Striper Assassin Read Online Free Page A

creature of the night, are you not?” says Adama, still smiling, looking at her as if making a quiet little joke. Tikki is used to his little jokes. They don’t come all that frequently, but when they do they always slide near the truth. In another man, she might consider that dangerous. Adama, though, is not just any man. “Go ahead,” he says. “Make a suggestion.”
    Tikki smiles vaguely, wryly. Where to go? Never the same place twice—that is the warning of instinct. “Someplace new.”
    Adama nods, just slightly, approvingly, and keys the limo’s intercom. “Club Penumbra.”
    “Yes, sir,” replies the voice of the chauffeur.
    Adama smiles contentedly as the limo glides smoothly away from the curb, turning in the direction of Center City, just minutes away.
    The club is on Tenth just north of Chinatown. Its real name is Penumbra East, alluding to the original Club Penumbra, which is located in Seattle. The crowd waiting on line at the front door extends halfway down the block toward Girard Street; in places the line is four and five deep.
    The limo swings in and stops at curbside. Scanning for trouble, Tikki steps out first. Adama follows. Together they cross the sidewalk toward the club entrance. Doormen single Tikki out with their eyes and move as if to block her, possibly to conduct a search. Her red-and black-striped face paint and bodyleather might be taken for Penumbra style, but the studs and spikes are definitely not.
    Adama motions the doormen back with a mere flick of the fingers. “No need,” he says, smiling. “No need.”
    Credsticks discreetly change hands.
    The doormen bow and scrape and usher them inside.
    A hostess in black synthleather and glowing neon strips waits in the dark interior. “Welcome to Penumbra East,” she says. “May I have your names, please?”
    “Fuchi,” Adama says, smiling. He glances sideways at Tikki as if to share a private joke. “Mister Fuchi.”
    Adama brushes briefly at his lapel, directing the eyes of the hostess to a pin bearing the corporate colors of Fuchi I.E., the multinational electronics giant. Obviously impressed, the hostess draws a quick breath. She looks surprised, off guard, and suddenly smells very anxious.
    Adama smiles.
    “Of course,” he explains, “you might say I’m traveling incognito tonight. Wakarimasu-ka?”
    “Yes of course,” the hostess says breathlessly. “Mister Fuchi. Wakarimasu.” She nods, she bows, she understands completely.
    “Good,” Adama says amicably. “Very good.”
    “May I show you to a table, Fuchi- sama ?”
    “Domo arigato,” Adama says, smiling, nodding faintly.
    “Do itashimashite,” the hostess replies, bowing deeply.
    Tikki refrains from any sort of comment. This business regarding Fuchi I.E. is a farce. Adama is no more a patriarch of Fuchi I.E. than is the fawning hostess. What he is, Tikki suspects, is a ranking Triad official, probably a Red Pole, or 426, in charge of enforcement. Certain things he has said in private suggest ties with the Green Circle Gang, a particularly vicious arm of the infamous 999 Society, controlled by Silicon Ma out of Hong Kong. This is interesting because Tikki’s mother once did some work for Silicon Ma himself. Perhaps the crime lord recommended Tikki to Adama…
    As a rule. Triads rarely hire outside help—the average gang boasts thousands of members—but there are always exceptions. The one thing Tikki does know is that her assassination of Ryokai Naoshi in the parking garage, as ordered by Adama, would suit the Green Circle Gang’s style just fine.
    If a Triad gang was intending to move into Philly, hitting the yakuza would be a good way to start. The Philadelphia-Camden sprawl is a kind of three-way split. Northern Philadelphia is the fractured territory, the Zone, constantly battled over by gangs: go-gangs and thrill gangs, ordinary street gangs, fleeting associations of skells and scum, humans and trogs, even elves. Strictly amateur stuff. South Philly