"Who's next," I said ironically. After all, Cale and Rhoades were my clients, and that would be me.

"You must be Ms. Slaughter," I said, stepping up to block them from the sightline of the archer on the catwalk. "I'm Vic Salem--glad you could make it."

"HAHAHAHAHA," she gargled. Keeping the crossbow centered on me, she ran her eyes over every defect in my clothing. "HAHAHAHAHAHA," she expectorated again, shaking her head in disbelief.

I fought the inexplicable urge to check that I hadn't peed down my leg. "I congratulate you on your ability to gain my attention here on BOOZER-CON night. By the way, how did you manage to sneak the weapon in? I can't detect any sign of a bra, um, holster." Her eyes narrowed.

When I paused to compose the perfect urbane phrase that would charm me into her heart rather than her arrow into mine, I was interrupted by a voice from the stage.

"Oh, what a horrible uncultured laugh that woman has," it purred (countered by an "Elitist!" from one of the more quick-to-recover revelers). I was astonished to see that it appeared to come from the silky Persian enthroned atop an amplifier. In her sultry yet resonant vibrato, she addressed the young bald man setting up the equipment, "Surely she can be banned during my aria." Not often you see a percussionist ventriloquist. Apparently, KS never had. The poor man's laser show of smoke-diffused reflections from the jewels repeating "Avid" around her neck lasted only briefly. KS screeched, a sound even more more hideous than her cackle, flipped the conveniently located breaker behind her, and disappeared as the stage area plunged into darkness.

You would think that a villain courteous enough to call herself "Slaughter" could stick around to explain all her nefarious plans until my friend, deus ex machina, arrived. On the other hand, there is something to be said for a case that lasts long enough for us to learn the whole story and not be required to return any of our retainer.

I headed for the back entrance quickly, but made little progress before the alcohol-fueled crowd resumed its raucous milling. A table of women slightly older than AU's usual habitues began chanting "Marie! Marie! Marie!" I was puzzled that the line of men heading for the back rivaled that for a Powder Room at a pro-wrestling match. Exiting nearly first, I heard only snatches of the opening act as the door swung in and out with clumps of other men. "Breech ... 2 centimeters ... embarrassed and she let him live ... no anesthetics ... broke the nurse's arm ... recommend basketball ..." Now, I've lived on Meen Street and streets like it all my life. I've seen all the blood and gore of senseless violence and open heart surgery, and heard all the sad stories and bad stories of all the little people's lives. But some things are just too much to ask a man to take. Indeed, as the last wave escaped, only three men were left in the bar. Andi was still convincing our clients that throwing herself at them to get them under cover means something entirely different than if it were spelled with an "s." Jeff was oblivious, entranced in conversation with Katy. I'm sure they were just plotting the next protest at Borders. Really.

Having decided to wait for Andi to join me once she had subdued our clients, I leaned against the railing. If only I had known that there was a fertile clue hidden among the comedian's mad railings about geneology, knitting, and male insensitivity, perhaps my decision would have been different.

My eyelid had begun to twitch with the realization that Andi was going to politely sit through an opening act more prolonged than the average labor when I felt a cold damp nudge at my ankle. "Oh, hi, Lassie. What's the matter? Didn't Pat know she could take you in there?" I straightened to reach for the door. (Even we toughest of PI's have a soft spot for at least one improbable critter.) The dachshund huffed, flattening one ear and distending the veins in the other for a look of disdain rivaling Spock's.

Lassie slinkied down the stairs and treated me to one impatient bark and a heartrending whine. Having no choice once he said it like that, I followed him as he snaked past zalaart. I took a more circuitous path since zalaart had progressed to the hebephrenic mumbling that either presaged or typified his waking state. Surely that accounts for the effort it took to rejoin him; it had been at least an hour since my latest injury. In addition, the fun-house mirror distorted dog snuffled along, ears streaming in the wind, with amazing speed considering feet attached directly to his shoulders.

The eery feeling of being followed by some scummy wannabe anxious to steal my bon mots and coopt my best cases was stronger than ever that evening. I knew better than to look back. Not only had I never spotted the loser, but it always seemed to make the streetlight behind me go out.

Eventually we entered the industrial district and Lassie's tail began to beat in counterpoint to his pace. Then he popped effortlessly through a hole beneath the fence at an abandoned warehouse. I contend that his namesake would have known that I couldn't fit through a tunnel he'd dug.

Kicking myself, I recognized it as the former "Gilbert's Spas." Reluctance to confront the neon green suit, eau de sushi aftershave, and yet another rendition of "I Did It My Way" was no excuse. A true professional braves more than "Crooners' Inn" to interview someone who might be a veritable font of information.

Yes, yes, I knew I still had to figure out some way to get over or through that damned chain-link fence. My handy-dandy wire cutters were still in my trunk, so I deftly scrambled over, collecting very few additions to my fashion statement from the rusty barbed wire at the top. For once, my brief delay and the plagiarist's approach proved fortunate. The demise of the latest streetlight revealed the dim flickering sneaking through the splintered plywood covering of a window. My trusty crowbar was nestled with the wire cutters, but the wooden hasp anchoring the padlock on the door was rotten enough to yield to my incredible strength and agonized groans.

I entered cautiously. The violet-scented candles surrounding a cracked hot tub nearly suffocated me anyway. Pat was bound hand and foot to exposed pipes. Water still dripped from the roof into the now slimy encrustrations coating what remained of the porcelain. I rushed to untie her, for once not regretting all those excruciating cub scout camping trips and practice with knots.

"It's ok, Pat, it's me, Vic," I reassured her as I flicked away her gag and blindfold. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

"I don't know," she said, as I used one of her hairpins to spring the velvet handcuffs. "They grabbed me from behind and blindfolded me right when a streetlight went out." I proceeded to the silk scarf on her left ankle. "They didn't say anything all the way here." The bastards had only used the silk to disguise the wet leather underneath. "I was able to peek below the blindfold just a little while they tied me up." The final noose felt like fur. "One of them was wearing hip waders. Then this mole shaped like Texas started vibrating on the other one's hand and they left."

Freed, she leapt to her feet, sobbing, "I knew you'd come to rescue me."

I held my arms out for the grateful, if muddy, embrace that I was taught to endure in detective school. "Such a good boy, Lassie, good boy. Even a hurricane wouldn't keep you from me. 'Oo's Mommy's best little doxie woxie ... "

It was my own fault. Now, you know that I'm not one of those troglodytes that think women are only good for one thing and it ain't detecting. After all these years, rescuing a damsel in distress still takes a smidgin more of my attention than it really should. I didn't notice the faint footsteps and the shadow looming over me until it was too late.