"Think you could call me Martin?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Fine by me. May I call you Susan?"

"No."

Tanner had asked if Susan would have coffee with him after the meeting. To work out the details of the investigation, he alleged. Perhaps. But Susan was damned if she was going to visit Happy-Happy-Niceland with a federal agent who was determined to put one of her partners in prison, even if Juba actually was guilty of something or other, which was an open question as far as she was concerned. Still, she reminded herself, it was at least politic to play nicely with Special Agent Tanner, since every suit in the Agency seemed to be very interested in what she was going to do.

"Look, I wish the circumstances were different," he said. He may have been regretful. "I understand how this must feel."

"It feels as if I've been handed a ticking bomb and then shoved into a closet."

"I'm sure it must." Tanner leaned forward over the table, inviting intimacy.

Susan reflected that he was quite professional in his use of body language--obviously well trained--but the wisdom she'd won in perpetuating a thousand false intimacies told her that his movement was calculated to win her support. All fine, as far as that went. It was his job. It was her job too. But Tanner was disadvantaged at body language because he was a man--he did not or could not conceal the interest he had in her as a woman. That interest could be problematic.

"And yes, I'll cooperate with the investigation, if that's what you're worried about," she told him. She resisted a sudden urge to duck her head and look at him up and under. Where the hell had that come from?

"Of course you have to," he said.

"Of course."

"It's the right thing to do."

"Sometimes the right thing isn't the only thing."

"Then you have regrets, Agent Hanaczeski?" He smiled.

"Everyone has regrets."

Susan had seen him earlier that night when she was working in the Four Aces--not one of the regulars at the rail, nor one of her particular fans who made a point of being there when she danced (some of whom she welcomed and actually liked) but a solitary at a table near the exit.

She'd noticed him only because he spent most of his time drinking, riveted, it seemed by each new girl who worked with the pole. In an environment redolent of sweat and smoke, funky with aging sin, his behavior was not unusual. Married men who frequented the Four Aces often began their repeated visits by first hanging out on the fringes, afraid of being recognized--or, perhaps, afraid of the compulsions that drove them into the Four Aces and its tumescent odors of male lust and strobed promises of untouchable woman flesh. Tantalus in Michigan.

Working the pole at the Four Aces juxtaposed strangely with the rest of Susan's life, which (admit it) contributed to its appeal. And the money was good--for a student working two jobs to pay her tuition and rent, the three or four hundred dollars she made in a six hour shift made the difference between poverty and uneasy ease. The Four Aces was in a relatively decent neighborhood, and the owner was adamant about keeping to particular standards; not something recognizeable to the bluenose crowd or to the regulars' wives, true, but standards nevertheless--the Four Aces was emphatically not a front operation for working girls, and anyone caught using drugs or even suspected of using drugs was instantly fired. As strip clubs go, it was very respectable. A family business. All Susan had to do was to show her body and remain unapproachable. Fantasy.

It was a neighborhood place. Regulars knew the owner, knew the girls (at least to speak to) and tended to be very protective of what they thought of as their personal club. In fact, the owner had never had to hire a bouncer--creeps were unceremoniously ejected by the regulars, and sometimes slightly damaged.

Susan's avocation with Taekwondo started when she was working the pole at the Four Aces. It began, as most lifelong commitments do, purely by chance--she happened to be walking past her soon-to-be dojo when a class was in progress, and she stopped to watch through the window. She was soon inside, signing up for a month's trial membership.

It was, she thought, a chance to learn some new moves that she might incorporate into her routine, and a way to increase her flexibility--but it turned out to be much more, and Susan's interest in Taekwondo evolved into obsession. She never did end up using Taekwondo to augment her dancing. The first time she incorporated a form using double nunchukas into a dance, she thought it went well--until the end. There were none of the expected applause or whistles, only an ominous silence. Girls with whirling weapons did not appeal to the regulars. They were, it seemed, traditionalists. This was years before Quentin Tarantino made "Kill Bill".

Charles Bohannan--the name of the man Susan killed (after which a "name" became irrelevant, since he was dead as pork in a parking lot)--had not been in the club when Susan made her one-night's debut of martial arts at the Four Aces. Consequently, he didn't know that Susan was not another easily-handled victim to stuff in his van and hog-tie for his own perverted delectation and disposal. And so when she left the club on that rainy night, he made a grab for her, as he'd grabbed at least two other women from the darkened parking lots of other clubs in other towns. He never even touched her before the blades of her hands slammed into his neck and flattened his carotid arteries.

His eyes held, briefly, (looking into Susan's) the surprise of a road-killed rabbit before he was transported out of the world by a---girl.

Special Agent Tanner gestured to Commissioner Hartley. He should proceed.

"Agent Hanaczeski, we're looking into a pattern of...discrepancies."

"Discrepancies, sir?"

"A departmental audit has revealed that certain evidence in past cases associated with your regional office has gone missing between the disposition of the court cases and final disposal of the evidence. Mainly drugs and money. Some small, valuable items as well...diamonds, gold jewelry, expensive watches, and so forth. Do you have any knowledge of this?"

"Perhaps I should contact an attorney, sir."

"No, no. You misunderstand. You are not being questioned, nor are you suspected of any wrongdoing. We simply wanted to know whether you'd heard anything about it."

"Nothing."

"That's fine then. As a matter of fact, you're pretty much eliminated from suspicion, since the evidence that's gone missing began to disappear long before you were ever assigned here. It began five or six years ago."

"That excludes Ashe, of course--since he's here, I'd imagine you've come to the same conclusion."

"That's correct. Naturally, that also excludes Agent Juan Torres."

"Leaving Joel Ambrose, Dale Jubason, and Sasq--I mean Larry Johnson."

"Yes. Now--without going into the particulars of our investigation so far, we've excluded Joel Ambrose and Larry Johnson. They are no longer suspects in this matter. However, since they have been working closely with the target for ten years, we prefer that they are not aware of our investigation as it progresses."

"Your target being Dale Jubason."

"Yes."

"May I ask a question?"

"Yes."

"Why wasn't--my apologies, Ashe--the SAC in this office aware of these discrepancies?"

"The disappearances occurred between the time that your SAC had custody in your evidence lockers, and the time that the evidence was relinquished to the central office evidence holding facility. He never had knowledge of the disappearances, since his books balanced. The losses occurred when the evidence was transferred."

"So you believe Agent Jubason is responsible for these thefts?"

"Strongly."

"How is he doing it--if he is doing it?"

"We don't know."

"That's where we need your help, Agent Hanaczeski." FBI's Tanner. His dark eyes seemed to scrutinize Susan carefully--even a bit brazenly. "We need someone who knows Jubason, who works closely with him, and who has a reason to be around him to monitor the target's movements and activities very carefully, watching for any suspicious activity. Any outside person might alert Jubason to the fact that someone was watching him."

"So I'm supposed to investigate one of my partners at the same time that I'm conducting investigations of drug trafficking."

"You're not alone," said Miller--emphatically Detective Sergeant Miller of Internal Affairs, Susan remembered. Some men are married to their titles.

"Meaning?"

"We've recruited Agent Juan Torres as well."

Perhaps that explained why Juan had been so silent and uncommunicative at the drunken "Debriefing" the other night.

"Does Juan know that I know that he is investigating Juba?"

"He will."

Another thought occurred to Susan.

"Ashe," she said, turning to him, "is it an accident that Juba and Juan have been assigned with me to investigate Prince and the Pauper--I mean, the Ronald and Donald case--Snake and Crow?"

"No, it's not an accident."

"We've been waiting for a case like this to come up," said Tanner. "There is a strong likelihood that the case will produce large quantities of drugs or money. We'd like it to proceed to its conclusion, and then follow the money and drugs after it's taken into evidence."

"I suppose," said Susan, "that you'd like it to go as far as possible to up the stakes. After all, a few ounces of cocaine and a few thousand dollars might produce a strong conviction, but won't give you the amounts you want to tempt your target into stealing."

"That would be optimal, yes."

"You know that stringing these things out only increases the likelihood that something will go bad on us, don't you?"

"We know. Obviously, we don't want to make things more dangerous for you, but at the same time...."

Susan nodded. She crafted her expression to mirror their expectations that she was thinking about the implications of what they'd told her.

Instead, her inner eye turned to the expression in her assailant's eyes in the parking lot outside the Four Aces, when he felt the death Susan had given him with her hands--an expression incised in her memory as if chiseled there. He hadn't seen it coming.

"Juba,"

"Uh-huh?"

It was the first chance Susan had to talk to Juba alone--Juan was in the back of the van, debriefing Mindy the snitch.

"Have you ever worked with a woman undercover before?" Susan dropped the magazine on her .380 and racked the slide, clearing the chamber. She replaced it with her duty weapon, a nine-millimeter Sig. The Sig had much more stopping power, but produced a big bulge under her clothing. It wasn't the right stuff for an undercover buy.

"A few times. Why?"

"You called me when I was in Snake's apartment. I don't appreciate it."

"Just checking in to see if you were okay."

"Did I give the go-bad signal? Did I ask you to check up on me?"

"No you didn't."

"Would you have checked up on me if I were a man?"

"That's not fair."

"This isn't about what's fair. Listen--" Susan needed to make this clear--needed Juba to understand that he'd put her at risk with good intentions. "I don't need to be distracted when I'm working. You distracted me. I wasn't paying attention. When Crow showed up at the door, he surprised me. I might have heard him sooner if I hadn't been talking to you."

"I--"

"I know. I don't want to hear that you're sorry. I know you called to see if I was okay, but you called because I'm a woman, and you wanted to protect me. That's nice, okay? Good for you. But it's not going to happen again. Or I'll work with someone else."

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry."

"I can take care of myself."

"Okay, already."

After they drove into the sally port at the jail, Juan and Juba escorted Mindy back to booking. Susan left the van where it was and retrieved her own vehicle from the parking lot.

When Susan returned to the Agency, Ashe was waiting.

"How'd it go?"

"No snags. I bought an ounce." She held out the bagged and tagged bindle for him to see. "Snake wants to do business. We'll call him in a couple of days and schedule another buy."

"The guys do all right?"

"Sure. Everything went fine. We got some good audio."

"No problems?"

"None. What's the matter with you?"

Ashe seemed very solemn. Even nervous--which contrasted badly with his usual surfer-boy aplomb.

"You're about to find out."

Of the three men seated in Ashe's office, Susan recognized only Commissioner Exeter Hartley, the Agency head. She'd never talked to him in person, nor had she wanted to.

"Commissioner Hartley. Jake Miller, Internal Affairs Division. Martin Tanner, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

"Commissioner. Mr. Miller, Agent Tanner." She nodded to each in turn. She had learned to show no apprehension, had schooled herself to provide those watching closely no tells, but her center froze a little just the same.

"Detective Sergeant Miller."

"Sergeant."

"Special Agent Susan Hanaczeski, " Agent Tanner recited; "Born Detroit, Michigan, three-fifteen-seventy-five. Mother--Janine Hanaczeski. Father not listed."

"Father unknown," Susan replied.

"Father unknown. Attended Concordia High School, 3.0 average, graduated in the upper third of her class. Attended Stapledon Community College in Detroit, majoring in Criminal Justice, beginning in 1993. While attending college, worked full-time at various jobs, and part-time as..."

"Say it. It isn't a secret. It's in my personnel file."

"An exotic dancer at the Four Aces Cocktail Lounge."

"Yes."

"A stripper," he continued. He glanced at her. Perhaps he wanted to see how she'd held up.

"Go on. You're not finished."

"No, I'm not. On seven-sixteen-ninety-four, left the Four Aces Cocktail Lounge at three-fifteen AM, and was assaulted in the parking lot."

Darkness. Rain. A large white man suddenly opening the door of a pickup truck, lunging at her...

"Testimony was given that she defended herself against said attacker and resisted vigorously..."

Reaction. The moves, known and practiced a hundred times. Reflexive. Inevitable.

"Which resulted in the death of the attacker," she said. "This isn't a secret. I killed a man with my hands. A two-handed blow to the throat that crushed both carotid arteries. Fatal."

"Fatal. You're a remarkable woman, Agent Hanaczeski."

"Thank you. Now. You all know something about me. What can I do for you?"

The door flew open. Susan's immediate impression of Snake (or Crow) caused her natural wariness to throttle back a bit--this wasn't someone who found women physically threatening. His movements were casual. He didn't bother to put himself on guard. He probably believed that his size gave him any advantage over a woman he might need.

Mindy tested a trembling smile. Obviously, Susan would have to get rid of her as soon as possible. She'd bought into Snake's theater. And she couldn't act worth a damn.

"Hey Snake,"

Mindy's paramour grunted at her with piggy indifference (been there, done that), and frankly estimated Susan as if she were a slab of fresh meat. A funky mix comprised of stale tobacco, skunky weed, and a musky unidentified understink offended Susan's nostrils. Snake and Crow's cleaning woman must have had the month off.

"You must be Snake," said Susan.

He looked at her. Snake's eyes were nominally hazel and possessed a shallowness she'd seen before--brutality and covetousness created such eyes. Hundreds of minor criminal acts and criminal stupidities created eyes like these. Lemur's eyes.

He said nothing, looming. The strong silent type. Snake had the fat cartoon chest, simian arms, and budding acne of a steroidal bodybuilder. His long wavy hair was carefully moussed. It was good to see. Vanity is a lever to move the vain.

Susan ignored Snake's corny message of jailhouse menace. Who'd this guy think he was--Don Corlione? He'd probably wet his pants when the handcuffs went on. Susan mentally marked him: You're mine.

"Mindy's told me about you. I'm flattered to meet you. I've never met a really big player before."

Susan smiled at Snake up and under, all girly.

You're mine.

He fell for it. Snake was not, after all, a complicated animal--just a violent and narcissistic one. He smiled a brownish smile in that appeasing, doggish way men have when the fur of their ego is stroked in the right direction--but he quickly recovered. He was the man, after all, and a man has to keep the bitches under control.

"Don't waste my time. Did you bring the money?"

"Yeah. Nine hundred for an ounce. Mindy told me."

"It's a thousand. I don't know you. Nine hundred for the next one after I decide you're for real." Tough talk.

"Mindy, why don't you wait for me in the car? Snake and I need to talk a little business. That okay with you, Snake?"

He nodded. Good. Get Mindy out of the picture. She'd been told to walk around the corner to the van where Juba and Juan were monitoring the buy.

Now Susan was alone.

"You mind if I sit down?" she asked. "I've been on my feet all day. I waitress at the Pancake Palace."

"Before you sit down, you wanna see my snake?"

She hoped he wasn't being euphemistic.

"Sure, I guess."

He gestured for her to follow. In what turned out to be Snake's revolting bedroom, redolent with the musky stink she'd noticed earlier, he pointed to a giant glass tank that held an enormous serpent.

"Burmese python. I raised him from a baby. Fed him pinkies. He's a twelve-footer now."

Susan examined the snake with what she hoped was appropriate appreciation. Susan was indifferent to snakes, but preferred to be on less than intimate terms with them.

"What are pinkies?"

"Frozen baby mice. You wanna hold him?"

"No thanks. I'll just look at him. He's a beauty. Really."

Susan's cell phone purred.

"Just a sec," she said.

"Mindy's back in the van," said Juba. "Everything's copacetic here. You okay?"

"I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry--I'll stop at the store on my way home and pick up your adult diapers."

"Just don't go petting any snakes," said Juba.

"That's not really something I had in mind."

"Scaly ones or furry ones."

"I won't forget."

"Well, we'll be here."

"That's certainly a relief."

"Bye, sweetcakes. We think you're hot."

"Bye." She closed the phone. "My mom," she said by way of explanation.

"Hey, Mindy was right--you're not ugly."

Susan flinched at the unexpected voice behind her. Obviously this was Crow--a cookie-cutter version of his beefcake brother, distinguishable by his loup-garrou's grin, which Susan could see was habitual.

"Mindy was right. You boys sure are a pair."

Snake wasn't all that pleased to see his brother. He'd dibs'd this one.

"Let's get our business finished, okay? We can all talk some other time."

"Fine with me. You got the ounce?"

"Come on out to the living room."

When he produced it, Susan looked the chunky, golf-ball-sized bindle over carefully. Chunky and crystalline--obviously very pure.

"You wanna sample it?"

"I never mix business with pleasure, boys. Where I come from, we use one of these."

She showed them a tiny bottle of bleach.

"That's what professionals do. And I'm a professional. I know you guys are too."

Snake and Crow nodded. They were professionals.

Susan took a tiny sample of the powder and dropped it into the bleach.

"See these streaks on the side of the glass? It shows that this stuff is really pure, really great. Yeah, I'm buying. And I'll buy more from you later if you've got more of the same."

She gave them the ten hundreds.

"Think we can do business?"

"Sure thing," said Snake. He gave her the same estimating look he'd given her earlier. "Y'know, after you get to know me better, maybe you might change your mind about mixing business and pleasure."

Not hardly.

"Could be. Anything can happen."

"How soon you want more?"

She owned him.

"I'll call. Can I get your number?"

She left without incident, even though Crow patted her ass on the way out--which could have cost him his arm under other circumstances, and could have created a mess if he'd touched the .380 in her belt instead. Maybe she'd laid the charm on a little thick.

Juan and Juba had sequestered Mindy in the back of the van.

"Donald and Ronald Ashcraft," said Juan.

"Donald and Ronald? Are you kidding?"

"Snake's Donald. Crow's Ronald. I kid you not."

"Man oh man. If it's nature or nurture, I guess Nature wins. Twin dope dealers...." said Juba.

"Or nurture."

"Yeah."

"Let's dump Mindy off at the jail, okay?" said Susan. "I've seen about enough of her to last me a while. Let's make sure they know she doesn't get any phone calls for the forseeable future. I don't trust her not to rat us off. She's not a deep thinker."

After they dropped Mindy off, Susan wanted to go home and take four showers.