Night of the Living Deb Page 21

  The brunette barmaid at The Men’s Club.

  Lu McCarthy.

  “Andy, how many fingers am I holding up?” Cissy asked, and I obediently shifted my attention to the pink-painted fingernails and the glittering diamonds settled below her knuckles; but something more important than her fingers flashed before my eyes.

  The man in black.

  The dude who’d killed at least a couple of my brain cells with that turpentine-soaked rag he’d held on me.

  I’d seen his skin above the collar of his T-shirt.

  There were wingtips drawn on his skin, wrapped around

  his neck.

  The black ink of a tattoo.

  One that struck a familiar chord.

  It was exactly like the design I’d noticed on Cricket, the burly bartender with the girlie voice, whom Lu had been talking to when Allie and I had dropped into the strip club to ask some questions.

  Cricket had mentioned that Brian reminded him of John Cusack in Say Anything and Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting, which told me that he’d seen Brian that night and could describe the pink shirt he’d been wearing. It also implied he had a thing for celebrity, like someone who’d steal lines from Ransom and who’d demand the precise amount that Paris Hilton paid for the return of her stolen puppy.

  Lu and Cricket.

  Aka the Boob Bar Bonnie and Clyde.

  It fit like the kid gloves Mother forced upon me when I was a child at my first afternoon tea.

  I’d given them my business card with my cell number, had told them I’d pay good money for any information that would help me locate Brian. They must’ve figured out who I was—maybe even Googled my name, as Stephen had suggested—and decided I was their ticket out of Stripper Land.

  If I was so desperate to find Malone that I’d hit The Men’s Club to chat with anyone who’d listen, they had to figure I’d be willing to pay big bucks to get him back in one piece . . . even if they didn’t actually have him. Because how could I have known they were pulling my leg?

  I couldn’t.

  I’d been an easy mark, willing to jump at whatever carrot was dangled before me.

  So who really had Malone, if not the two of them?

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Think, Andy. Think.

  Something else filtered through my aching brain, a comment of Allie’s.

  I figure Malone saw something he shouldn’t have, and Oleksiy had no choice but to make our boy disappear.

  Allie had been right all along.

  The kidnapping was bogus.

  If I hadn’t believed it before, I did now, in every way that mattered. I’d been naïve, ignoring any niggling doubts, like Stephen’s questions about proof, because the ransom demand had allowed me to fixate on something tangible that connected me to Brian and made me feel like I had some power to get him back.

  Lu and Cricket hadn’t cared that I was frantic about my disappearing beau.

  They’d just wanted my money.

  The greedy bastards.

  It almost made me laugh to think the pile of bills in the satchel was as bogus as their threats to hurt Brian.

  I wondered if either of them had any inkling where Malone was, or who’d grabbed him and Trayla as they’d left through the back door of The Men’s Club?

  What had Lu really seen that night? She’d said Trayla had fled in just her robe, without finishing her set. What else had she glimpsed? Someone with her besides Brian?

  One of Oleksiy’s armed goons?

  Maybe Lu had been too scared to spill the truth.

  Could be why she’d let them interview her on TV. She wanted to make it clear to Oleksiy and his people that, regardless of her connection to Trayla, she wasn’t about to play ratfink.

  I wish I’d known she was in trouble, but she must’ve kept it from me. The last time I saw her, she seemed okay.

  That was bull, I realized.

  Lu had been doing what frightened folks had done for centuries: covering her ass. I had a pretty strong sense that Trayla had confided in her, maybe even discussed Oleksiy.

  I had to find out what Lu really knew.

  I gritted my teeth, wanting so badly to squeeze the truth out of Lu McCarthy and her pal Cricket. If they didn’t crack, I’d turn them into the cops for committing fraud and feigning a boyfriend-napping.

  It feels off, Kendricks. Someone’s taking advantage of you. Brian’s name has been all over the news. Even that Channel 8 reporter who interviewed your neighbor managed to link you to him. The cops, too. By now, every media outlet in Dallas knows you’re the girlfriend of the dude whose car was found parked at Love Field with a very dead stripper in his trunk. Your so-called kidnappers could be anyone, pretending to have Malone so they can make a quick buck.

  If I hadn’t bought Allie’s spiel before, I did now.

  Brian’s vanishing act wasn’t a kidnapping, not in the way I’d been imagining.

  It had everything to do with the prosecution’s witness list for the Oleksiy Petrenko trial, as Allie had suspected. I figured the money launderer had ordered his boys to snatch Trayla to keep her quiet; only Malone had gotten in the way. If Brian had seen them kill Trayla, it certainly explained why they’d used his car to take her to the airport and why they’d left it there in a no parking zone for the

  cops to stumble upon eventually.

  Was Petrenko unsure of what to do with him? After

  all, Malone was part of his defense team. Did that matter?

  Did Oleksiy care a fig, even about his own attorneys?

  I had to believe he hadn’t harmed Malone yet, at least not fatally. Something told me that Petrenko would hold onto Brian, maybe until after the trial, because the cops would surely put two and two together if they found his body so soon after Trayla’s.

  Wouldn’t they?

  “This stinks,” I said, not realizing I’d muttered aloud until I heard my mother say, “Stephen, let’s get her away from this trash receptacle. She should be breathing fresh air, not the smell of refuse.”

  “Will do, Cis.”

  I hadn’t realized Stephen had gone anywhere until he appeared from behind me, which meant from behind the Dumpster, as I realized I was lying just to the side of the hulking garbage bin.

  A vague light from the eaves of the IHOP flickered in my eyes as I tried to take in a deep breath. Maybe it was a blessing that my sinuses were still numbed from whiffing paint thinner, as I could barely differentiate the “smell of refuse” from Mother’s perfume.

  “Help me up, please,” I said as Stephen reached beneath my arms to get a grip. “I want to stand.”

  There was a slight slur in my voice still, and I could taste the gauzy dryness of my mouth; but I felt more clearheaded by the minute, absolutely positively certain of who the GPS would lead us to and wanting to strangle the culprits with my bare hands.

  “Geez, Kendricks, you scared the crap out of us.”

  As Stephen assisted me from the ground to my feet, I realized he and Cissy weren’t the only ones who’d dropped by the Dumpster to retrieve me.

  The Blond Menace had shown up as well.

  Hail, hail, the gang’s all here, I thought as I swallowed hard to rinse the taste of the paint thinner from my mouth.

  “What the heck happened to you?” Allie grilled me like a witness on the stand. “I wasn’t but a minute behind you—”

  “As was I,” my mother butted in, not to be left out.

  Allie cleared her throat. “When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw your car with its lights on, then I spot you flat on your back. What did you do? Run into something?”

  What did I do?

  “Thanks, all of you,” I muttered, hearing gravel in my voice, “for your concern and for thinking I couldn’t handle this without a host of Chuck Norris wannabes pretending to be Texas Rangers.”

  “You know Chuck wasn’t really a Ranger, don’t you, Kendricks?” said the ever-helpfu
l Allie. “He just played one on TV.”

  If I were really Chuck Norris, I would’ve given her a high-karate kick and knocked out all her teeth.

  “How long was I out?” I asked and looked straight at Stephen, clearly the only sane member of my posse.

  “A minute, maybe a little longer than that. I got here pretty quick after you did, Andy, but not fast enough to see who grabbed you,” he said, keeping a steady grip on my shoulder as I wobbled a bit until I found my sea legs.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I told him, doing the best I could to ignore the ache in my head. “I think I know who’s responsible.”

  “For kidnapping Mr. Malone?” my mother asked, slipping her hands into the pockets of a black silk jacket. I noticed she wore matching silk pants, even a black silk camisole and black pearls.

  Ah, yes, the perfect attire for a society maven engaged in nefarious activities. She could write a book on what the well-bred woman should wear to an intimate little kidnapping.

  “No,” I corrected her. “I mean, who’s behind this whole charade, because it was all about money, not about Brian.

  The bag is gone, Stephen, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, his mouth set grimly. “I’m still tracking the GPS, Andy. We’ll catch ’em.”

  “I know we will,” I told him, as I had a good idea where the money trail would end, even without the fancy GPS equipment.

  “You called it a charade, Kendricks,” Allie the Observant remarked, giving me a “told you so” smirk. “So you believe me, that the ransom demand isn’t connected with Malone going MIA?”

  Much as I despised having to say it, I coughed up a “Yeah, I believe you.”

  Even through the dark, her smile gleamed.

  I took a few slow steps toward my Jeep, which had seemed so close to the Dumpster when I’d parked but suddenly appeared a million miles away.

  “I don’t think you should drive in your condition, Andrea,”

  my mother stated, and I paused, looking over my shoulder at the three of them, thankful to see only one of each. No double vision. Maybe all the furniture stripping I’d done in the past, rescuing old pieces from flea markets, had helped my tolerance to the turpentine.

  “What’s my condition?” I said, wanting to laugh. “That I’m an imbecile for buying the ransom plot? That I’m a dope for not involving the police? Or that I’m about the worst judge of character ever? Take your pick.”

  That left them dumbfounded, which should’ve tickled me.

  Instead I felt queasy.

  “Why don’t you ride with me, Andy,” Stephen suggested.

  “I’ve got the laptop with the GPS tracking map. We’ll see where it leads.”

  I’d wager it would point us right up the street.

  To the strip club.

  I jerked my chin at Mother and Allie. “Tell them to go home, would you, Stephen? I don’t want them getting

  more involved than they are already.”

  My mother’s beau had the gall to laugh, and I watched the play of shadow across his weathered face, his expression softening. “Oh, sweet girl, I don’t know Ms. Price well enough to order her about”—he gestured at Mother—“and I wouldn’t even try telling Cissy where to go. I’m much too

  fond of the family jewels.”

  “Smart man,” my mother drawled, winking at him, the exchange between them enough to make me nauseous, if the turpentine hadn’t done the trick already.

  “Let’s go,” I said, figuring we’d stood around long enough.

  It was time to shake down Lu and Cricket. I was through being a patsy.

  I just hoped that I wasn’t too late.

  Chapter 20

  As I suspected, the blipping red light on Stephen’s laptop showed the GPS chip had stopped moving a mere smidge farther up Northwest Highway.

  A small hop, skip, and a jump away from the IHOP, as it were.

  How convenient, I mused, for us and for the lying pair who’d been pulling my leg—and stringing along my hopes—for the last twelve hours, the jerks.

  In the few minutes it took to get to our target location, I filled Stephen in on every epiphany I’d had about this whole thing since I’d awakened from my turpentine induced stupor: who I believed was behind the kidnapping stunt, as well as what I’d learned from Allie, and how it all fell together to point toward Oleksiy Petrenko as the real Malone-snatcher.

  From the grim look on Stephen’s face, he didn’t exactly like thinking a good old-fashioned mobster was involved.

  Not that it made me feel any too warm and fuzzy either.

  As Stephen guided the black Volvo sedan toward the pink stucco building with its ornamental lions and deceptively elegant sign, I composed a million different scenarios in my head, everything I wanted to say to Lu and Cricket, all of it as violent as a Bruce Willis movie.

  I was ready to jump out of the moving car as Stephen pulled up to the valet in front of The Men’s Club. This time, I didn’t smile back at the pimple-faced fellow in the white shirt who took Stephen’s keys, the very same dude who’d parked my Jeep when Allie and I had come the night before.

  As soon as the locks popped up, I scrambled out of the Volvo, pausing to suck in a deep breath and square my shoulders. Then I took the steps, one by one, slow and steady, my eyes narrowed on the doors; my heart set on doing battle.

  Stephen caught me from behind, taking hold of my shoulder. I didn’t want to stop, but I did. I even turned around and gave him a chance to speak his piece.

  “Maybe it’s time we got the police involved in this, Andy,” he said, blue eyes so damned earnest beneath the hank of faded ginger-colored hair rumpled across his brow. “I don’t know that it’s a good idea to just march in there and confront anyone. We should exercise caution.”

  I didn’t care about caution. I wanted to kick some barmaid butt, and how.

  “Give me fifteen minutes, Stephen,” I pleaded, glancing back at the driveway and noting a red Roadster disgorging a blond driver, while a pale Lexus with tinted windows sat patiently behind, awaiting its turn with the valet. “You keep my mother and Allie out here, so they don’t screw things up. Or see anything that would burn the back of Cissy’s eyeballs.”

  “Is that all?” Stephen smiled tightly, and I realized that was no small task.

  But I didn’t want my mother setting foot inside this place.

  I was sure she’d have a heart attack were she to catch the goings-on beneath the chandeliers and red velvet drapes. I could already envision her pulling near-naked women off the laps of drooling men and throwing her silk jacket over the bare-breasted stripper onstage.

  Like that wouldn’t cause a stink.

  Allie was starting up the steps just as Stephen released me. “All right, Andy.” He relented. “You go in alone. But if you’re not back in fifteen minutes flat, I’ll ring your cell.

  And if you don’t answer, I’m coming in, and I’m bringing the cavalry.”

  “Okay,” I said, because it sounded more than fair.

  Though there was one little thing I would need from him, and I told him what it was. He didn’t look any too happy about my request; but he did as I asked, and I pocketed the item in question.

  I murmured “Thank you” as I pulled away from him and slipped through the front doors. I thought I heard Allie howling, “Hey, Kendricks!” from somewhere behind me, but I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t want a sidekick this go-round.

  A different hostess was taking covers this evening, a dark-skinned girl with close-cropped hair and very shiny makeup. She didn’t try to make conversation, and neither did I, even as I handed over the last of the cash from my back pocket.

  I locked eyes briefly with the bouncer who had previously studied Malone’s photo and dismissed it; then he glanced away, dismissing me, his expression bored. Not like someone who’d been involved in a kidnapping scam with the tattooed bartender and duplicitous barmaid.

  As I rea
ched for the doors leading into the club itself, I paused to take a deep breath—still smelling paint thinner in my nose—before pushing my way into the Wonderful World of Stripdom.

  At this point, nothing surprised me, not the green and blue laser lights shooting through the dark or the sea of endless boobs or the ongoing lap dances being performed right in the middle of the room.

  Maybe that’s what happened if you worked here. You just got used to it, stopped seeing the decadence and nakedness, ceased to smell the cologne and perfume, and ignored the pounding of the overloud music in your head.

  Thank God, I’d never get the chance.

  I strode straight up to the bar on the right-hand side of the stage, planted my palms on the counter and caught my wild-eyed appearance in the mirror. If I’d had the chest for it and fewer layers on, I could’ve passed for an angry stripper whose G-string had cut off her circulation.

  “Can I get you something, honey?”

  I frowned at the unfamiliar skinny dude with glasses who’d had the gall to ask such a question. Of course, he could get me something. Like, um, how about a man with a funny name for starters?

  “Cricket,” I told him.

  He squinted at me. “You mean a Grasshopper?” he said over the noise of Shania Twain wailing, “Man, I feel like a woman!”

  “No, I’m looking for Cricket, the other bartender. The one who was here last night before ten,” I practically barked at him. “And where’s Lu McCarthy?” I added, because I knew she was working tonight, as the reporter on the six o’clock news had interviewed her from here and the shot was live. She had to be around somewhere.

  He swung a white bar towel over his shoulder. “You a friend of theirs? You don’t look like their type.”

  “Well, no and yes. I’m sort of an acquaintance who loaned them money, and I want it back,” I said, because it was hardly a lie. They owed me a bowling bag full of it.

  He cracked a grin. “Oh, shit, honey, you should’ve never loaned the likes of them cash. You’ll never see a dime. Those two would pick your pocket if you turned your back on ’em.”

  “Wish I’d known that before,” I replied, thinking that I sucked big-time in the first impressions department. I gave folks the benefit of the doubt, when I probably should just figure everyone was out to get me until they proved otherwise.