Midnight Rambler

there, Jack.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vasquez. I really appreciate this.”

“There's no need to thank me, Jack,” he said. “No need at all.”

The sky was a dying amber when I arrived at the Body Shot. Parking in a strip center across the street, I told Buster to mind the fort.

The club was packed, and I elbowed my way through a mob of working-class guys leering at naked women dancing on the elevated stage. Being unemployed had its drawbacks, one of which was that I could easily lose track of the days. It was Thursday, which in south Florida was the official beginning to the weekend.

Cheever hailed me from the bar. A cold beer awaited me when I reached him.

“Sorry I split last night, but I got an emergency call,” he said, clinking his bottle against mine. “How did it go with Melinda?”

“She had me tossed,” I shouted in his ear.

“And you came back for more?”

“I need to talk with her. They're going to let Simon Skell out of prison.”

His bottle hit the bar. “Fucking what did you say?”

“You heard me. I found out from the FBI. I need to get Melinda someplace safe.”

Cheever gave me a thoughtful look. Even in the club's crummy neon I could see he was way drunk. He grabbed my shoulder and squeezed it.

“That's my Jack.”

“I'm going to the VIP lounge. When you see Melinda, ask her to join me. She'll listen to you.”

“Sure, man. Anything to help.”

“And make sure the bouncer doesn't come looking for me.”

I started to leave. Cheever got a fresh beer from the bartender and forced it into my hands.

“You deserve it,” he told me.

The VIP lounge was normally reserved for friction dances and, if you were not careful, a five-hundred-dollar bottle of pink champagne. I settled onto a couch as the perennial strip club favorite, “Shake Your Booty” by KC and the Sunshine Band, blasted over the speakers. KC was a Miami band, and you could not spend any serious time in a south Florida bar without hearing at least one of their songs.

The set ended and the house lights flickered. Three new dancers came out and peeled off their clothes. I sucked on my beer, thinking of Skell. One of his victims was a stripper, one worked in a massage parlor, and the rest were prostitutes employed by escort services. Yet, except for the phone call Skell had made to Carmella Lopez, no evidence existed of him ever being inside a strip club or massage parlor, or using an escort service. He did not know his victims either personally or professionally, even though they all fit the same profile. It was another piece of the puzzle with a question mark hanging over it.

I had a theory about this, which along with eight bucks would buy me another beer. It went like this. We all walk around in life with different odds. Some people have good odds; some have bad. Your odds are determined by your upbringing, your luck, and the strength of your desires. My guess was that everyone in this club had bad odds, myself included.

Skell's victims all had bad odds. They had chosen their professions out of necessity, and lived on the edge of despair. They'd been thrown away not only by their families but by society and were struggling not to fall into the abyss. Somehow, Skell knew this about his victims, which was why he chose them. Someday, I was going to find out how he knew.

Melinda entered the VIP lounge with a glazed look in her eyes. She was every hot-blooded male's dream: white toga, six-inch stiletto heels, her hair in a single braid resting on her shoulder. Sitting beside me, she pulled at a knot in her garment. It parted, revealing nothing but a G-string. Her reaction to danger was to snort coke, and I could tell she was higher than a kite.

“Oh, it's my knight in shining armor,” she said.

Her breasts gently swayed as she spoke. She had never gotten implants, and her natural beauty set her apart from every other woman in the club.

“We need to talk,” I said.

Her face turned dreamy.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

I hesitated. Taking my head in her hands, she kissed me on the lips.

“You do love me,” she said.

I gazed into her eyes. It was hard to tell how far gone she was.

“I have a solution to the problem,” I said.

“You want to run away with me?”

“Listen to me. I have a solution to the problem.”

“What problem is that, Jack?”

“The one we talked about last night. Simon Skell.”

“I don't want to talk about him.”

“We have to talk about him.”

Her face turned dark. Then tears rolled down her cheeks, and she started to crack. I sensed another presence in the lounge and looked up. The bouncer from last night was back. I offered no resistance as he lifted me off the couch.

“I told you to stay out of here,” he said.

Melinda held her head in her hands. I spotted Cheever at the bar and waved. He came running and pulled the bouncer off me. The bouncer cocked his fist, and Cheever showed him his badge.

“Fucking shit,” the bouncer said.

Cheever made him empty his pockets. The bouncer was carrying several fat joints and enough nose candy for the Mexican Army. Cheever read him his rights. I returned to the couch and pulled Melinda's toga together.

“I don't want to die,” she sobbed. “I don't want to die.”

“You're not going to die,” I said.

“Yes, I am. Skell's going to kill me.”

“No, you're not,” I told her. “You're not going to die.”

I fed Melinda pigs in a blanket at the local IHOP, and the life came back to her cheeks. She tried to talk, but I wouldn't let her. She was still messed up. Drugs mixed with fear produces something akin to insanity. She desperately needed to get straight.

“What's going to happen to Ray?” she asked after her third cup of coffee.

I assumed Ray was the bouncer and said, “He'll cop a plea, maybe do a couple of months, probably just house arrest or probation.”

She twirled her coffee with the tip of her pinky. She'd cried away her makeup, and beneath the estaurant's harsh neon she looked like a kid. I assumed Ray's coke was the carrot that kept her coming back to the club and saw her shrug indifferently.

“So what's your solution?” she asked.

I told her about rescuing the Vasquez baby and how it had led to my getting the house in Aspen.

“Ever been to Aspen?” I asked.

“I've never been out of Florida,” she said.

“I want you to go there and lie low for a while.”

“Let me think about it, okay?”

Melinda didn't own a car and relied on the largesse of other dancers for rides. I drove her to a sprawling apartment complex near Weston and parked outside her unit. A giant palmetto bug smacked into the windshield, making us both jump.

“Oh, Jesus, I hate those things,” Melinda said. “Make it go away.”

I cleaned the bug's remains off the glass and got back in.

“Will you do it?” I asked.