“Is Melinda really there?”
“Of course she's here. She just went on break.”
“Which dollar store are you at?”
“The Body Shot on State Road 80,” Cheever said. “I'll hold you a seat.”
If there was one business that flourished in Broward County, it was strip clubs. There were so many that several glossy magazines were published each month to highlight the girls who danced in them. The clubs near the ocean attracted tourists and were high priced, while those out west were dives catering to locals. The Body Shot was out west, the parking lot filled with cars in worse shape than mine.
The club smelled of cheap beer and failed deodorant. Up on the oval stage, three women in G-strings danced to Santana's “Everybody's Everything” beneath a pulsating strobe light. As I crossed the room the strobe's clockwise rotation made me feel as if I were circling a giant drain.
Cheever was at the bar. With Claude, “cop” was never the first word that came to mind. In his mid-forties, he had a droopy mustache, a hard-looking belly, and a short choppy haircut that was the worst I'd seen on a grown man. He pumped my hand.
“You look good,” I shouted over the music.
“Liar,” he said.
I caught the bartender's eye and ordered two beers. Moments later, she slapped down two bottles and said, “Sixteen bucks” as if expecting a fight. I paid up, and we clinked bottles.
“Didn't anyone ever tell you not to shower with your clothes on?” Cheever asked.
I was still soaking wet. These clothes were my last link to my old life, and I didn't know if I should feel sad or elated. Taking a swig of beer, I decided on elation.
“Did you tell Melinda I was coming?” I asked.
“No. Was I supposed to?”
I threw a five at the bartender and asked her to find Melinda. The bartender disappeared, and Cheever nudged me in the ribs with his elbow.
“This little old lady in Fort Lauderdale goes to the supermarket to buy groceries,” he said. “When she comes out, she finds two guys stealing her car. She whips out a handgun and screams, ‘Out of the car, mother-fuckers. I have a gun, and I know how to use it.’
“The guys run like hell. The old lady loads her groceries and gets behind the wheel. Then she sees a football and a twelve-pack of beer on the front seat. She gets out of the car and sees her own car, same model and color, parked four spots away.
“She loads her groceries into her own car and drives to the police station to report her mistake. The sergeant on duty bursts out laughing when he hears her story, and points to the other end of the counter, where two guys are reporting a carjacking by a mad old woman. So what's the moral of the story?”
I shook my head and killed my beer.
“If you're having a senior moment, make it special.”
Cheever snorted with laughter. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned. Melinda stood behind me, her long blond hair resting seductively on her shoulder, her gorgeous bikini-clad body visible through black fishnet. In high heels, she was nearly as tall as me. She offered me her hand like a princess.
“Hello, darling,” she said.
We retreated to the VIP lounge and sat on a couch with a large tear in the fabric. The lounge had a partial wall separating it from the rest of the club that afforded us some privacy. Melinda cuddled up next to me and rested her hand on my stomach.
“Hey, handsome.”
“Hey,” I replied.
“Did you miss me?”
“Sure.”
“Marry me.”
I swallowed hard, wishing I hadn't drunk a beer. I won't lie and say that Melinda didn't arouse me. I'd have to be stone-cold dead for that not to happen. But this come-on was just a game she played whenever we got together.
“I'm taken,” I said.
She withdrew her hand and created distance between us on the couch. It was only a few feet, just enough for her to feel safe.
“Haven't seen you in a while.”
“I've been busy,” I said.
“Catching bad guys?”
“Sometimes.”
“What happened to your clothes?”
“I got caught in the storm.”
She pulled a pack of Kools out of a pocket in her fishnet, banged one out, and stuck it between her lips. I fumbled pulling a book of matches out of the pack's cellophane and lighting her cigarette. She blew a monster cloud over our heads.
“So what do you want, Jack, a lap dance?”
“I've got some bad news.”
Her eyebrows went up. “What's that?”
“A body was found buried in a backyard this afternoon. The police think it belongs to Carmella Lopez, the girl Simon Skell went down for. The police arrested a pimp they think put it there.”
It took Melinda a moment to process what I'd said. Panic distorted her face.
“What's going to happen to Skell?” she asked. “They're not going to let him out of prison, are they?”
“They might.”
“But you said he killed Carmella and all those other girls.”
“That's right.”
“Then how can they let him out?”
“The evidence doesn't support the police's case anymore.”
“Don't talk to me like that,” she snapped.
“Like what?”
“Like a fucking automated answering machine. I hate that.”
“I'm sorry.”
Melinda put her hand on my leg and sank her dragon-lady nails into my skin. I'd forgotten who I was talking to. This was the girl who stopped being a victim long enough to put her abuser behind bars. There weren't many like her, and I'd just told her that it was all for nothing.
“
I fell mute. The sad truth is, it was not Melinda's trial. It was Carmella's trial, and although Melinda's testimony had helped send Skell to prison, it was not the crime he had been tried for. Which was a nice way of saying that Skell would never be punished for the crimes he'd committed against Melinda. Only I couldn't tell her that.
“It's not a done deal,” I said instead.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that it's not certain Skell will be released from prison. His lawyer will have to go in front of a judge and present the evidence.”
Her nails sunk deeper into my flesh.
“They're going to let him out, aren't they, Jack?” she said. “That's why you came here. They're going to let him out, and you wanted me to know so I could put extra locks on my apartment and buy a gun for when he comes tippy-toeing to my bedroom door.”
I lowered my head. She'd hit the nail on the head. It was exactly why I'd come.
