“I hope so,” Stacey said.
“You’re not worried about Carasco, are you? The guy is a pussy.”
“I’m not worried about Tony. I’m worried about people he might know. I think he set up that young DA so he would have an alibi when his wife was killed. If I’m right, Tony hired the guy who killed her.”
Tepper’s face darkened. “You think I can’t take care of some meth heads he sent to beat up his wife?”
“No, Karl, but I had Tony wrapped around my finger, and I could have talked him into giving us the money.”
“That would have taken time, and I want you back in the Bay, working. Now get naked, and let’s get in bed. I want to celebrate.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
When Amanda was a block away from the Jungle Club, Robin saw a naked neon dancer twitching back and forth on a sign that promised GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS. Moments later, Amanda parked two spots down from several Harleys in front of a square, squat building whose garish pink-and-green walls were decorated with palm trees, parrots, and bare-breasted hula dancers.
“You’re taking me to a strip club?” asked Robin, who had never been in one and considered them to be sexist cesspools.
Amanda laughed. “The ladies are not strippers. They’re exotic dancers. Freedom of expression is protected by the Constitution. That’s important to remember if you ever represent the owner of a gentlemen’s club that the government wants to close down.”
Then Amanda’s smile disappeared. “Before we go in, there are a few things you’ve got to remember. We’re going to meet with Martin Breach. He owns the Jungle Club. Martin doesn’t look it, but he is very dangerous. I’m bringing you along because you’re Joe’s lead counsel, but you have to let me run the meeting. Don’t say anything unless I tell you to. If Martin asks you a question, do what you tell your witnesses to do; give the shortest answer possible, then stop.”
Robin frowned. “Okay.”
Amanda put a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Believe me. This is for your protection.”
The bouncer at the door recognized Amanda and let the women into the dimly lit interior, where the overamped sounds of a ZZ Top song slammed into Robin like a runaway train. Amanda wound between tables packed with males gawking at a blonde with breasts the size of cannonballs who was rotating around a pole. Some of the men stopped staring at the dancer long enough to leer at Amanda and Robin. A man patted Robin on the ass, but she restrained her violent impulses, worried that the club owner would not tell them what they needed to know if she put one of his customers in the hospital.
Breach’s office was in the back of the building at the end of a short hall. The massive guard at the office door was one of many clients that Breach had referred to Amanda and her father over the years.
“Here to apply for a job, ladies?” the bouncer joked.
“In your dreams, Tully,” Amanda answered with a smile. “Is Martin in?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s his mood?”
“It’s always good when you visit.”
The guard opened the door, and Robin followed Amanda into a tiny office decorated with pictures of naked women and an out-of-date calendar from a motor oil company. The furniture was rickety and secondhand because Breach wanted the club to look run-down so the IRS would not get a true picture of the money that was laundered through it. Breach was also paranoid. He had his office swept for bugs every day, and he ordered his dancers to disrobe to outrageously loud music to foil eavesdropping attempts by the DEA, FBI, or Portland police.
Breach had started out in the trenches breaking legs for Benny Dee, before staging a coup during which Benny disappeared, never to be seen again. Now Breach ran the most efficient and ruthless criminal organization in the Pacific Northwest.
Portland’s most violent citizen was a shade under six feet tall, but his chubby legs and chunky upper body made him seem shorter. Thinning sandy hair, drab brown eyes, and a pale, vampire-like complexion made him look like a failed used car salesman. Today, the crime lord was wearing the type of tweed jacket with leather elbow patches a college professor might own, over an Aloha shirt and lime-green polyester slacks. His ghastly taste in clothes added to an impression of ineptitude that was a disguise for a genius IQ and a truly psychotic personality. Many of his rivals only figured this out when they found themselves strapped to a table, listening to Breach tell off-color jokes just before he went to work on them with a chain saw.
Breach flashed a big smile when he saw Amanda. Amanda couldn’t help returning the smile. She had mixed feelings about Breach and no illusions, but she knew he cared for her in a weird way and had helped her survive more than one life-and-death situation.
“Long time no see,” the gangster said.
“That’s a good thing, Martin. It seems like the only time we get together is when you or a friend are facing serious jail time or my life is in danger.”
Breach spread his hands. “I’m leading a virtuous life, so you must be in trouble.”
“I’m safe and sound, but I need your help. This is Robin Lockwood, my cocounsel in a death penalty case.”
Breach looked at Robin. “I’d be glad to help this little lady since she helped me make a few grand when she KO’d Mendez. A roundhouse kick to the head, followed by a wicked left hook. Am I right?”
Robin grinned. “You are.”
Breach turned back to Amanda. “What do you need?”
“Some information that will help us with a death penalty case defense.”
“The guy who offed the judge’s wife,” Breach said.
Amanda wasn’t surprised that Martin knew she was involved in Joe’s case. Breach had informants everywhere and knew about anything that involved crime in Oregon, which was why she was visiting him.
“We think he’s innocent,” Amanda said.
“Don’t you think all of your clients are
