“Anyway, it’s not the tickets, Hailey. You know your father hates to fly. And I can’t leave him alone here, not even for a few days,” she added, lest Hailey suggest it.
And she had been about to. It was on the tip of her tongue.
“You haven’t been back home to visit in so long. I miss you, sugar.”
“I miss you, too. I’ll try, I promise. When things slow down.”
The truth was, she didn’t want to go back home and back to all the memories. It could trigger a depression Hailey couldn’t afford.
They talked a little longer, about people Hailey used to know and places she used to visit. She missed them so terribly-sometimes her chest ached she wanted to be back home again so much. But all she had left there were her parents. They were the only link to her old life. She’d deliberately lost touch with everyone but Fincher and now he was in Iraq.
Just before they hung up, her mother said, “Oh, Hailey, by the way, they’ve been writing about that man…the last one you put on death row.”
“Cruise?”
He wasn’t the only one she’d sent to death row, but he was by far the most prominent-and the most cunning.
“Yes. He’s trying to appeal. Like they all do. The Court won’t let him out, though, will they?”
“They won’t.”
“I hope not. Good night, sweet girl. Sweet dreams.”
The phone clicked off. Sweet dreams. She wished.
20
Atlanta, Georgia
C.C. PARKED THE CADDY, SLIPPED THE KEYS OUT OF THE IGNITION, and weaved through parked cars to cross the asphalt parking lot of the Pink Fuzzy. Stepping into the club’s heavily air-conditioned, darkened fantasy universe, his nerves immediately calmed down and the pain of public service magically began to ebb away.
Making his way to the bar, he ordered a bourbon and found a prime seat just in time to catch a floor show featuring the most exquisite woman he had ever seen in his life.
Her dark hair fell down her back in waves, and if those curves weren’t natural, there was a plastic surgeon out there that rivaled Michelangelo.
Sitting there, C.C. was mesmerized by her stunningly choreographed routine, set to music that simply chanted the same question over and over on the loudspeaker: “Who let the dogs out? Who, who, who, who?”
Or were they saying “woof”?
Whichever. On each “who” or “woof,” she bent over and poked her fanny right out at the audience and directly at eye level. Her G-string, which she shed provocatively near the end of the song, was appropriately decorated with a spotted-Dalmatian motif on the front. Despite the limited lyrics, she performed like a buck-naked prima ballerina on opening night at Lincoln Center.
When she was finished, C.C. nearly fell off his bar stool applauding.
The girl launched into her next routine, to “You Can Keep Your Hat On.” It ended with a crowd-pleasing coup de grâce, a Chinese split that brought down the house. He watched her leave the stage and disappear down the steps.
She had to rake in at least a deuce and a quarter per song, C.C. decided. Inquisitive at heart, C.C. wound his way to the back of the club to find her. Two twenty-five wasn’t cheap. He wondered how much he had left in his wallet.
There, he discovered for the very first time, a super exclusive lounge area sequestered from the rest of the bar called the “Pinkie Suite.”
It cost a cool thousand to get in, but once you paid up, they’d hand you a Cuban stogie, a pull of bourbon straight up with open bar from then on, and let the good times roll. No questions asked.
The best part: Select clientele could take the entertainer of their choice into private, pink-velvet-curtained booths for some special one-on-one time with your own Pink Fuzzy.
C.C. was in. No question about it.
And there she was: This time up close and personal in the Pinkie Suite.
Cigar and bourbon in hand, he made his way over. She was seated demurely on a bar stool, having a go at the salted peanuts placed out for free on the bar, her legs modestly crossed over a standard Pinkie G-string now replacing the Dalmatian.
“Your routine was a thing of beauty. I take it you’re a trained…what?…ballerina?” C.C. asked, sidling onto the stool beside hers.
She looked him up, down, and over. No answer. Just a sip on her drink and another grab at the peanuts. She obviously did not know who he was.
“So how are you tonight? Has anyone told you you’re gorgeous?”
“Fine. And yes.”
“I liked your act. It was very creative.”
“Thanks.”
“Who does your choreography?”
“I made it up myself.”
Impressed, he nodded. “You’re quite a talent. Ever think of doing something to ‘Freebird’?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you should.”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “I’m an artist. I need to be moved by the dancer’s muse in order to create a routine.”
“So? ‘Freebird’ doesn’t move your muse?”
“It’s passé.”
“It’s classic.”
“I don’t think so.”
She glared. Obviously, he’d stirred up her creative dander. Oops.
“I’m just sayin’…I’m dyin’ to see you do something to ‘Freebird.’ That’s all.”
She shook her head. Not a chance. Obviously, the muse frowned on “Freebird.”
“The music’s all wrong. Where would I work in the Chinese split? It’s my trademark.”
“That, I don’t know.” C.C. edged his stool closer. “How about you and me go continue this conversation in one of those booths?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you know who I am, honey?”
She shook her head as though she didn’t care, but he could tell she was interested in finding out.
She leaned forward a little as he took out his wallet and flashed his gold-plated judge’s badge at her.
“You’re a cop?” She drew back a little.
“No! I’m a judge.”
“Really?”
“You bet. How about you come with me to my ‘private chambers’?” Again, he nodded at the curtained booths.
She shrugged. “Why not.”
A half hour in the Pinkie Suite with Tina, and C.C. was in love.
Damn, they didn’t have anything like this in Dooley County.
After the last floor show, C.C. trailed Tina across town through empty streets to a two-bedroom apartment she shared with Lola, one of the other dancers at the Pink Fuzzy.
“You know what I’ve been thinkin’, C.C.?” she said as they walked up to the door. He stayed a few steps behind her, admiring the view illuminated in the arc of the headlights of a beat-up Camry parked at the curb
He was afraid to ask, but he did. “What’s that?”
“I need some collagen for my lips.”
Damn! She was a beautiful girl, and discreet.
But Lord, he had a feeling this was gonna cost him. He might have to actually go back to working for a living, but the thought of his old law practice situated on the little square in downtown Dooley County made his stomach hurt.
“I think you’re perfect just like you are,” he said, trying to dissuade talk of more plastic surgery.
“Home, sweet home,” she said with a smile, and led him over the threshold.
C.C. stepped into the apartment’s tiny foyer and let out a bloodcurdling scream when he was met with the sight of a bloody corpse just inside the front door.
The judge continued to scream bloody murder as he took off running for the Caddy.
“C.C.! Wait!” Tina called, chasing him down the brick walk in her stilettos. “It’s not real! Shut up the screaming and get back in here!”
C.C. skidded to a halt, turning back. “Not real? What the hell is it?”
“It’s Lola’s Christ!”
Lola’s Christ? What the hell did that mean?
C.C. slowly climbed the steps again and peered inside.
C.C. was raised Baptist and was only familiar with airbrushed pictures of Christ wherein He was beautiful, clean-shaven, fair-skinned, and blue-eyed…usually walking on water or holding His hands out lovingly to the Universe, with the morning sky emblazoned behind Him. Not all bloody and mangy-looking.