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 offered 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.
55
Atlanta, Georgia
GRAVEL 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 governor 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.