her head and listened to the shouts emanating from the club, then hurriedly yanked up her jeans and began buttoning them. Maybe she was 16, maybe 17, but there was no doubt she was underage.

X charged past the dancer, flung open the door and slipped out. He looked left and right and then - resisting the urge to run - hurried down the narrow alleyway. In about 30 seconds, he knew, a dozen scantily clad babes were about to spill out of the secret exit. That might certainly tend to draw attention to the egress.

As he burned the corner, he spied a roadblock up ahead. At least 15 agents, some in suits and others in flak jackets, were sprinting full throttle in the direction of the club.