ONE
Well, let me tell you, there's nothing as exhilarating as being a two-dollar whore at Christmastime. You know, tra la la la la, and lookin' for a date, baby? Not that I'm really a hooker, mind you. I'm a Canton County detective at Lake of the Ozarks, Missouri, working an undercover prostitution sting, which means since dusk shadowed the world I've been meandering the perimeter of a giant truck stop just outside the town of Lebanon, wearing a teeny-weeny lime green halter top and denim short shorts. The current rash of battery assaults up and down Interstate 44 on truck-stop prostitutes, a.k.a. lot lizards, had initiated a six-county joint task force to catch the guys before they graduated up to murder, so here I am, freezing my buns off.
I do have on a floor-length faux-fur coat over my skimpy attire, one as white as freshly driven snow, which definitely rings of irony, if you ask me. It keeps me from hypothermia, however, and allows me to flaunt my feminine attributes to any interested onlookers. At the moment, I am doing the streetwalker strut up and down the side of the lot that edges a particularly seedy motel and honky-tonk bar full of bored truckers and true-blue lot lizards dressed like myself or even more so. I am also trying to keep my legs from turning blue under my elegant black fishnet stockings. No doubt about it, hookers above the Mason-Dixon Line must come from hardier stock than moi.
Until tonight I'd been stuck on sick leave, lots of sick leave, months, in fact, because my last case got me in big trouble, and when I say big trouble, I really mean,
big, hairy, Bad-ass
trouble. I have a six-inch meat-cleaver gash in my right shoulder to remind me of those good-ole, bygone days, but it's practically healed up now. And I got the cast off my broken shinbone two months ago, which was not soon enough, believe you me. All this happened last summer when I ran into a nightmare from my past who had sort of an unhealthy fixation on me.
But that's another story I don't like to think about, so instead I think about the man I met during that investigation and how much he likes me. I like him, too, not
love
, mind you, just
like,
but it's the kind of
LIKE
written in all capital letters. Actually I find it a bit incredible that my new beau, Nicholas Black, a.k.a. filthy-rich psychobabbler to the stars, finds a way to spend time with a regular, homegrown gal like me. After all, I'm not exactly his type. I have way too many scars and not enough highlighted blond hair to be a celebrity's trophy girlfriend. In fact, my hair's short and sun-streaked honey blond, and I'm fairly tall and lean with lots of muscles because I do yoga, kickbox, or run every day when I'm not recuperating from gunshot wounds, and whatnot.
Not that I'm complaining about Black's attentions. Actually he saved my life, too, from the aforementioned psychopath, but I saved his first, so I call that even. Truthfully, he's okay, I guess, except when he tries to run my life and psychoanalyze me about my childhood from hell, but he's getting better about that. Anyway.
A tinny male voice crackled inside my earpiece, “You sure look hot in those Daisy Dukes, Morgan, 'cept for all those giant goose bumps pokin' through those fishnets.”
Budweiser D. Davis is my beloved partner, Bud for short, the silver-tongued, immaculately dressed, auburn-haired, named after his father's favorite beer, Georgia-accented wise-ass. But he helped save my life, too. What can I say? I'm obligated to put up with these guys.
Into the microphone hidden in my plunging cleavage, I said, well, actually hissed, “You stomp around out here at night in spitting snow half-naked awhile and we'll see what pretty shade of blue you turn, Galahad.”
I could hear the other deputies laughing in the background. They were my protective shadows lurking in the unmarked sheriff 's surveillance van parked across the lot. I was being filmed, too, wow, a real movie star tonight. I guess that's what I get for being the only female deputy in our department. Well, there is one other woman, Connie O'Hara, but she's five-months pregnant and doesn't do bare midriffs particularly well at the moment. Therefore, I prance and freeze with ice on my eyelashes and a nose redder than Rudolph's, but all in my own special seductive way.
On the bright side, since early this evening, my trusty little band of men and I have busted twenty-eight truckers, six bored husbands, and one lesbian, all horny as billy goats. I guess that's worth turning blue over, but I'd sorta rather be back in Bermuda at Black's beach villa where he whisked me off to recover from my injuries. About an hour ago, though, I began to think another murder case would look good about now. Maybe somebody that got whacked in a steam room. Yeah, with a heated swimming pool and a bunch of hot tubs. Maybe I'll trot over to Black's digs later tonight and thaw out in his giant spa. Luckily he owns a luxury hotel on the lake, named Cedar Bend Lodge, where he keeps his gigantic penthouse apartment and lets me use its amenities whenever I like.
Bud was talking in my ear again. “Hey, guess what, Morgan? Somebody just called in a missin' person up north of the lake somewhere. Bet you're just dyin' to take it, right?”
My adrenaline went rat-a-tat-tat. Around here in rural mid-Missouri, missing-person cases were top of the line in the excitement arena. I controlled my glee as a pickup truck drove by, then slowed down when they saw me offering my wares. I put my hand over my mouth and whispered, “You know I am, but a couple of johns are nibbling on my line, as we speak. Hold off a minute and let me bust them.”
Bud said, “Okey-dokey, but make it quick.”
I hastily painted my come-hither-you-dumb-suckers look on my face, opened my thrift-store ermine faux fur and contorted into my ultra-sexy, provocative pose, remembering to display my grape-Popsicle legs to the very best advantage. Man, if I did attract another john, he'd probably turn to ice when he touched me, like Mr. Freeze in
Batman
. Then again he might have a heater in his car that I could press up against. Ah, ask and ye shall receive.
The two guys in the battered blue Dodge pickup decided just a little too late that I was a worthy conquest and had to swerve to the curb at the last second. I guess that's why they hit the lamppost with the Christmas star on top. Sometimes I'm just too alluring for my own good.
I looked up into the lightly spiraling white snowflakes and made sure the rocking glittery adornment wasn't going to fall on my head. That would be a catchy headline:
POLICEWOMAN /HOOKER SMASHED FLAT BY FALLING STAR.
All business now that I had a couple of easy marks, I worked up some serious slither and sidled sexily toward my dynamic duo waiting under the streetlight.
“Hey, there, hotties, you looking for a date?” Sexy, breathy, freezing. Hey, I'd seen how the hookers do it on HBO.
The guy in the passenger seat said, “Hey, there, you sweet little piece of thang.”
Huh?
My fellow deputies laughed heartily into my earpiece. Unprofessional, they are, yes. But I, being the only serious police officer in the group, ignored their glee, kept a straight face as I batted snow-crusted eyelashes at my twin Prince Charmings. I hoped all my old scars and bullet wounds were hidden under my skimpy attire. Sometimes my battle mementos make the guys courting me get all nervous and jumpy. Except for Black. He just prescribes painkillers and tells me to duck and weave next time. He's got a couple of impressive scars himself from his Army Ranger days, I might add. Not that we're in competition, or anything.
Fortunately, Billy Joe Naughty Boy wasn't looking at my hatchet scar. He was looking at my Grapette legs with more than a little concern on his face. He had lots of dirty-blond hair everywhere except on top of his head, and a bushy beard with a little piece of Big Mac lettuce crusted in it. Wilted, maybe with a little Special Sauce, too. Dinner, I presumed. I resisted the urge to pluck it out as an act of goodwill and wondered if his gold nose ring made his nostril freeze in these cold climes. My kind of man, all right.
The driver leaned around and got into the act. My, he was so attractive, too. Mohawk haircut all spiked up with Dippity-do and tattooed race cars with flames coming out the back decorating his grimy hands. Also a suave charmer, he said with such self-confidence, “Wanna go party with us? We got lots of beer and Funyuns in back.”
Jeez Louise, my dreams have surely come trueâtwin gourmands willing to share their stash of oniony snacks. Then I thought of the great party going on in the motel rooms just behind me, where more friendly deputies than you could shake a stick at were babysitting all my other eager suitors of the evening. I guess you can call that a party; half of them were having fun.
“You bet, I do, sweetie. What do you guys have in mind?”
Mr. Dreamboat at the passenger window chortled with lots of feeling, or maybe he was just embarrassed at my endearment. Or maybe he was a choking wildebeest in heat. I waited for him to regain his composure and draw breath and wondered if Nose Ring's burning, Christmasy leer could warm up my frozen kneecaps.
Mohawk behind the wheel had his visor down and was spitting on his palms and slicking up his mussed coiffure. I bring out that primping thing in the men I meet. Nose Ring probably would've primped, too, if he knew how. The latter finally figured out how to answer my question.
“Well, both of us are horny as hell, that tell you anything, darlin'?”
I didn't mention what that told me. But just think about bulls in heat, you know, barnyard creatures, scruffy coats, manure smell, and all that.
“Tell you what, sugar. I gotta nice warm room right back there in that motel.” I tossed my head toward our makeshift incarceration units, chock-full of armed and gleeful cops humming “Getting To Know You.”
NASCAR Hands backed up into a parking spot so fast he almost hit the trash receptacle on the corner. The boys were excited, I guess. Maybe I'm a regular Pamela Anderson with a Glock 9mm hidden in my gold lamé purse. Maybe I'm a woman who isn't unconscious, and that's the extent of their requirements. On second thought, consciousness in a woman probably didn't factor in their love life.
I strutted toward him as best I could. Truth is, I strut better in wool socks and hightop Nikes than in fishnets and black-patent stiletto heels. Nose Ring opened the door and stepped out under the streetlight to meet me, obviously an eager beaver. “Just how much's that nice warm room and hot little bod gonna cost us?”
Let me see, what am I gonna cost these two yokels? Donald Trump's entire wealth added to all Queen Elizabeth's palaces, with Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles and his best polo pony thrown in. Not nearly enough. I observed them critically. They weren't exactly the aforementioned The Donald. Cash was not bulging from their pockets with nowhere else to go. They were hoarding Big Mac crumbs for minisnacks. Not wanting to scare them off, I said, “Twenty bucks each? How 'bout that?”
They both looked shocked, and the driver had not turned off the ignition. Uh-oh, maybe I had overrated my appeal. But I knew all was well when Billy Goat One beamed and squealed like Howard Dean at the Iowa caucus. “Hell, yeah! That's what I'm talkin' about!”
Hell, yeah, and get out your lawyer's telephone number. I presented my pearly whites in a sexy, sly smile and jutted my right hip out of my white fur, to clench the great deal they'd just made. Actually I was smiling because I was going to get to go inside and sit on the radiator where four happy-go-lucky, grinning deputies were gathered in the bathroom, guns drawn and all excited. It wasn't fair, they got all the fun of frisking and gloating and watching the looks of horror when they burst into the room. I just got to strut. I motioned at the motel. “You follow me, boys. Heaven's right next door, and I'm taking both of you with me.”
The guy's doubled fist came so quick and hard against my cheekbone that it caught me off guard. My knees buckled and white stars exploded behind my eyes as he grabbed the front of my coat and heaved me headfirst into the front seat. He jumped in after me and slammed the door.
The driver yelled, “What the hell you doin', Leroy?”
Leroy said, “Shut up and floor it, Ethan!” He grabbed me by the hair and said, “You goin' with us, baby, and you ain't never gonna forget us.”
That brought me to my senses real quick, and I began to fight and kick as Ethan stomped the gas pedal and screeched off, laying rubber on the pavement. Halfway down the block, Leroy got me by the throat and slapped my face, but I fought harder, desperately trying to get to the weapon in my purse. Ethan was swerving around and yelling, “Why you doin' this, Leroy? Don't hurt her too bad! She ain't done nothin' !”
I got Leroy a good one in the mouth with my fist. He cursed and tried to ram the top of my head against the dashboard, and that's when I saw the stiletto that had come off my foot in the fight. I grabbed it and drove the four-inch spiked heel down into the driver's crotch as hard as I could. Ethan's scream was as high pitched and girly as Beverly Sills in
Aida.
Then he lost control of the truck, screaming and writhing in pain until we slammed headfirst into a parked car. The impact threw me to the floor and Leroy against the windshield, bloodying his forehead. He fell back against the seat, and I had my weapon out and between his bleary eyes before he could blink.
“You aren't gonna forget me either, dirtbag,” I gritted out, but then both doors flew open and about twelve of my fellow officers were there jerking my two assailants out and spread-eagling them on the ground.
Then Bud was beside me. “You okay, Claire? Man, that happened so fast.”
I shoved my weapon back into my purse. “He sucker punched me in the side of the head, stunned me a little.”