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  Erin stepped on the table and tested it for traction. As she began to dance, she felt vaguely claustrophobic; the yacht’s salon had a low roof; and the paneled walls had no mirrors. Erin never performed without mirrors, and now she was uncomfortable. Mirrors helped her concentrate on the footwork, helped her detach from the stares.

  Dilbeck’s chin bobbed a half-beat behind the music; he was trying his damnedest to look like a rocker. Erin removed her top and dropped it on his lap. He gazed reverently at the undergarment, his mouth parted. He breathed a low growl. When he raised his eyes, Erin flashed her million-dollar smile. She un-snapped the G-string and slipped it down around the garter. The congressman’s neck went limp, and his body swayed.

  Scary, Erin thought. A genuine sexual trance. She felt she was witnessing a rare phenomenon, like a total eclipse.

  “She’s Got Legs” faded into “Brown-Eyed Girl,” which blended into “Under My Thumb.” With each song the dance tempo slowed, and so did the congressman’s pulse. His eyes rolled and his jaw fell open, exposing a fortune in capped teeth. A large man, he seemed to shrink visibly as the music played—a marionette cut loose from its strings. Performing for a catatonic was lonely. Erin missed Orly’s mirrors.

  When the set ended, David Dilbeck snapped upright and began to clap. Erin was startled at his rapid recovery. The congressman folded two hundred-dollar bills in her garter and offered to pour the champagne. She put on the white teddy and turned off the tape deck. Dilbeck had a chair waiting.

  He said, “You are positively amazing.”

  “So are you.”

  “The most incredible blue eyes!”

  “They’re green,” Erin said, “but thanks, anyway.”

  Dilbeck handed her a glass and made a toast to new friendships. “Do you remember me?” he asked. “The last time we met, I wore a mustache.” Already he’d deviated from Moldowsky’s script.

  Erin said, “How could I forget. You nearly bashed me in the skull.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “What in the world came over you?”

  Dilbeck looked away. “Truly I don’t remember. It was inexcusable.” He tossed back the champagne. “I hope you can forgive me.” It was, he thought, a cunning way to elicit Erin’s frame of mind. If she let the subject drop, she probably wasn’t planning to shake him down.

  “Come on,” she said, “how about another number?”

  The congressman relaxed. “Wonderful,” he said, peeling off his blazer.

  By the fourth set, he was helpless, exhausted and bombed. Erin had done some of the best dancing of her life. Dilbeck sat cross-legged on the floor of the salon. He’d kicked off his loafers and unbuttoned his shirt. Erin perched topless on the edge of the captain’s table. Dilbeck clutched at her knee but she nudged his hand away.

  “I love you,” he said. “Desperately I do.”

  “I love you, too, sweetie.”

  “Be my girlfriend.”

  “Your what?”

  “How would …” His eyes fluttered. “How would you like an apartment on the Intracoastal? And a car—what’d you think of the new Lexus? You can quit your job and live like a queen.”

  “You’re kidding. All that, just for being your girlfriend?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Wow.” Erin saw an opportunity to have some fun. “Davey, can I ask a question?”

  “Anything, darling.”

  “I wouldn’t have to screw you, would I?”

  Dilbeck squinted in puzzlement. “Well now,” he said, working his lips like a plowhorse.

  “What I mean,” said Erin, “is you wouldn’t expect sex in exchange for your kindness. I can tell you’re not that kind of person.”

  The congressman chuckled wretchedly. He groped for the champagne bottle and took a swig.

  Erin let her foot brush against Dilbeck’s leg. “You wouldn’t believe some men,” she said. “They’re such pigs. They give you a sports car, they expect at least a hand job. Sometimes two!”

  “Huh,” said Dilbeck. “Imagine that.”

  Erin gave a convincing sigh of disgust. “Some guys,” she said. “I swear to God.”

  “But I love you.”

  “I’m sure you do, Davey. But I couldn’t accept an apartment or anything else. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Please. I want your life to be wonderful.”

  The congressman watched sorrowfully as Erin put on her bra top. She liked the rush on nights like this, when the dancing was so good. The feeling of control was indescribable. More important, a plan—a wondrously reckless plan—was taking shape.

  “What is it you do in Washington?” she asked Dilbeck. “Give me a job description.”

  Dilbeck took several moments to reassemble his thoughts. “Mainly I help people. My constituents.” He paused theatrically. “You may not know this, but I once tried to help you.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes, ma’am. With regards to your daughter.”

  Erin stiffened. She said, “I didn’t know.”

  “Oh yes, oh yes. I spoke to a certain judge. He wouldn’t listen to reason.”

  “My divorce judge?”

  “The old man, yes. A difficult fellow, God rest his soul.”

  Erin said, “Why did you do that? How’d you know about my case?” She tried to sound curious and not accusatory. This was the important part, and Al García would want every detail. Was Dilbeck drunk enough to blab about Jerry Killian?

  Apparently not. He said, “A little birdie told me about your case.”

  Erin coaxed but he wouldn’t budge.

  “I was glad to try,” the congressman said. “I have great compassion for working mothers.”

  “Thank you. I had no idea.”

  He slid closer to the table. “I know the new judge, as well.”

  Erin said she was impressed that a man as important as Dilbeck would take an interest in her family problems.

  “That’s my job,” he said. “Helping people.” One of the congressman’s hands came to rest on Erin’s thigh. She gave him three, maybe four seconds of thrill before flicking it away.

  She said, “The case is working out fine. My daughter’s with me now.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. But, remember, if you need anything—”

  “Aren’t you a sweetheart.”

  “Anything at all—”

  “Hey, Davey?”

  “What is it?”

  “Did you steal the razor out of my bathroom?” David Dilbeck turned gray. Moldy hadn’t prepared him for this. He said, “God help me, I did.”

  “You’re a sick puppy.”

  “That’s what Erb says.”

  “Who’s Erb?”

  “Erb Crandall. He works for me.”

  Erin said, “Why’d you take the razor?”

  The congressman’s jowls quavered. He appeared on the verge of tears. “That’s how much I love you,” he said. “I took some lint, too.”

  “Lint.”

  “From your laundry. I’m awfully sorry.”

  Erin stood on the table and put her hands on her hips. Dilbeck was sprawled in a wrinkled heap on the wooden floor.

  “Davey, I don’t mean to pry. But what did you do with my laundry lint?”

  “I’m afraid I made love to it.”

  The room began to whirl. “Come closer,” Erin told him.

  Dilbeck gripped the corners of the captain’s table and pulled himself to his knees.

  Erin said, “Shut your eyes.”

  “Oh God.” The congressman’s dreams ran wild.

  Erin removed one of her shoes and, with all her strength, hammered the four-inch heel into the bones of David Dilbeck’s right hand. So much for García’s instruction to remain calm.

  Dilbeck didn’t scream so much as whinny. Erin snatched a handful of oily silver hair.

  “Davey, if you ever come into my apartment again, ever, I’ll shoot you. Is that understood?”

  Through his agony the
congressman whispered: “But I love you so much!”

  “I know you do, sweetheart.”

  The two goons asked Shad if he was really a Guardian Angel. He said yes, but he moonlighted nights at a nudie joint. The goons wanted to know all about it. Shad said the music was terrible and the pay sucked.

  “Who cares,” said one of the goons. “Think of all the pussy.”

  Shad said, “Pussy don’t pay the rent.” He plucked an ice cube from his glass and gave it to the kinkajou. The animal snarled as it chewed.

  The other goon, who had tiny crumpled-looking ears, asked Shad if he had to pay the dancers for sex. “Or do you get it free? What’s the deal?”

  Shad said, “They pay me.”

  “Aw, bullshit.”

  “It’s in my contract.”

  The first goon said, “Yeah, right.”

  “Any girl I want.”

  Shad transferred the kinkajou from one shoulder to the other. His shirt was sticky with blood, from the animal digging its claws. The crumple-eared goon grimaced when he saw the mess. He and his partner had given Shad and his strange pet a wide berth on the yacht’s aft deck. Shad knew that the men feared the kinkajou more than they feared him. That was the plan.

  The first goon said, “So, like, you get to watch all the auditions?”

  “Watch, my ass. I do the hiring.”

  “Man! So you get to see everything.”

  “Everything,” Shad said with a sly smile.

  “And you been at it how long?”

  “Ten, eleven years.”

  “Think of all the titties you’ve seen.”

  “Thousands,” said Shad. “It boggles the fucking mind.” He couldn’t believe what morons they were, these hired guards.

  The first one said: “When you do the auditions, what do you go by? Is it just size? Reason I ask, once I was with this girl who had gigantic boobs but they didn’t look so hot when she took off her top. Know what I mean?”

  Shad said, “We got very high standards.”

  The crumple-eared goon asked: “You ever audition anyone famous? I mean, before they got famous.”

  “Oh sure,” said Shad, thinking fast. These dolts would believe anything. “Kim Basinger danced at the club for a while. So did Meryl Streep, only back then she used a different name.”

  “No shit?”

  “Chesty LeFrance. That’s what she went by.”

  The first goon said, “Kim Basinger, sure. But Meryl Streep, man, she ain’t exactly stacked.”

  “Not now she isn’t,” Shad said. “You should’ve seen her before the operation. Awesome.”

  The kinkajou climbed down his arm and hopped to the deck. Shad gave a sharp tug on the leash. The animal growled and rolled on its back.

  “How about that,” said the goon with the bad ears.

  Shad said, “Yeah, I got him trained good.” Truthfully, he wasn’t crazy about the kinkajou. He was glad the two hours were almost over, so he could return the animal.

  “How about you boys,” Shad said. “You like this gig?”

  The first goon said he’d rather be down below, doing what the old man was doing. The second goon said yeah, the worst part of the job was trying to stay awake. Shad asked how much the old man paid.

  “We don’t work for the old man. We work for the Rojos.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Rojo Farms,” said the crumple-eared goon. “We get two hundred a day.”

  “Damn,” Shad said.

  “And mostly we just hang out.”

  The first goon said, “They call us drivers but that’s bullshit. We’re security. The Rojos do lots of entertaining, and we keep an eye on the guests … speaking of which.” He motioned to his partner, who stepped to the salon door and listened.

  “Music’s stopped,” he reported. “Sounds like they’re just talking.”

  Shad said, “So who’s the old man in there—some bigshot?”

  “Friend of the family.”

  The kinkajou began pacing restlessly, tangling the leash around Shad’s legs. The Rojo goons were amused by the bald man’s efforts to extricate himself. In frustration Shad let go. The kinkajou ambled to a corner and sat down, licking its paws.

  One of the goons said, “I never heard of a stripper with a bodyguard.”

  Shad said a woman can’t be too careful these days.

  The one with the deformed ears motioned toward Shad’s gun. “Is that a .38?”

  “Special,” Shad said.

  “That’s what I want, too. How long before your license came through?”

  “I didn’t bother with a license. See, I got a slight history.”

  “That’s rough,” said the goon.

  “Fucking computers.” Shad emptied his glass over the rail.

  “But still they let you in the Guardian Angels?”

  “No problem. I had references.” Shad pointed at his head. “Plus I already had the hat.”

  Erin came out the door. She looked tired but unmolested.

  “All set?” Shad said. “Fine and dandy.”

  He held her arm as she stepped from the yacht to the dock.

  “Nice night,” she said, smiling up at the teardrop moon.

  “Very pleasant,” Shad agreed. He waved goodbye to the halfwit goons.

  “Wait,” said the one with the normal ears. “Don’t forget your monkey!”

  Al García met them at a bagel joint near the jai-alai fronton in Dania. Erin and Shad were late because Shad couldn’t find the guy who’d rented him the kinkajou. After twenty minutes of circling the block, he pulled off the road, opened the door and put the animal out. Shad threw a bag of Snickers bars from the car and drove away. When he walked into the bagel joint, a waitress noticed the bloodied shirt and offered to call 911. She assumed that Shad had been stabbed.

  García was waiting at a table near the rear of the restaurant. He was mouthing the nub of a very old cigar. He asked Erin how it went with the congressman.

  “Piece a cake.” She gave a slightly edited account. The congressman’s lint confession was the highlight. Even Shad was astounded.

  “That’s some honor,” he said.

  García asked Erin if Dilbeck tried anything weird while she was dancing. She said no, just the usual hopeful groping. She left out the part about smashing his hand.

  “So what’s your impression?” the detective asked.

  “One, Davey’s not too bright. Two, he probably doesn’t know exactly what happened to Jerry Killian.”

  García concurred. “He doesn’t have the nerve to do it himself, and the people who did are smart enough not to tell him.”

  “In other words,” Shad said, “we’re wasting our goddamn time.”

  The waitress brought a platter of bagels and a pot of coffee. Shad took off his shirt and asked the awestruck waitress to please throw it in the garbage. As they ate, Al García peppered Erin with questions.

  “Did he say whose yacht it was?”

  “A friend,” Erin said. “That’s all he’d tell me.”

  García smiled. “Remember the Cuban kid who paid a thousand bucks for your shoe? His family owns the Sweetheart Deal.”

  “The sugar people?”

  “Yeah. They got Dilbeck’s balls in a vault somewhere.”

  Erin drummed her nails on the table. “So the kid bought my shoe as a present for Davey.”

  “A nice gesture,” Shad remarked. “Fetish-of-the-month.”

  García said, “Are either of you history buffs? Me, I love American history.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice. “I’m trying to imagine what Thomas Paine would think of a congressman who has sex with old shoes and laundry lint.”

  Erin agreed that the republic was doomed. She said Tasmania was looking pretty good as an alternate homeland.

  Al García asked if David Dilbeck had mentioned the crucial photograph. Erin said he’d barely talked about that night at the Eager Beaver, except to apologize.

  “What about Ang
ela?”

  “He offered to help with the new judge,” Erin said. “That’s the only time I was nervous. He seemed a little too interested.”

  Shad got up to call the club and make sure no disasters had occurred in his absence. Orly got on the line and bitched about him taking the night off. A British sailor had almost choked to death in the pasta pit—Monique Sr. saved him with a modified Heimlich.

  “Sorry I missed it,” Shad said. Orly hung up.

  Shad returned to the table and said he’d better go, Mr. Orly was pissed. García offered Erin a ride home.

  In the car, she said: “So tell me.”

  “What?”

  “You’re humming, Al. You never hum. What happened?”

  “Progress!” The detective waggled the cigar nub. “A very nice lady at the Missoula Holiday Inn remembers three Jamaicans getting a room and ordering a half dozen rib-eye steaks sent up. This happened a few weeks back. Apparently not a multitude of Jamaicans cruise through Montana this time of year. Anyhow, the nice lady punched their bill up on the computer and read me the charges.”

  “And?”

  “There was a twenty-two-minute phone call,” García said, cigar bobbing, “to a certain residence in Miami, Florida.”

  Erin said, “Dilbeck?”

  “God, how I wish,” said García. “No, darling. It was Malcolm Moldowsky—the congressman’s fairy godfather. The guy who keeps hassling your boss.”

  So there was no doubt about it, Erin thought. They’d murdered Mr. Peepers.

  “I’ll never prove it,” García said, “but I can sure raise some hell. Did Davey Boy happen to mention Moldowsky’s name? Between hard-ons, I mean.”

  “He talked about a guy named Crandall.”

  “But no Moldowsky?”

  “Not tonight,” Erin said. “I’ll try again next time.”

  The detective’s foot came off the accelerator, “Did I miss something?”

  “I’m dancing for Davey again.”

  “Like hell—”

  Erin cut him off. “He tipped me a thousand bucks, Al. That’s three grand I walked with. A couple more nights like this, my lawyer’s paid off and I’ve got cash in the bank.”