The Eleventh Victim (24 page)

C
.
C. COULD HARDLY FOCUS HIS EYES THIS EARLY IN THE MORNING
. He looked down at his wrist.

Eleven thirty?

Eleven thirty!

Where the hell was he, anyway? What was his room number? His head felt fuzzy and even he, C.C., recognized that the taste in his own mouth was from beyond the grave. Of course, he had no idea how bad it actually smelled, and assumed it was nothing a cup of coffee wouldn’t fix.

He staggered off the couch and looked around.

This was definitely not his room…. His room didn’t have a leather couch. Wait…maybe it did. Nope, it didn’t, of that he was sure. He flopped back down on the sofa to get his bearings.

Where
was
his room?

He felt the outline of his plastic magnetic room key in his pocket. Pulling it out, he realized it did not have the room number stamped on its surface. Damn. When did they stop putting your room number on the key? Ridiculous. Another issue for his agenda.

Spotting a phone on a table beside the couch, he reached over, picked it up, and dialed zero.

“Welcome to the Atlanta downtown Marriott Marquis, the home of the world’s elite travelers. This is Ellie, and how may I direct your call?”

That was a mouthful. It was almost too much for C.C. to comprehend first thing in the morning.

“Yes…ah…ahh…what room am I in?”

“Excuse me, sir?”

“I said what room am I in?” C.C. raised his voice on the last three words to help the receptionist better understand his question.

Marquis phone operator Ellie Jostad duly noted the nasty tone on the other end of the phone. Who in hell was this moron? What room is he in? How can you be sitting in the middle of a damn ballroom and not know it? Why was she, Ellie Jostad, destined to answer morons on the phone all day? Her mother was right…she should have finished classes at DeKalb Junior College and maybe she wouldn’t have to listen to idiots like this for a living. Man, she needed a cigarette.

Instead of throwing down her headphone and lighting up a Merit, she answered. “Sir, you are calling from the Robert E. Lee Grand Ballroom study, if I understand you correctly, sir.”

C.C. tried to lower his voice and attempt to reason with someone clearly suffering from a mental disorder.

“No, let me repeat so you can understand me. What room am I in?”

I should hang up on this rashy jackass, it’s just not worth minimum wage. I can hardly put gas in the car and now this…If Ellie’s supervisor wasn’t four feet away at the coffeemaker, she’d blast this guy…. “Sir, how can I help you? You don’t know where you are? Do I have that right?”

“I mean what room am I registered to? What is my room number?”

“Sir, I am not allowed to release that information over the phone.”

“Ma’am, you are talking to the next governor of the great state of Georgia.”

“Excuse me?”

Dumb bitch. C.C. had to go to the bathroom badly, and he had an intense aversion to all public bathrooms. He would actually only sit on certain commodes…in his homes, and then, only in his master bathroom, his office, the Supreme Court men’s room…his country club was questionable….

“This is Supreme Court Justice Carter,” he said succinctly. “You’re saying you can’t tell a Supreme Court judge his room number?”

“Sir, it is against the Marquis’s security policy to—” C.C. hung up on her, slamming the phone down as hard as he could at a seated angle. He dragged himself out of his chair and stepped into a wide, sunlit hallway outside the Robert E. Lee Ballroom. His eyes were immediately assaulted with light, and his head pounded.

After walking in what seemed to be a circle, he came upon the elevator. Head still pounding, he leaned up against the wall beside the buttons to wait, his eyes closed against the light filtering through the hall.

This was ridiculous.

Once he was in the Mansion, there would be no meetings before noon.

After a lengthy and unpleasant argument at the front desk, C.C. managed to convince a thin young man in his thirties with a pencil nose, that he was in fact Georgia Supreme Court Justice Carter.

It required producing his driver’s license and undergoing a thorough comparison of his person to the photo on the plastic rectangle.

Reluctantly, the clerk handed him a new magnetic strip card and reminded C.C. that the room number was not displayed on the strip for his own safety.

C.C. wouldn’t let it go. “It’s just damn inconvenient.”

“Sir, as I said before, your room number is not displayed on the card for your own safety.”

Sanctimonious little shit.

C.C. fumed as he turned away from the marble-top desk and headed back across the expansive lobby to the elevator bank.

He would refuse to set foot in this shit-box again when he made it to the Mansion. And he’d see to it that no other Democratic Party soirees would ever be held here on principle.

C.C. made his way down the carpeted corridor and unlocked the door to his and Betty’s room, number 1112.

He started talking before he was even fully in the room, calling out to Betty as he opened the door.

“Betty? You’ll never believe what happened to me!”

Maybe if he talked fast enough and filled up the room with chatter he could avoid the fallout. He had long ago realized his best strategy when coming home after misbehaving was to simply pretend it hadn’t happened.

“Hey, Betty. What a night! Did you have a good time? That was some dress you had on, honey.”

Damn! Before the words were totally out of his mouth he realized his mistake. What if she asked about it? What the hell did she have on? Why did he have to open his big mouth? Wait…he could just say how great her figure was. That was easy. He could fake it.

But the question just hung there in the still air of the hotel room. The AC was off and the curtains were pulled open, letting the sunlight pour into the room.

“Betty? Sugar Pie?”

Uh-oh—not a sound. She must be sulking in the restroom.

The TV was on with the volume muted, having reverted back to the hotel channel offering in-room movies and games. It even of
fered porn, C.C. knew, and a pretty damn good selection, too. Especially the ones with nurses.

Of course, it would be a cold day in hell before Betty would even think the word “porn,” much less order some. C.C. tiptoed past the two neatly made double beds and rapped on the bathroom door.

“Honey, about last night…I just had to meet up with some of the party people until it was so late…I hated to wake you up late after your drive, so I just let you sleep.”

No answer still. He rapped the door again and finally opened it. He knew she would be there, sitting at the vanity, either in tears or staring at him disapprovingly.

He sucked it up and went in.

Other than the faintest smell of hairspray, Betty was gone.

Nothing…not a suit in the closet, no eyeglasses by the bed, no damp towel on the rack, no tissue in the trash. Nothing.

On the vanity was a note, though. “Leaving early to avoid delays southbound between Atlanta and Forsyth. B.”

Man, she had nerve. If that didn’t beat all.

After all he had done for her. Truth is, he’d made her. She was a skinny nobody before him and now she was Mrs. Clarence E. Carter. And her leaving the hotel like this without even a word?

C.C. left the room and headed for the valet. No reason to tarry.

Easing himself behind the wheel of the Caddy, he put the AC on max and the stereo on high. Luther Vandross’s voice melted through the speakers and sunk into the car’s soft leather interior.

Reaching under the driver’s seat, C.C. dislodged the super-secret silver flask he kept wedged beside the seat controls. Looking into the rearview, he waved good-naturedly at the poor schmuck just behind him driving an old burgundy Toyota Camry.

Poor guy was close enough that C.C. could see his face pressed up against the front windshield, squinting because the glass wasn’t even tinted. The sun was brutal at this time of the day. You just didn’t know what driving was until you’d had a Caddy.

G
RAVEL FLEW AS C.C. TURNED IN TO THE PINK FUZZY. HE GLANCED
at the clock embedded in lacquered wood on the Caddy’s dash. Tina should be here by now, having a salad for lunch as usual.

She rarely dined at home, and who could blame her, with that roommate?

That Lola, she was a strange one. Not only did she strip fulltime at the club with Tina, she was a devout Catholic who collected reams of religious memorabilia. She was born deep in the bayou in Slidell, Louisiana, a Cajun who dabbled in the art of “white magic,” as she euphemistically called it. Lola practiced Santeria, voodoo, and was not at all afraid to throw a little hank on somebody now and then, if such a hex were absolutely necessary. Lola was forever cooking up some foul stank on the stove in order to heal the sick, bring home a loved one, or seek Christian vengeance on an enemy. Lola’s “enemies” were normally other girls at the club who cheated her out of lap dances and tips, obnoxious customers, and, quite often, the phone company, who routinely disconnected her phone for nonpayment.

On good days, Tina and Lola’s apartment smelled heavily of flower-scented potpourri, Glade Plug-Ins, and hairspray. On others, it reeked of boiling chicken entrails stirred up with who knows what. Lola occasionally threw the gooey stuff on the enemy’s car, smeared it on their front door at an opportune moment, or, in special cases, actually fed a tiny voodoo replica of the enemy
to
the stank as it boiled on the kitchen stove.

C.C. made it his business not to ask what exactly stunk, but for safety’s sake, he stayed on Lola’s good side and never, ever ate out of the refrigerator.

Tina avoided it as well, and had as many meals as possible at the Pink Fuzzy.

C.C. was aware that some people didn’t enjoy eating at strip clubs, citing sanitary concerns such as pubic hair in the food. C.C. personally pooh-poohed such reviews. Food and theater critics are always asses anyway. Too snooty to review food in a strip club…fine, they were the ones missing out. Food. The little bit he’d eaten at the announcement party last night had been just enough to pad his stomach for his assault on the bar.

The lot was only about a third of the way full at this hour, and C.C. parked in his usual spot under a telephone pole with a security light attached. That always helped to locate the car once the parking lot had grown dark and jam-packed with vehicles. Damn SUVs and pickups would end up towering over the Caddy.

Now
there
would be some innovative legislation that everyone could appreciate, parking spots delegated for SUVs, pickups, and the like, allowing the rest of the world to see their cars when they came out of clubs at night. Hey, it could apply to grocery stores too, not just strip clubs.

This governor thing was going to be good.

C.C. had been on a roll with the press lately, especially since the Cruise reversal. They actually liked him now that Cruise had walked free. He just hoped the little freak didn’t kill somebody else, but of course he would. With any luck, though, he wouldn’t get caught and it wouldn’t come back on C.C. Maybe he’d commit the next murder in another jurisdiction.

By that time, the election would most likely be over anyway.

C.C. opened the driver’s door and rolled out his left leg first, his black leather shoe crunching down into deep gravel. He took another pull on the flask before his right foot joined the left and he made his way across the parking lot to the heavy wooden double doors of the club.

Not one to ask for special treatment, he reached backwards for his wallet to get his ID as he stepped inside.

“Hey Judge. How’s it hanging?” asked a burly bouncer, squeezed into a shiny, dark-gray suit and sitting on a stool behind the ticket counter–type lectern. His biceps were straining against the cloth like he had two Virginia hams stuffed into them.

“Good, Sam, good.”

Sam smiled out from above a collar that was bound tightly with a maroon tie. C.C. noticed his diamond tie tack. Always classy here, he thought approvingly.

“Saw you on the news last night, Judge. Looking good.”

That gave C.C. pause. The news? “What was that? I was tied up for both the six and eleven.”

“Don’t be shy, Judge! Congratulations! The announcement last night! About throwing your hat in the ring for governor! It was everywhere, especially at eleven.”

“Oh, yeah! The announcement. It was something, all right. You know I just want to serve the people, Sam, just want to serve the people.”

“We turned all the screens in the whole place on you all at the same time…even the JumboTron was on you, instead of the dancers. It was something, it really was.”

“Thanks for the support, Sam.” C.C. smiled widely, tipping Sam a ten for future favors. “Where’s Tina? She here yet?”

“Nope. But she should be. Her show starts in an hour. When she gets here, I’ll tell her to come see you at the bar first thing. Go on over there to the bar, Judge. Burger’s on me, just the way you like it, bacon and cheese, double-meat…right?”

C.C. smiled again, then sidled up to the bar and took a seat, accepting his due as the front-runner gubernatorial candidate.

“Jack straight up…and just show it the water, boss. Just barely show it the water. Just a sprinkle.”

The drink appeared before him and he fixed his eyes on the JumboTron, where a new girl was dancing in pink patent-leather boots that went up over her knees.

Sitting there in his leather swivel bar stool waiting for his free burger, C.C. realized he could easily pull a Reagan. Go from gover
nor to a national platform. It was his for the taking. Washington needed him. His foreign policy was brilliant. He hated Iraq and North Korea and wanted to nuke them both till they both glowed yellow. God wanted him to be in Washington.

Who
was
that girl in the pink boots? C.C. tried his best to place her as the music blared.

The din of the football game blared from several widescreen plasmas, serving as background for various women onstage in the “entertainment” area. C.C. watched one after the next, each more beautiful than the last. He had lost count of how many bourbons had come and gone.

The new girl in the pink boots was now making her second appearance since C.C. had settled in at the bar well over an hour ago. Her platinum hair was pulled high on the back of her head in a ponytail that swung halfway down her back, and she writhed to a Gwen Stefani tune.

The pole was a wonderful thing and this girl knew how to use it. C.C. marveled at how a waist that tiny could physically support boobs so huge. The girl was great, true, but she couldn’t compare to Tina.

Who was late…again.

C.C. checked his watch, growing impatient.

Two new girls in an Asian motif were on the stage. One had something like a fly-swatter in her hand. Okay. C.C. settled back for the show.

“Lenny, hit me one more time…just to take the edge off. And, the cheeseburger?”

Onstage, the girls began a series of elaborate contortions, one doing a backbend, G-string and pasties toward the audience, while the other miraculously managed to hang upside down by her ankles on the pole, dangerously waving one leg out toward the audience.

Mesmerized, C.C. didn’t break his gaze, but as a second thought, called out, “And Lenny, make it well!”

Rare meat disgusted C.C. Always had. He always liked to taste a little grill in his steak, lighter fluid and all. He only wished he had stock in A-1.

He almost didn’t notice when Tina finally showed up, breezing through the front door past Sam and straight to the bar to hug him lightly from behind, reaching her arms across his chest. Startled, he looked down. The long, hot-pink enamel nails studded with rhinestones were a dead giveaway.

“What do you want to drink, babe?”

Disentangling herself, she carelessly dropped a huge metallic silver Prada bag to the floor beside their stools and settled in beside C.C.

“Pink Cosmo for me, Lenny. I only have ten. I’m due onstage.” Tina called out her order, then swiveled around to look C.C. in the eye.

“I saw you on the eleven o’clock news. You were standing in front of the mikes.”

C.C. waited for the same old complaint she hadn’t been allowed to come to the party.

“You looked good, babe. I’ve never seen you in a tux before.”

“And you look great!” he said, trying to sidestep the party last night as Lenny set two drinks with napkins in front of them. “What’s your song? Got a new routine for me?”

She looked back, coyly eyeing him over the rim of the frothy drink.

Using her long pink nails, she dug into the froth, fished out the lime, and started tearing the fruit off the rind with her teeth.

“Maybe I do have a new routine just for you…you’ll have to see. Right now I’m feeling all left out and hurt about last night. I saw Betty standing behind you. I bet you still haven’t told her, have you?” Her tone took on a childlike whine.

He turned toward the widescreen. The game went to commercial and came back to two men in painful-looking sports coats who began discussing the game, laughing as if they’d told the funniest joke ever. C.C. couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Tina pulled his sleeve. When he didn’t answer, she continued, “You know, I’m starting to think that after I pulled you through all
this, I’ll never even be invited to the Governor’s Mansion, much less live there with you like you promised.”

“Baby, you know now’s not the time to announce our engagement. Just be patient. You’ll see.”

Tina glanced at her watch, drained her drink, and slid down off the chair until her spikes touched the floor. Gathering the Prada and the full-length amber fur coat she carried everywhere, she whispered into C.C.’s ear.

“I got you a little surprise tonight.”

“What’s that?”

Her last “surprise” had been when she tattooed his initials inside the top of her thigh. It had led to a nasty infection and cost him thousands in doctors’ bills.

“You’ll see!” With a tongue-kiss in his ear, she was off. A thick cloud of perfume hung in the air behind her.

The music blared, the players ran up and down the field onscreen, the girls danced, and Tina made her way to her dressing room. C.C. pulled a nice Dominican from his shirt pocket and lit up.

The two with the fly-swatter were still onstage. By the looks of it, C.C. figured they must be professional gymnasts.

The cheeseburger came with a huge side of fries. After smothering them with ketchup, he dug in. He waved at the next man down the bar and gestured for the salt. Before the guy could respond, a feminine hand came between them. It was wearing a full-length, hot-pink evening glove, with plenty of bling on the slender fingers outside the glove. Reaching between the bar patrons, it was holding a salt shaker.

“Hi, Judge. I’m a friend of Tina’s. How are you tonight? Feeling good? You’re
looking
good!”

C.C. looked into the eyes of one of the most beautiful, tall, statuesque women he had ever laid eyes on. She was the color of mocha, with brunette hair falling nearly to her waist in waves.

“Well, hello! It’s nice to meet you. Have we met before?”

“I don’t think so.”

After all the bourbons, C.C. couldn’t quite make out her accent, but it was husky and exotic.

What a beauty! C.C. was thrilled. Could she possibly be…?

“Are you my surprise? From Tina?” he asked tentatively, hopefully.

Would Tina be so magnanimous?

Of course she would! She was being squired by the next governor!

This was his victory lap!

She smiled at him. Her lip gloss smelled like cinnamon. It was so thick he could smell it, even over the cheeseburger.

“Surprise? Yes, that’s what I am…your surprise…your special, private surprise.” Her words came out like honey being poured from a jar.

He knew it. Tina was an angel.

“But for the rest of the surprise, Judge, the cherry on the icing, we need privacy. It’ll only take a minute. But my special surprise for you has to be in private. Tina said so.”

Private? Just the two of them?

Just at that moment, right on cue, Tina emerged onto the stage dressed in an Egyptian-style headdress and sandals with straps crisscrossing up her legs. Her eyes were rimmed with elaborate blue and black kohl eye shadow, and she wore a shiny black Cleopatra wig. She lithely stepped up onto the backs of two muscle-bound guys on all fours on the stage floor. Just before she swung into gyrations, balanced on their backs, she tossed a kiss onto one index finger toward the JumboTron, her secret “hello” to C.C.

He took it as a sign that he was meant to fully enjoy his “surprise,” with no guilt attached. Tina truly was his dream girl.

The surprise whispered into his ear, “Go to the VIP men’s room, far end stall. I’ll meet you in five minutes.”

Without a word, C.C. drained the remainder of the golden liquid in his glass, turned, and headed toward the men’s room in the VIP at the rear of the club.

Making his way through the club, C.C. adjusted his eyes to the darkened VIP Pinkie Suites.

“Hey Jack. How are you tonight?” C.C. asked the attendant outside the bathroom.

“You’re looking good, Judge. Looking good.” C.C. breezed through the swinging door and, amazingly, found himself alone in the john. By instinct, he squatted over and checked. No feet below.

Perfect!

This was incredible, just the beginning of his new life and all the wonderful opportunities that would come with it. As instructed, he marched directly into the last stall.

Wait…maybe he should freshen up.

Peeking outside the stall’s metal door, he noticed he was still alone and ventured out over to the multiple sinks lined beneath a huge horizontal mirror. A long counter ran below the mirror, covered with men’s hairsprays, condoms, lotions, and aftershaves.

He quickly squirted himself but good with something called Drakkar Noir. It sounded foreign and exciting. He added squirts under each arm and one quick, discreet but drenching spray down the front of his pants aimed directly at his crotch.

You never know.

C.C. scurried back to his stall and sat down, waiting. It felt like Christmas morning!