“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.
“How can they let him out, Jack?” she spat at me. “Didn't the judge hear what I said on the witness stand? How Skell tortured me? How he wouldn't feed me or give me water? How he made me piss into a Dixie cup? How he told me about the girls he'd tortured, and how I was going to join their little club? How he made me bark like a dog while he played that fucking song? Didn't the judge hear any of that, Jack?”
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.
“I'm sorry, Melinda,” I said.
She slapped my face. It stung, and I reflexively grabbed her arm before she could do it again. She let out a bloodcurdling scream.
A huge bouncer stepped into the lounge. He yanked me off the couch and hustled me through the club. I looked for Cheever at the bar, but he was gone.
As we went through the club's front door I expected the bouncer to stop, but he instead gave me a mighty shove. I flew forward with my arms flapping like a bird and hit the pavement hard.
“Stay out of here,” the bouncer yelled.
I lay on the pavement and watched the rain come down in sheets. The knees of my pants were shredded, my jacket torn. I tried to find the bright side, only there was no bright side. I walked stiff-legged to my car.
As I got in, Buster cowered fearfully against the passenger door. Then the rancid smell hit me. My dog had puked Slim Jims on the floor.
“It's okay, boy,” I told him. “It's okay.”
The words seemed to reassure him, and Buster slithered into my lap. He stayed there all the way back to the Sunset.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The storm skirted south of Dania, and I reached the Sunset in blinding sunshine. I washed the floor mat in the ocean and placed it on the hood to dry. A few hours of daylight were left, and I went inside to change.
In my room I tugged on my Speedo bathing trunks. I'd lost twenty pounds in the past six months and acquired a flat stomach and deep tan. Although my hair has thinned, my friends said I looked younger than my forty years. Maybe I had found the fountain of youth. It was called hitting the skids.
I rolled my wet clothes into a ball and headed downstairs. At the bar, one of the Seven Dwarfs, Whitey, was doing a magic trick with a book of burning matches. The comic effect was great, only he was enough of a menace to burn the place down. I extinguished the matches in a glass of water, and he howled in protest.
I tried to catch Sonny's eye. He wouldn't meet my gaze, and I guessed he was still ticked off about the punch-in-the-face crack. I said, “Heads up,” and tossed my clothes over the bar like a basketball. Sonny caught them with a puzzled look on his face.
“Throw those out for me, will you?” I said.
“Your suit?” Sonny asked.
“Yeah. I'm shedding my old skin. And while you're at it, give everybody a round of drinks, including yourself.”
The Dwarfs gleefully pounded the bar. Sonny tossed the clothes into the trash with a grin on his face. All was forgiven.
“You want the drinks on the big tab, or the little tab?” Sonny asked.
“The little tab. I'm trying to balance them out.”
“Little tab it is.”
I lowered my voice. “I need a favor. You might get some calls from people looking for me. Reporters, police, that sort of thing.
Tell them I haven't been around, okay?”
“You in trouble?” Sonny asked.
Normally, I would have lied to him, but with my ever-dwindling pool of resources, I needed all the friends I could get. I nodded. Reaching into a cooler, Sonny removed a sixteen-ounce can of Budweiser, my signature drink, and stuck it into the ice chest.
“Have a nice swim,” he said.
The day my wife walked out on me, I took a drive. I didn't know how I was going to cope with her being gone, and eventually I found myself parked on the northern tip of Dania Beach. Then, I'd done what any heartbroken male would do. I got naked and went for a swim. I don't know why I did this; it just seemed the right thing to do at the time. And when I stepped out of the water an hour later, I knew I was going to be all right.
I started swimming competitively when I was ten and was good enough to get my name engraved on a plaque at the Swimming Hall of Fame in Fort Lauderdale. My specialty was the backstroke. What started out as a sport had become my daily therapy. I made it a point to swim every day, rain or shine. When I didn't, I got grouchy as hell.
The ocean was the temperature of bathwater, and I waded in with minnows darting between my legs. A hundred feet from shore I began my laps. I started with the crawl, then reverted to the backstroke. There was no lifeguard at this end of the beach, or other swimmers to call if I should need help. If I cramped and drowned, no one would know. I'd sink like a stone and get swept out to sea. Death scared me as much as the next guy, but the idea of drowning never had.