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  While police divers probed the milky depths of the rockpit, García walked the shoreline. It was so windy that he couldn’t light a cigar. Sand from the mountainous limerock dredgings whipped across the wide water, stinging the detective’s eyes. Trudging through the chalky dirt, García turned his thoughts to Jerry Killian, and the nearly impossible obstacles to solving that murder. Jurisdiction was a tangle, and it depended on where Killian had died. If he was killed at his apartment, the case belonged to the Fort Lauderdale police. If he was murdered near the river in Montana, the investigation fell to authorities in Mineral County. And if Killian was abducted from Florida to Montana against his will, the FBI should get a piece of the action.

  García himself had no jurisdiction whatsoever, no legitimate excuse for pursuing the case except one: nobody else seemed interested. The detective was nagged by an old-fashioned belief that no one should get away with murder so easily. He also wanted to punish the creeps who ruined his family’s vacation. The possible involvement of a bigshot politician added urgency to the quest. In fact, García had become so fascinated with the Killian case that he was tempted to take extended sick leave from his Dade County homicide duties. He resented every minute wasted on mundane murder chores, such as bagging fragments of Francisco Goyo. Here was a common shitbird felon with a five-page rap sheet. The world was enriched by his sudden passing. Why, García wondered, am I out here hunting for the man’s head? The cosmic purpose eluded him.

  At noon, one of the police divers surfaced with a splash. As he paddled to shore, he held an object high out of the water. The object was the shape of a large coconut. Assuming the worst, García retrieved the voluminous Goyo paperwork from the trunk of the Caprice. Returning to the shore, he found the divers gathered around the severed head of a large brindle hog. The hog was wearing a baseball cap: Atlanta Braves.

  “Fletcher’ll be pissed,” García said.

  The divers debated the significance of the find. Animal sacrifice was common among worshipers of Santería, a black magic popular in parts of South Florida. Chickens, goats, turtles and other creatures were slaughtered to appease specific gods; depending on the ceremony, it wasn’t unusual to find these grisly offerings in public places. The baseball cap was a riddle, though; none of the cops knew what to make of it. Was the hog beheaded as a curse on the Atlanta Braves, or as a tribute? For guidance the divers turned to Al García. As the senior Cuban, he was presumed most knowledgeable in matters of the occult.

  “It’s not a religious sacrifice,” García said, winging it. “It’s a family pet.”

  “No way,” scoffed the diver who’d found the head.

  “Didn’t you ever watch ‘Green Acres’? They had a helluva Pig.”

  The diver said, “Come off it, Al. What kind of people kill their own pet?”

  “Hey, chico, we’re in a recession. All bets are off.” On that somber note, García departed the rockpit. Instead of driving back to the station, he took the turnpike north toward Broward County. On the way, he stopped at a toll plaza, phoned Donna and told her he’d probably be late for dinner.

  “What’s up,” she asked.

  “The usual,” García said. “Murder. Topless babes. Nude oil wrestling.”

  “You poor thing.”

  “See you around nine.”

  “Good,” Donna said. “I expect to be regaled.”

  Shad was everything that García had expected, and more. The man’s musculature was enormous, but typical for his line of work. The detective was more impressed by the cumulative balefulness of Shad’s presence—gleaming smooth pate, ferocious overbite, engorged but expressionless eyes. The man’s age was impossible to guess. He was not a freak so much as a living dinosaur, slow-blinking and fearless. When he spoke, the voice was low but the tone was hard. When he smiled, which was seldom, he showed no teeth.

  Still, Erin Grant seemed to trust him. From this García concluded that, for all his brutishness, Shad was a gentleman toward the dancers. It was a hopeful sign.

  They’d found a relatively clean booth near a dance cage. Erin asked Kevin to drop the volume a couple notches so that García wouldn’t have to holler over the music. The detective spread several black-and-white photographs on the table. Without prompting, Erin immediately identified the drunk with the champagne bottle.

  “Except he had a mustache,” she said, pointing.

  García looked positively delighted. “Know who that is? That’s our famous Congressman Dilbeck!”

  Staring at the picture, Erin thought: Perfect. This is just my luck. “But he was a maniac,” she said. “A drunken nut case.”

  The detective nodded enthusiastically. “Is it making sense yet? Your little pal Jerry witnesses the assault, recognizes Dilbeck on stage and immediately grasps the wonderful possibilities. Yet of all the blackmail options available, he chooses the most unselfish of all: arranging for you to get your child back. Or so he thought.”

  Erin couldn’t take her eyes off Dilbeck’s photograph—the starched smile, the smug eyes. He had not looked so dignified while bashing Paul Guber’s skull. “Sonofabitch,” she said.

  Al García awaited Shad’s confirmation of the lecherous drunk’s identity. None came. “Ring a bell?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Shad replied. He would need to consult with Mordecai as soon as possible. Police involvement could screw up the lawyer’s plan, and seriously interfere with Shad’s retirement.

  García selected a picture of Erb Crandall. “How about him?”

  Shad’s brow crinkled. “Im not sure.”

  “I am,” Erin said. “That’s the one who had the gun.”

  “Very possible,” García said. “Mr. Crandall is licensed to carry a concealed weapon. Him and seventy-five thousand other upstanding Floridians.”

  Shad asked if Crandall was a professional bodyguard. García said his official title was Executive Assistant to Representative Dilbeck. “Meaning babysitter,” the detective added, tapping a finger on Crandall’s unsmiling face. “Bagman, too, according to the rumors. But that’s of little interest to us.”

  García quizzed Erin about the other photographs—assorted aides and cronies of David Dilbeck—but none looked familiar.

  “So here’s our scenario,” García said, steepling his hands. “Ms. Grant has positively identified Congressman Dilbeck and Mr. Crandall as being in the Eager Beaver on the night of September sixth. She’s also identified the congressman as the man who jumped on stage and assaulted another customer. The attack ended when Mr. Crandall displayed a handgun and escorted Mr. Dilbeck out of the club. Is that correct?”

  “Right,” Erin said. She shot a suspicious glance at Shad, who shifted uneasily. It bothered him to hold out on Erin. If she and the cop only knew about Mordecai’s incriminating photo!

  García said, “It’s all right, Mr. Shad. If you don’t remember, you don’t remember. Think on it is all I’m asking.”

  “I see assholes every night. They start to look the same.”

  “Christ, I know exactly what you mean. Erin, can I have a Diet Coke?”

  “She ain’t a waitress,” Shad said.

  “I’m sorry, you’re right. I’ll get it myself—”

  García started to rise, but Erin motioned him down. “I’ve got to dress, anyway. I’ll bring three on my way back.”

  As Erin headed for the dressing room, Shad began sliding out of the booth. Al García grabbed his elbow and told him to sit tight. He wasn’t sure if Shad was stunned or amused by the command.

  The detective leaned close. “Listen, Mr. Floor Manager, I don’t know your angle, why your memory suddenly is so shitty. That’s your business and you sure don’t owe me a goddamn thing. But I know you care about that pretty lady, am I right?”

  Shad’s huge neck throbbed, all veins.

  “Here’s the deal,” García said. “She got herself tangled in a blackmail. Not her fault—just some love-crazed customer trying to play hero, trying to get the lady’s daughter back from he
r ex. You’re familiar with Mr. Darrell Grant, no?”

  Shad nodded, barely.

  “Ha! Your recall’s improving every second.” García let out grand laugh. “Anyway, the idea was to put the arm on the congressman, make him pull a string with the divorce judge. The lady gets her little girl, the customer gets to be Sir Galahad. Except somebody whacks him first, which is why I’m sittin’ here.”

  “You’re saying Erin’s in trouble.”

  “Could be,” the detective said. “It’s an election year, which is no time for a sex scandal. They might figure, hell, who’s gonna miss a dead stripper?”

  “She ain’t a stripper. She dances.”

  “Point is, you don’t want her to die. Me, neither. She’s a nice person, works hard, loves her kid, et cetera. So if anything important shakes loose inside that incredible bulbous noggin of yours, gimme a ring.” García stacked the photographs and slipped them into his coat. He said, “In case you didn’t notice, I need all the fuckin’ help I can get.”

  Shad’s expression was stone, but his gut was churning. A keen judge of cops, he knew this one was no bullshitter. Erin might be in real danger, and over what—politics? The woman was a dancer, for God’s sake. All she wanted out of life was her daughter.

  Insanity is what it was. A world gone mad. Shad felt a strange fever in his breast.

  García stood up and laid a five-dollar bill on the table. “Have my soda,” he said. “You look thirsty.”

  15

  Congressman Dilbeck was revived by the sharp tang of Malcolm Moldowsky’s cologne. He sat up coughing in spasms. At the foot of the bed stood Moldy and Erb Crandall, appearing dour and unsympathetic.

  Moldowsky’s greeting confirmed the mood: “Good morning, shit-for-brains.”

  “Hello, Malcolm.”

  “Erb told me about your evening.”

  “I’m sorry, Malcolm. I got swept away.”

  “Know what we need to do? We need to teach you to masturbate creatively. Then maybe you wouldn’t bother women.”

  Crandall said, “Those blow-up dolls might do the trick. We’ll order him an assortment, all shapes and colors.”

  Dilbeck felt dizzy. Slowly he lowered his pounding head to the pillows. He was relieved to see that he was in his own bedroom, not a hospital. From this he concluded, perhaps prematurely, that his injury wasn’t so serious. Touching the bruise, he moaned melodramatically; the knot was huge.

  He said, “Don’t I need a doctor?”

  “Been here and gone,” Crandall reported. “You’re a very lucky man—no concussion, no brain damage.”

  “As if we could tell,” Moldy said.

  The congressman pleaded for them to lay off, his head was killing him.

  “But you’ve got a fund-raiser tonight, David.”

  “No way, Malcolm. Look at me. Look at me!”

  Moldowsky moved to Dilbeck’s side and hovered gravely, like a dentist. “Under no circumstances will you miss this function, understand? The marquee is Bradley, Kerry and Moynihan, who don’t wish to be stood up. More important, we’ve got six potential sugar votes coming down from the Hill.”

  “Those fellows, they’re still pissed about the pay raise—”

  “Extremely pissed,” said Moldowsky. “That’s why we’re flying them first-class. That’s why we’ve got Dom and fresh citrus waiting in their suites. It’s suck-up time, Davey. Everyone’s counting on you to make things right again.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means the senior Rojos called, among others.”

  Overwhelmed by Moldowsky’s musk, Dilbeck began to sneeze violently. Moldy backpedaled, shielding his mouth and nose from flying germs. When the congressman regained normal respiration, he announced that he wouldn’t be seen in public looking as pitiable as he did.

  Erb Crandall said, “It’s not the public. David, it’s thousand-dollar-a-plate suckers. Tell them whatever you want. Tell them you got hit with a fucking golf ball.”

  “We’re locking out the media,” Moldy added. “Feel free to lie your ass off.”

  David Dilbeck grimaced as he fingered the bruise. “What about X-rays?” he asked. “How can they be sure about concussions if they didn’t take X-rays?”

  “The doctor checked your ears,” Crandall explained, “for fresh blood.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

  Dilbeck’s whining grated on Moldowsky’s nerves. “We’ll ice your fucking head, all right? Spend the day on your back, and by tonight the swelling’s gone.”

  “Exactly,” Crandall said. “You’ll be as dashing as ever.”

  “Stop making light of the situation.”

  Moldowsky twisted the cap off a pill bottle and tapped out two orange tablets. He instructed Dilbeck to swallow them for his headache: “Erb told me what happened. In my view, you’re lucky that girl didn’t stomp on your balls.”

  As usual, the congressman remembered almost nothing of the incident. He asked, “What was her name?”

  “Jeanne Kirkpatrick,” said Erb Crandall. “A very hot number.”

  “Seriously, I can’t recall a damn thing. Her name. What she looked like. Was she blonde or redheaded, Lord, it’s all a blank.”

  “Keep it that way,” Moldy said. He closed the drapes to darken the room. “Get some rest. You’ve got a big night.”

  “Malcolm?”

  “What is it, Dave?”

  “This is the last time, I swear to God. I’m cured.”

  “I’d love to believe you, I dearly would.”

  “On my mother’s grave, Malcolm. Never again. Never! I hurt so damn bad.”

  Moldowsky said goodbye and left the room. His aroma, however, lingered like an industrial smog. Crandall packed a towel with ice cubes and placed it on the congressman’s forehead.

  “Erb, you believe me?” Dilbeck asked. “It’s out of my system for good.”

  “Sure, it is,” said Crandall. “I’ll be in the hall if you need me. Try to sleep.”

  As David Dilbeck slept, psychedelic visions flashed and popped behind twitching eyelids. Eventually, jumbled starbursts gave way to soothing scenes. The congressman dreamed of a lovely dancer with rich brown hair and small round breasts and a smile that could stop an executioner’s heart.

  When Dilbeck awoke, the ice in the towel was melted and the pillowcase was soaked against his check. His breathing was hot and irregular, but his head no longer throbbed. He bolted upright, energized by the knowledge that the woman dancing in his sleep was real, that he couldn’t have dreamed such a smile.

  He had seen that dancer somewhere: a radiant moment, buried deep in submemory by a drunken blackout.

  Yes, he’d seen her. And she most definitely smiled.

  “What did she mean?” In a sing-song tone, the congressman addressed silent walls. “Who is this lovely?” He shook off the sheets and hopped from the bed. The room rolled under his legs. He stumbled to the bathroom and flipped on the lights. Anxiously he examined both ears for signs of blood, but found nothing but clotted wax.

  “Who is she?” he cried to the mirror. “What does she want with me?”

  After less than a week, Marvela quit the club and defected to the Flesh Farm. The enticement was a $500 signing bonus, Mondays off and a new wardrobe. Orly was livid. To all who would listen, he declared that the Ling brothers henceforth were dead men—gator bait, orchid fertilizer, breakfast sausage, D-E-A-D. Orly said he was calling Staten Island and arranging a murder contract. Nobody stole his dancers and got away with it!

  The next day, he installed a wind machine among the foot-lights on the main stage. He said it was part of a new campaign to make the Tickled Pink a classier joint—new name, new spiffy image. Erin and the other dancers suspected that Orly was upgrading mainly to compete with the hated Lings.

  The wind machine was a hooded electric fan, aimed at an angle to blow and swirl the dancers’ hair. The desired effect was an untamed, sultry look. “I got the idea from Stevie Nicks vi
deos,” Orly told Erin. “You go on and try.”

  She danced a short set in front of the wind machine. The air hitting her face made her blink continually. She didn’t feel particularly sexy.

  Afterwards, Orly said, “It’s your hair.”

  “Oh, here we go.”

  “Just listen for once. Would it kill you to grow it down past the shoulders? Or at least get a perm?” He knew better than to suggest a dye job.

  Erin said, “Stevie’s got her look, I’ve got mine.”

  “I also bought smoke cannisters and a neon blue strobe.”

  “You’re really trying,” Erin said, “and we all appreciate it.” Now if he’d only eighty-six the damn oil wrestling.

  Orly opened a box of the new cocktail napkins—pink, naturally. “Notice anything?” he said. “Lookie: No tits. No snatch.”

  The club’s previous napkins had featured drawings of saucy nudes in feathered hats and spiked heels. Erin favored the plain pink. “These are elegant,” she said, “relatively speaking.” Orly was pleased. “It occurred to me, why overdo it with the tits and so forth? No sense staring at poon on a napkin when the real McCoy is wiggling right in front of your nose.”

  “Good thinking,” Erin said. Orly was hopeless, but at least he was making an effort. In fact, the long-haired dancers and those with lush wigs did seem to enjoy performing in front of the wind machine. Only Urbana Sprawl declined to use it, complaining that the fan aggravated her allergy to dust mites. She said there was no tactful way for a naked person to cope with a runny nose, especially while dancing. Orly grudgingly agreed.

  Discussion of the new wind machine continued all evening in the dressing room. Most of the dancers considered it a worthwhile investment; it was heartening to see Orly spend on capital improvements. Preliminary feedback from customers was positive, too, judging from the tips. For club regulars, windblown hair was an exotic diversion from leaden footwork and half-hearted pelvic thrusts.