“Wow!” Digby walked briskly up the stairs and into the main hall of the huge peeler bar.
She had never been inside a Montreal strip club before. It was ten times bigger and ten times classier than anything she’d seen in Nova Scotia. The décor was warm, sensual and even Victorian.
There was a king-size bed in the far right corner, with American flag sheets and a topless blonde girl on her knees, knee-dancing.
The place was packed.
Seven or eight midgets with bra-less black lingerie were weaving through the crowd, serving drinks on huge round platters. Maybe not so classy after all.
McCreath led the way.
They didn’t get more than ten feet through the door when four large men in dark charcoal suits surrounded them, in a semi-circle, hands crossed in front of their crotches.
Security.
“Good eye for cops,” Digby yelled to McCreath over the loud music.
McCreath nodded. “Shall I ask for the Champagne room?”
Digby laughed. The lead bouncer, an incredibly tall, built man with grey hair and glasses, stepped forward and gestured outward with his monkey arm, directing the officers to a private room off the main corridor.
“This way please,” he said, in a loud voice.
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