Bootheel was an exclusive club, hidden away in the lower level of one of the major bank towers and accessed through an unmarked, copper-sheathed door, guarded by a gaunt, tuxedo clad walking stick. The club wasn't listed in any phone book and it was only after another, embarrassing call, to Chester Hargrave that they learned of its whereabouts.

A quick computer check by Rose Tzechuck, the sole member of the squad secretarial pool, gave them nothing but a numbered company with a trail that led off into deep space, which Rose refused to follow so armed with nothing but a verbal location they headed downtown.

Dusk had arrived and both men were missing their dinners by the time they encountered the entrance to the club, an anonymous door set into a small alcove at the end of a rich, Italian marble hall. Bettmeir pressed the bell pad, angled his badge up to the crack in the door where the pale eye examined it and them, without blinking.

"Your name please.'

"What the hell..."

"Shut up, Jer. Detective Bettmeir, this is my partner, Detective Asper. We'd like to talk to someone in charge about an investigation we're conducting."

"Please wait while I confirm that name and number." The door closed with a solid thunk.

"Jeez! You gonna put up with that shit?" Jerry grabbed the handle and couldn't budge it.

"Let's just do this their way for the moment, okay. Stop huffing and puffing and get back behind me."

The door opened and the walking stick waved them inside without comment. Rich odours of pipe, cigar smoke and money filled the dark paneled reception area. Heavy, dark velvet drapes framed alcoves containing austere portraits of what the detectives took to be Bootheel's gentlemen of the past, their clothes suggesting the early part of the century.

A deep-piled, intricately patterned rug muffled their steps and both men looked down, impressed.

"Christ, I could turn an ankle in this stuff," Jerry whispered.

"This way please, gentlemen. Our young lady will provide you with a guest tag which must be worn visibly at all times while in the club." They followed the tuxedo-clad skeleton to a comfortable waiting lounge furnished in dark leather and stained wood, only the paintings were different, in here, they were all images of Playboy proportioned women in stylish gowns. Low marble tables held leather framed crystal ashtrays and a selection of financial magazines. Jerry made a mouth and poked Bettmeir.

From behind an emerald green marble counter, also done in dark, mahogany-stain, the young lady appeared wearing a short tuxedo jacket, which both men thought looked better on her than the doorman, flesh-coloured tights, calf length stiletto boots and a smile that had both detectives shuffling to be first in line for a tag. "You can leave these in my box when you finish." The voice dripped with wanton promise and the pampered finger touched a brass receptacle on the counter.

Bettmeir yanked Jerry away with some difficulty and they followed the walking stick down a corridor of gold-framed mirrors and classical oil paintings. The strains of new age music oozed from hidden speakers and a slight hint of strawberry hung in the air.

"I like that return policy," Jerry hissed, tossing a yearning glance back toward reception.

"You're a pig, you know that." Bettmeir scolded.

"In here please, gentlemen. Our Cropmaster will be with you momentarily." Walking stick disappeared and left them to gape in awe at the room.

"Who did he say?"

"I dunno. Crop duster or somethin'"

The room was circular, about fifty feet in diameter and in the center was a smaller circle of gleaming parquet flooring, about twenty feet diameter, surrounded by a low wall upholstered with the same carpeting that surrounded the room. Around the perimeter were a dozen or so throne-like chairs on small, raised platforms separated by what looked like mini bars.

The heavy drapery motif was repeated behind each seat and special red carpeting ran from the front of the seats like spokes to the center ring. Hanging, or more like dangling from the ceiling, were a cluster of gold chains of varying length with fur-covered manacles at the ends. The lighting was a soft pink that gave both men a cherubic glow.

"What the hell is all this?" Jerry growled in amazement.

"Our Power Paddock."

Both detectives turned to catch the tall, shapely woman in skimpy riding habit crossing the room with a runway model's stride and a shimmering cloud of rhythmically bouncing auburn hair that covered most of a promising face, the rest of which was covered by a silver satin mask,

"I'm the establishment's Cropmaster, how may I be of service?" The last was said with a teasing grin as she halted with a saucy hip tipped high to one side.

"Detective Bettmeir, this is my partner, Detective Asper. We'd like to ask a few questions, Miss...?"

"Cropmaster is my official title, gentlemen. What questions?"

"Your name for one." Jerry bit back. "And a look at your face."

"As I said-"

"That's okay, Miss- uh- that's fine. We are interested in a woman believed to be a member or a guest by the name of Hatti Ambrose."

"First of all, Detective, there are no women members and guests are not allowed."

"We're guests," Jerry flaunted.

"On the contrary, you are merely visitors."

"Merely."

She smiled confidently and suddenly displayed an ivory cigarette holder, fully loaded, and waited expectantly.

"Sorry, I don't smoke." Bettmeir poked his partner. Jerry produced a lighter and did the honours.

"Thank you, Detective." The stream of smoke encircled his head.

"So ahh, Hatti Ambrose?"

"As I'm sure you can appreciate, Detective, this is a very expensive, very exclusive club. Information about members, employees or unlikely but possible guests for that matter is just not discussed." She jetted another stream of smoke into the air.

"Well I'm sure you can appreciate that as part of an ongoing investigation, we'd like to discuss them." Bettmeir smiled smugly.

"Then I'm afraid you'll need a warrant. If that's all I have a membership program to supervise."

"Wait a sec, what about a Rita Cornell?"

"Never heard of her. Now if you'll excuse me."

"Hey, look." Bettmeir moved closer and had to look up, which was disconcerting since he was five foot eleven. "Just listen a sec." He held his hands up in front of her and smiled apologetically. "Warrants can be so- well... public. Can't you give us hand with this investigation sort of... confidentially?"

"Confidentiality, as you might have noticed, is one of my prime functions, Detective, I'm sure you understand and no, I can't give you a hand." She smirked, nodded a bow and strolled off regally.

"I don't understand nuthin'." Jerry flapped his arms as she left the room and closed the door. "What kinda shit is that?"

"The kind we always seem to step in. C'mon, we'll see if there's another way to get what we want."

Jerry gave the room a last scan and shook his shaggy head. "Have to admit though, Ward, so far these dames are somethin' else. Yessir."

The door opened and the walking stick appeared, apparently on station right outside and listening for his cue, and directed them with a disdainful hand back to reception where he reminded them to leave their tags with the young woman. Jerry unpinned his and leaned on the counter, letting it dangle from his fingertips.

"For your box, sweet cheeks." She accepted the tag and smiled at Bettmeir as he handed his across without the crude comment.

"This is some place, what actually goes on here anyway?" Bettmeir adopted his most innocent face, hoping to counter his partner's grossness.

"The club's practices are never revealed to non-members." The woman placed the tag box in a drawer and made some kind of entry in a large leather covered journal.

"So how do you get to be a member?" Jerry tried, restraining his drool.

"It begins with a considerable application fee." She canted her head and gave Jerry a pitying look that said he couldn't dream of qualifying. "Quite considerable."

"Is there anything you could tell us about a Miss Hatti Ambrose or a Rita Cornell?" Bettmeir tried.

"Sorry."

"Well what about telling me what the hell a Cropmaster is?" Jer asked.

"Let's just say the position would be similar to a front office manager." The smile was intended to terminate further inquiries and it did. Both detectives reluctantly allowed themselves to be led to the door and out.

"I need food. This bullshit club business has made me hungry."

"Jerry, for once we agree." Out on the street the blinking neon of a Thai restaurant beside the bank tower drew them like a magnet.