Couples, gay and straight, walked Columbus, heading for the restaurants and cafes further up the street. In Lawrence Ferlinghetti's City Lights Bookstore, students, tourists and professional browsers shuffled among the shelves. Some hoped to spot the shade of Jack Kerouac spooking through the stacks; others were simply looking for a spy novel to while away a transcontinental flight. Asian women trudged along the sidewalks, bearing paper sacks filled with intriguing goods. Winos and wetbrains, following the course of least resistance, scuffed downhill, holding out blackened hands to anyone with change to spare. On the opposite side of Broadway, the barker at the world-famous Condor Club tried to lure passersby inside. He was having little luck. In deference to the tenor of the times, the once racy Condor Club no longer featured topless dancers. Instead, the former home of the legendary Carol Doda now ran a semi-respectable "Barbary Coast Revue." They had even painted lingerie on the giant illuminated cartoon portrait of Ms. Doda.

      Joey found it all very depressing.

      He had been on edge all day, more so since his meeting with Alison. It had required the last reserves of his patience to put in a shift at the Picture Palace. Luckily, Patterson never stayed late at the shop on the weekends. He liked to be in his jammies as early as possible. With no interference from his boss, Joey had closed the place at ten o'clock.

      When he hadn't been mulling over the puzzle of Tiffany Wellington and Razor Cut , Joey's thoughts during the long day had turned to Alison. Man, it had been good to see her again! Once they had been the closest of friends; now they rarely communicated. It was his fault entirely, he knew.

      The fact was, though, that Alison reminded him of things he'd just as soon forget.

      Joey crossed Broadway and walked east for two blocks. He noticed that many of the adult clubs, those that had once advertised "totally erotic love acts" and "he & she shows," were now closed. The Uptight Eighties had done them in. All but the most dedicated deves preferred to stay at home with their private tape libraries.

      It took him but a moment to locate The Hot Spot. It was at the end of the block, a curtained doorway guarded by the requisite sleazoid barker. This guy looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy in a dingy camel hair coat.

      "Lovely ladies performing unbelievable acts. Right inside. No cover charge. See the hottest show in San Francisco. You wouldn't want to miss it," he said to the utterly empty sidewalk, rubbing his blobby white hands together. Behind him, a poster at least a decade old displayed the dubious charms of a wan blonde with breasts the size of volleyballs.

      "Beautiful women doing things you won't believe. They're right in here, and there's no, absolutely no, cover charge." The barker spied Joey and flashed a yellow grin. "What do you say, sport? Ready for some of the most amazing action west of the Rockies?"

      "Is Tiffany Wellington performing here tonight?"

      "That's what the sign says, chum. The last performance of an exclusive three-night engagement. Something you wouldn't want to miss."

      "I can imagine, When's the next show start?"

      "Eleven sharp. Get a good seat while there's still plenty."

      "Admission's free?"

      "You got it. The best deal in town. Step inside, and Candy will show you to your seat." The barker eyed a family of lost tourists. He shouted, "It's not for the kids, but Mom and Dad can have a sizzling good time at The Hot Spot. Step right up!" The family stared in horror and fled across the street.

      Joey pushed aside the red velvet curtain and entered The Hot Spot.

      The interior decor appeared to have been put together by the stage crew of a high school production of Gypsy. It relied heavily on flocked scarlet wallpaper, gold braiding and cheap reproductions of "erotic masterpieces." The ceiling, painted jet black, sparkled with silver glitter. The bar was a magnificent mahogany thing, equipped with brass rails. No customers seemed allowed near it. Large speakers, positioned at the corners of the ceiling, blasted out "The Heart of Rock and Roll."

      Candy turned out to be a short, top-heavy black woman in a striped tube top, leather miniskirt and fishnet stockings. With a crooked finger, she beckoned Joey to step further into the club. He followed her up a series of landings, taking care not to trip in the darkness. Candy pulled aside a black beaded curtain and ushered him into the auditorium proper. She directed him to a table on the aisle, not five feet from the stage. Joey obediently sat in the lightweight wooden chair.

      "What'll you have to drink?" said Candy, tugging at her tube top and squirming in discomfort.

      "A Diet Coke, please."

      She looked at him and shrugged. "Whatever."

      Candy went away. Joey stuck his legs into the aisle, hoping no one would fall over them, but not wanting to keep them crammed between the table and the stage. He took a look around.

      On stage, a small-breasted brunette heaved her pelvis in time to the Huey Lewis tune. She cupped her breasts and waggled them at Joey. Her heart did not seem to be in it.

      The Hot Spot's two hundred seats were probably never completely filled, but tonight it held a respectable hundred and fifty or so. A group of fraternity brothers whooped it up in one corner, ad libbing obnoxious comments and punching one another with simian good humor. A dozen old men slouched at their scattered tables, sucking their dentures and remembering better days. Behind Joey, three Middle Eastern brothers yattered at each other in Arabic.

      The song ended. The brunette scooped up her discarded halter top and departed the stage amid a volley of polite applause. A new musical selection began, but no one moved toward the stage.

      Candy returned with two glasses of cola clogged with heaps of ice. She stepped over Joey's outstretched legs and deposited the load on the table.

      "That'll be thirteen fifty."

      Joey wasn't certain he'd heard her correctly. "How much?"

      "Thirteen dollars and fifty cents."

      "Are you out of your mind? For a buck-twenty's worth of soda?"

      Candy picked up from the table a small, folded piece of pasteboard which Joey had neglected to read. She explained, "All drinks are six seventy-five each. We've got a two drink minimum."

      "Forget it! Take them back!"

      Candy shook her head. "They've been poured. You gotta pay for them."

      "Says who?"

      "Says Harvey." She pointed to a side of beef in a grey suit leaning against one wall and cracking its knuckles. "You want to discuss it with him?"

      Joey did not. Harvey looked as if he worked out by wrestling demolition cranes. "OK, I'll pay. But I want you to know I consider this the worst rip-off I've ever encountered."

      "Take it up with the Better Business Bureau."

      "I may just do that." Joey rummaged through his pockets, depositing crumpled tissues, wads of bills, piles of change and assorted pens on the tabletop. He picked through the mess and finally put together $13.50, most of it in dirty ones and quarters. Candy watched with unconcealed disgust.

      "There you go. You don't have to count it."

      "Thanks, moneybags." Candy flounced off in a huff.

      Another woman clambered onto the stage, to the tune of "Burning Down the House." She executed a bump-and-grind step not much more explicit that the average aerobics workout tape. As the song progressed, she peeled herself out of her black leotard and then climbed atop a white piano trimmed with red velvet and leftover Christmas tinsel. Someone switched on a strobe light in an attempt to add some mystery to the proceedings.

      Joey sipped his soft drink and sulked. He knew these joints were rip-offs but never suspected a scam of this magnitude. Where were all the "unbelievable acts" the guy outside had been yammering about? This stuff wouldn't offend the local PTA.

      Joey leaned back so he could speak to the Arab brothers. He hoped they understood English. "Hey, do you know what time it is?"

      A brother peered at his watch. "Eleven fifteen."

      "Thanks." Where the hell was Tiffany?

      It took the woman on stage three songs to disrobe completely. Eventually she relinquished the stage and scurried down the aisle. The tape player shut off and someone screamed into a live microphone, "Ladies and gentlemen, here she comes, the lovely lady you've been waiting for, that gorgeous star of stage and screen, the incredible Tiffany Wellington!"

      The crowd went bananas as the much-anticipated Tiffany entered at the side of the auditorium.

      It was the same woman as in Razor Cut . Joey was instantly certain of it. Same raven hair. Same bee-stung mouth. Same lavender eyes. A tight black dress hugged her hips and thrust her ample bosom up and out. Around her creamy brown shoulders, she draped a blue fox stole. She strutted up the runway to the stage on treacherous heels.

      Tiffany did not enter alone. A tall, elegantly dressed man with closely-cropped silver hair held her hand and guided her toward the stage. The man looked about seventy, but he moved with assurance, as if escorting a beloved daughter down a wedding aisle.

      The man stopped at a table reserved for him, kissed Tiffany's hand and sat down. Tiffany stepped onto the stage and launched into her act.

      She was a real crowd-pleaser, no doubt about it. Equipped with a body of perfect proportion and muscle tone, she contorted herself into positions both seemingly impossible and intensely erotic. She thrust and twisted and bumped and ground until the crowd was about to go over the top with lust.

      The act had its desired effect on Joey. He sat directly beneath one of the air-conditioning units, but he felt as if his skin were on fire.

      Tiffany gave her black dress one strong tug, and it fell away, freeing her breasts. She rubbed them with the fox stole. Bending down, she wiggled her well-sculpted ass at the college kids, who whooped and whistled.

      Joey watched her, simultaneously replaying Razor Cut in his mind. He scanned every inch of her body, comparing it with the skin exposed in the mysterious videotape. Nothing looked different. The hips held the same curve. The breasts were the same size and shape. No moles or scar appeared where they weren't supposed to be.

      Joey stole a glance at the silver-haired man, illuminated by the stage lights' glow . The old boy sipped delicately at a thin glass of liqueur. He regarded Tiffany Wellington as if he owned her.

      The song ended. While her fans cheered, Tiffany said in a husky, sexy voice, "Thuh-thank you. Thank you all vuh-very much."

      The voice was the same, too. This had to be the female star of Razor Cut .

      The dream-drums began to play.

      Joey stiffened and looked around wildly. For a second, he wondered if he'd dozed off somehow. Then he realized that the drums were on tape and that a jazzy melody had been laid on top of them.

      The rhythm was nearly identical to that heard in his dream, just a shade off. Joey found his palms suddenly slimy with cold sweat. He rubbed them on his pant legs.

      Tiffany had no trouble slipping into the rhythm of the drums. She twirled around the stage as if in the grasp of a demon lover, tossing her long black hair in all directions, shaking her breasts and bottom in time with the music.

      The crowd ate it up. This was the stuff they'd been waiting for. The old men hunched forward in their chairs, vulture eyes alight. The frat boys shut up for the first time all evening.

      Joey was torn between bolting from the theater and just letting himself be swept up by the seductive beat.

      The man with the silver hair extracted a roll of mints from his breast poclet. He placed one in his mouth and sucked on it contentedly. Then he shifted his gaze from Tiffany, stared straight at Joey and smiled.

      Startled, Joey looked away.

      The percussion quickened, became more insistent, urging Tiffany into faster and more strenuous movements. Mouthing incomprehensible syllables, she whipped her head about wildly, twisted her sweat-slick body to and fro.

      The music built to a crescendo.

      Joey felt the electric tingle of sexual excitement in the atmosphere, could almost smell it. Over the throbbing of the drums, he heard Tiffany moan as she stroked herself with the fox fur.

      He wanted to be up there, with her, dancing like a man possessed. He wanted to give himself over to the drums, let all his inhibitions go and just leap up onto the stage. It took every last bit of his self-control to remain seated, transfixed by the erotic spectacle.

      Just when it seemed as if the music would lift Tiffany bodily from the stage and send her spinning into space, the drums abruptly stopped. All the lights in the club went out. For one second, the place was utterly silent. Then Joey heard a body fall to the stage, the sound almost drowned out by the avalanche of foot-stomping, whistling, shouting and clapping.

      When the house lights came up, Tiffany Wellington was being led from the stage by the old man. She leaned on him as he gently slipped a red silk robe around her shoulders. Together, they made their way up the runway, toward the side door that presumably led to the dressing rooms. The man stroked her damp hair. Tiffany walked slowly and carefully, unsure of her strength. Joey saw her long-fingered hands tremble in the sleeves of the robe.

      The crowd maintained the applause for more than two minutes, until it was clear there would be no encore. When the tape machine began to play another Huey Lewis tune, a tired redhead shuffled onstage. Many patrons decided to leave. After Tiffany Wellington, anyone else would be anticlimatic.

      During the exodus, Joey stood and made his way over to the doorway through which Tiffany and her escort had disappeared. He was about to slip inside and take a look around, when a meaty paw suddenly descended on his shoulder.

      "Where do you think you're going?" said Harvey, the knuckle-cracking side of beef.

      Joey smiled ingratiatingly and said, "Uh, is the men's room back here?"

      Harvey dug his fingers painfully into Joey's shoulder and twisted him ninety degrees. "The can's that way. Don't get lost on your way over, OK, pal?"

      "Uh, thanks. Thanks a lot."

      Not having the least inclination to use the facilities, Joey entered the men's room. After a suitable interval, he returned to his seat. From across the auditorim, Harvey scowled at him. Joey drank his second seven-dollar Coke.

      Candy the waitress returned, spotted his empty glass and said, "Can I get you anything else?"

      "I'm all set. Is Tiffany performing again tonight?"

      "Uh uh. That was her last set." Candy moved off to attend to her other customers.

      Joey debated his next course of action. Although house rules stated that patrons need only purchase a minimum of two drinks, Joey felt sure that good old Harvey would mosey on over if he loitered too much longer without buying another round. He had no idea how long Tiffany and her sugar daddy might remain in the club, if they hadn't left already. This joint surely had a side exit.

      Joey decided to take his chances and scout around outside for any sign of Tiffany. Just before passing through the beaded curtain leading to the exit, he spotted the stripper and the old man enter the bar area from an adjoining room. Joey hung back and watched.

      The old man, smiling and exuding good cheer, said a few words to the bartender, a beautiful blonde busy watering down the drinks. Tiffany stood to one side, while a whip-thin biker with a Fu Manchu mustache chatted her up.

      Tiffany nodded perfunctorily as the guy nattered on. She reached out with one red-nailed hand and scooped up some salted peanuts from a small glass dish on the bar. She jiggled them in the palm of her hand and prepared to toss them in her mouth.

      The old man halted in mid-sentence and stared at Tiffany. With a lizard-quick motion, he slapped her hand. Joey heard the smack from across the room. The offending nuts fell from Tiffany's hand to the floor.

      The old man's face filled with blood, the veins in his neck sticking out in high relief.

      "Keep your hands where they belong!" he barked, sweeping the entire dish of peanuts from the bartop.

      No one moved. The biker looked as if he were about to say something, but he ultimately kept his mouth shut.

      "Give me your hand," the silver-maned man ordered. When Tiffany was slow to comply, he grabbed her roughly. He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and scrubbed her fingers with it, as if she were a child just finished with a messy ice cream cone.

      "Come along." He strode from the club, dragging Tiffany in his wake. She made no protest.

      Joey gave them a ten second headstart before following. He didn't want to seem to be tailing them. Neither did he want to lose them.

      A grey limousine idled at the curb. A liveried chauffer held the car door for the couple. "Good evening, Miss Wellington. Mr. Concasseur."

      The old man, Concasseur, pushed Tiffany into the backseat, barely giving her enough time to duck and miss cracking her skull on car roof. He climbed in after her. The driver shut the door and walked briskly around the front of the vehicle.

      As the limo pulled away, Joey asked the barker, "Who was that guy with Tiffany Wellington?"

      The barker said, "His name's Henry Concasseur. He's her personal manager."

      "Has he been here every night with her?"

      "He's never more than ten feet from Tiffany at any time. Can't say I blame him. If I was in his shoes, I'd never be more than six inches away from her, if you know what I mean."

      Joey dodged an elbow directed at his ribs and began walking toward Columbus Avenue.

      "You won't believe it. Lovely ladies committing unspeakable acts. No cover charge. The hottest show in San Francisco..."