The Club Jasmine was half bar, half dance floor. A small combo was rocking. Bolan didn’t try to find the gambling rooms. He worked toward the back, drink in hand. He sat at a vacant table and pulled the small smoke bomb from his pocket. Under the table he removed the safety pin and rolled the device. As he stood he heard the pop, then shouting as the smoke poured out.

It would sting the eyes and the lungs but do no damage. He calmly left by the front door with the first wave of shouting, frightened people and was half a block away when the fire alarms sounded.

That night two more clubs were hit by the harmless yet irritating smoke bombs; Bolan arrived at the fourth near closing time. The clientele was sparse. Before he could send the smoke grenade rolling, a waitress appeared at his table. The pretty young thing looked at Bolan, turned pale and shivered. She seemed scared.

“Can I get you something?” she asked, trying to smile.

Bolan shook his head. “No thanks. I’m about ready to go.”

“You just came in.” Without waiting for a reaction she sat down across from him at the table.

“Hey, I’ve got a small problem.”

“Somebody giving you a bad time?”

“How?..” She nodded. “Yes. A real jerk. I told him he can’t take me home, and I don’t want to go anywhere else. I even threatened to report him to the management. He just laughed and said he was the management.”

“When do you close?”

“Fifteen minutes. Then it takes about ten minutes to clean up.” She sighed. “I know this must sound phony, but I’m not trying to pick you up. You have a kind, understanding face, that’s all.”

She looked at him. Bolan remained silent.

“If you could wait for me just outside and tell this jerk to buzz off, I would appreciate it.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Elizabeth Hanover. Beth. And I feel much better already! I must start moving, before I get fired.” She hurried away.