Cooked Goose (25 page)

“By the way,” she said, her hand on the doorknob. “Exactly what happened the second after Stipp told you to relocate your badge where the sun don’t shine?”

Dirk sniffed. “Funny thing. At that very moment, the dude lost his balance and fell. Banged his right eye on a door frame. Got himself a nasty shiner.”

“Really? Imagine that.” She reached down for his hand, held it up to the porch light, and studied his slightly skinned knuckles. “How did this happen? Did you, uh, hit the door frame, too?”

“I was trying to grab him, keep him from fallin’.” He shrugged and shook his head sadly. “Damn. I guess I missed.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

8:01 p.m.

Savannah picked up the phone in her bedroom and punched out Tammy’s number. Any young woman as attractive as Tam should be out at this time of night, sharing a meal—and maybe even dessert—with an equally attractive male.

But Savannah knew she would be home.

Long ago, Savannah had formulated the theory that the more attractive a woman was, the less likely she was to be asked out on a date. Super homely gals didn’t seem to receive a lot of invitations either. But those ladies in the middle, the girl-next-door types…they were scarfing up on the men.

At least, that was the reason Savannah preferred to explain why she was seldom asked. Unless you counted dinner with a couple of gay gentlemen or happy hour beer and pretzels with Dirk.

She didn’t count those.

“Hi, babycakes,” she said when Tammy picked up the phone. “What ’cha doin’?”

Tammy sounded so out of breath that, for a second, Savannah reconsidered. Maybe her assistant wasn’t that lonely after all.

Then Tammy answered Savannah’s question with a panted, “Working out. Floor exercises. Sit-ups and—”

“Nevermind, you make me tired just thinking about it. Have you got a pair of five-inch heels?”

Tammy was quiet for a moment, thinking. “I might. Why? Do you want to borrow them?”

“No, I want you to wear them. I’ll be wearing my own, five and a half inches, bright red.”

“Me? Why? Are we going to play Hookers on the Stroll?”

“No, just Loose Ladies on the Town."

“What’s the difference?”

“About four inches of leg and three inches of cleavage. We just want them to drool, not shove money in our garter belt. Get ready. I’ll pick you up around 2200 hours.”

* * *

9:12 p.m.

“Your sister doesn’t like me, and I have to tell you, I’m not too crazy about her either,” Margie said as she stood in the doorway of Savannah’s bedroom and watched her pulling her “fallen woman garb” from various dresser drawers.

“Oh?” Savannah studied the small rip in the hem of her leather skirt—thanks to a tussle she had been in with a porn shop robber. Another assignment of Dirk’s. It wasn’t that big a tear. She doubted that Edward Stipp, after all those years in San Quentin, would even notice, let alone give a hoot. “Did something happen between you two while I was walking with Dirk?” she asked.

“Kinda.” Margie walked into the room, gave a furtive glance down the hall, and quietly closed the door behind her.

“You don’t have to sneak,” Savannah told her. “Vi once slept right through a Georgia twister. The tornado tore most of the roof off, but when it had moved on down the road, we found Vidalia still snoring away in her bed. So, tell me…what’s up?”

Margie walked over to Savannah’s bed and plopped down on her tummy, her black-booted feet waving in the air. “She got mad because she said I hollered at her kids. That was the word she used. Hollered.”

“I see.” Savannah searched through her closet until she found the disco-era red satin blouse with the deep vee neckline. Then she took the assorted garments into the adjoining bathroom and went inside to dress. She left the door open while she changed so they could continue their conversation. “Well?” she said as she slipped off her sweater and slacks. “Did you? Holler, that is.”

“Kinda. I told Jack he was a rotten little booger rat, and I said it pretty loud. I guess that was hollering.”

Savannah stuck her head out of the bathroom and gave Margie a curious grin. “Booger rat? Where did you get that?”

Margie giggled. “I don’t know. Just sorta made it up on the spot.”

“Hm-m. Different.” Savannah ducked back inside and began to slip on the garters and fishnets. “And what had he done to earn such an auspicious title?”

“He made some nasty comments about my hair and my nose ring. And I’d already told him two or three times to shut up. Nicely, of course.”

“Of course.” Savannah grunted, trying to contain her burgeoning bosom in a push-up bra. Might as well give ol’ Ed the cop killer an eyeful. If he was up to his nasty former habits, she would use any wiles, feminine or otherwise, to nail him.

“And I waited for Vidalia to tell him to be nice,” Margie continued. “You know, like a mom’s supposed to do. But she didn’t. So I got mad and—”

“And hollered, ‘Booger rat!’”

“Something like that.”

Having put on the rest of the outfit, Savannah stepped out of the bathroom. She had transformed herself into what she hoped was a poor man’s version of a femme fatale.

“Whoa!” Margie bolted up off the bed, her eyes wide with amazement. “You look fantastic!”

“Oh, you think so?” Savannah decided that the kid had been insulted sufficiently in one evening, so she swallowed any wisecracks about her lack of taste.

“Yeah, but you need some metal.”

“I was going to put on earrings. Big, hangie-downie ones.”

“No, no, no. Here, you can borrow some of my stuff.” The girl hurried over to her and began to unbuckle her own paraphernalia and transfer it to Savannah. A minute later, Savannah was looking at herself in the mirror, wearing a metal-studded dog collar around her neck, a bracelet to match, a heavy chain around her waist and on her thumb, an enormous skull-shaped ring with rhinestone eyes.

“Now, sit down there.” Margie pointed to the dressing table. “I’ll do your hair.”

After the cloud of hair spray had settled, Savannah emerged with bigger hair than she had ever imagined possible. Margie had given her a modified version of her own spiked do, and Savannah had to admit, it was wild, but fun.

“You look perfect,” Margie exclaimed, as proud as any Hollywood makeover expert. “Except for the tattoos.”

“Tattoos? I don’t have any tattoos.”

“Exactly. That’s what’s missing.”

“Oh well. Edward will just have to do without.”

“Is that who you’re going out with? Somebody named Edward?”

“Sort of. It’s not really a date but—”

A shriek cut through the air, scaring them both witless. They turned around to see Vidalia standing in the doorway, wearing a nightgown that resembled a burlap sack, her hands clasped over her mouth, her eyes bugged.

“What is it?” Savannah said as she jumped up from her stool in front of the dressing table and hurried to her sister. “What’s wrong with you?”

Visions of a premature delivery danced through her head, nightmare fantasies of the baby falling right out of Vidalia, and rolling across the floor, before anyone could catch it.

“What’s wrong with
me
?” Vidalia said, gasping like the quintessential Southern belle with a case of the vapors. “What’s wrong with
you
? My lord, Savannah, wait until I tell Gran.”

“Tell Gran what?”

“Don’t you act all innocent with me.” Vidalia shook her finger in Savannah’s face. It was all Savannah could do not to bite it. Hard. “I know what that sort of a git up that is.”

“What git up?”

“The one you’re wearing. You’ve moved out here to California...this land of sin...this Sodom and Gomorrah and you’ve become a...a...a streetwalker!"

Savannah laughed and gave her horrified sister a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry, Vi. I’m not a hooker. Far from it.” She sighed. “Hookers get a lot more money and respect than us lowly private detectives.”

* * *

If the Shoreline Club had been a little classier, it might have been called a dive. If the clientele had been a tad more discriminating they might have been called the sludge of the earth.

But the place would have to be renovated and every occupant would need to bathe and shave—including the women—to reach such lofty aspirations.

Most of the lost souls holding down stools at the bar looked like they had just been released from San Quentin.

Edward Stipp might be hard to spot.

Savannah had been here many times before in the pursuit of law and justice. She never failed to marvel at the genius of the decor.

The bar was decorated in a nautical theme with the usual assortment of mangy, stuffed, marlin on the wall, a rusty anchor hanging from the ceiling, and a tacky mural that featured a grotesquely busty and slightly cross-eyed mermaid. But no self- respecting sailor would be caught dead hefting a pint in the Shoreline.

“I want you to notice,” Savannah told Tammy as the two of them took their lives in their hands and strolled through the joint, “that I take you to only the best places.”

“I’m noticing. I’m noticing,” Tammy replied, moving a little closer to Savannah for protection.

Savannah couldn’t blame Tammy for being a bit uneasy. They had created quite a stir among the patrons, Savannah with her punk/metal look and Tammy who was shrink-wrapped in a black latex top and pants and high-heeled slides.

“Over here,” Savannah said, guiding her to a cozy, U-shaped booth in the back. One where they could both sit with their backs to the wall.
 

Strategy was everything.

As they slipped in, Savannah said, “I’ll get in the middle, you on one side. Don’t let anybody sit next to you; we need an escape route.”

“Gotcha.” Tammy stared, wide-eyed at the dozen or so faces around them. All looked like mug shots as they ogled the women. “Do you see him?”

“Don’t know. I don’t want to look around yet and be too obvious about it.”

Tammy flinched. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

“No problem.”

A heavyset guy with sweat stains under his pits and booze stains on his long-ago-white apron came out from behind the bar and sauntered over to them. “What’ll you ladies be having tonight?”

Tammy perked up at the mention of refreshment. “I’ll be having a min—”

“A couple of beers,” Savannah said, squeezing Tammy’s knee under the table. “Whatever you have on draft will be fine.”

“Beer? Why did you order me a beer?” Tammy whispered as he turned to walk away. “You know I don’t like to drink anything but—”

“Mineral water. Yes, I know. Come on, Tammy. You’re undercover here. You can’t sip Perrier in a place like this. Dirk’s right; you
are
a fluff head.”

“A healthy one.”

“Obnoxiously healthy. So one beer won’t hurt you. You gotta nurse it all evening anyway. We have to stay alert, just in case this Edward fellow turns out to be a rocket scientist, and we have to outwit him.”

At that moment, a skinny, emaciated fellow who looked fifty-something going on eighty walked through the door. Edward Stipp was only a shell of the man he had been in his misspent youth, when he had made that police officer kneel and beg for his life. The life Stipp had taken anyway.

Savannah resisted the urge to pull her Beretta out of her purse and shove it in his left ear. Although she did play with the fantasy for a few seconds before turning to Tammy.

“That’s our date for the evening. William Holden over there in the gray sweatshirt with the swollen black eye.” Tammy’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “William? I thought you said his name was Ed something.”

“It is. William Holden was an old…. Boy, sometimes you make me feel like an Edsel.”

“Ed who?”

“Forget it and look seductive. We’ve got a pigeon to pluck.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, the “pigeon” was sitting at their table, already missing a few tail feathers. Having bolted several shots of whiskey, Edward Stipp had succumbed to Savannah’s considerable down-homey charms and was pouring out his life story to her and Tammy. All except the San Quentin part, which he had edited from his narrative.

“You’ve been a legal advisor for the past thirty years,” Savannah mused. “How interesting. Where did you get your law degree?”

“I don’t have a degree,” he said proudly as he studied his empty shot glass with his one good eye. Dirk—or rather, the door frame at the station—had done a real number on the other one. “I’ve just had a lot of spare time on my hands, so I studied law and gave advice to my buddies who needed it.”

Savannah bit her tongue and painted a sweet smile on her lips so that she wouldn’t spit on him. Scum like this kept the legal system mired down with ridiculous lawsuits about the fat content of their prison menu and the thickness of their pillow. Furnished with a law library that most pre-law students would envy, these jailhouse “lawyers” spent hours poring over texts that would instruct them how to bring such asinine charges. All on the taxpayers’ dollar.