Money To Burn (31 page)

“Cute,” I said, knowing what was coming next. The customer would put in several dollar’s worth of quarters, select a brand at random and then ask the dealer for a pack of matches. The guy in the bowler would reach into his knapsack and palm a bulging matchbook, then hand it to the customer. Everyone would look satisfied and smugly clever, as if they had just smuggled an ocean liner of drugs past the coast guard.

Business was booming, by the way. There were enough people in line at the cigarette machine to sell out a Garth Brooks concert.

“I can’t believe the bartender doesn’t know what’s going on,” I said.

“He probably does and just doesn’t care,” Bobby said. “I get the feeling the tips are pretty sweet around that place. He doesn’t want to endanger anyone’s good mood, know what I mean? He may even be getting a cut.”

I mumbled an absent-minded “yeah” because I was too busy staring at the screen. I had just seen a star basketball player from N.C. State not only come up and conduct a
transaction with the drug dealer, but also plant a big wet one on him before he sashayed off. “This is better than ‘Hard Copy,’” I said.

“It’s a great little camera,” Bobby agreed. “Take it back and use it for a couple of days while you tail the kid. Give the video option a try. My client’s called off the case, so I don’t need it. They’re reconciling. Until next week, that is.”

“I’m gonna go talk to him,” I told Bobby. “Tonight.”

“The dealer?” Bobby looked skeptical. “You’re gonna have trouble fitting in.”

When I looked offended, he added, “I’m not saying you don’t look like a dyke.”

“Well, isn’t that a relief.” I rolled my eyes.

“The trouble is,” Bobby explained. “I didn’t see any dykes at all in there and I was at the bar two nights in a row.”

“So?” I countered. “I’m a woman who looks like a man. I can certainly look like a man trying to look like a woman.”

Bobby stared at me in admiration. I guess he’d never seen “Victor, Victoria.”

“That’s mighty sneaky of you, Casey. Want me to escort you? I got a date with Fanny, but I could cancel it.”

I was touched. I knew he’d gone gaga over Fanny. It was a true sacrifice on his part On the other hand, who wanted to hang out with a gawking Bobby at a gay bar all night?

“No thanks,” I told him. “I’ll get Marcus to take me. How are things with Fanny anyway?” I wiggled my eyebrows.

Bobby looked offended. “Please, Casey. When have I ever been the type to kiss and tell? Besides, Fanny Whitehurst is a real lady. I intend to treat her like one. She likes me the way I am.”

“What are you talking about?” I said. “All your women like you the way you are, or they wouldn’t be going out with you.” I couldn’t quite understand it myself, but it was the truth.

“No, they don’t,” Bobby said. “They like the things I do for them. The flowers, the dinners, the presents, the notes. All that stuff. I’ve got to work hard, you know, being the way I am and all.”

“What way is that?” I asked, mystified by this new Bobby before me.

“Fat,” he said bluntly. “I’m fat.”

I felt terrible—and terribly touched. “Oh, Bobby,” I protested. “That’s not true. No one cares if you’re fat.”

“Fanny doesn’t care if I’m fat,” he corrected me. “We’ve decided we’re going to get even fatter together.”

“Well, isn’t that romantic?” I started to say, but the unexpected glimpse of Bobby’s insecurities stopped me. Then, I nearly asked him if he knew that Fanny was loaded, but something stopped me there, too. Maybe it was the memory of Lydia’s wistful voice as she talked about trying to find someone who loved her for who she was, not for what she had in her bank account.

“I hope it works out for the two of you, Bobby, I really do,” I finally told him, instead. “She’s not your usual type, but maybe that’s a good thing.”

“No, she’s not my type,” Bobby agreed. “I usually like ‘em a little younger and a little slimmer, but you know— we have such a good time together and I don’t have to worry about my waistline and when I hear her laugh, well…” He shrugged and tapped his heart with a fist. “Love. Go figure.”

Go figure, indeed. The two of them having sex would look like those fake sumo wrestling contests the Durham Bulls staged between innings, but if Bobby and Fanny were having fun then who the hell was I to criticize? Other than a jealous, bitter, incredibly horny single person who spent far too many nights alone, of course.

I headed for my office and phoned Marcus with my plan for that night. He readily agreed to be my beard at the Pony Express so long as I paid for everything and helped him make an engineer from the Research Triangle Park jealous.

“He’s really hot and I have to have him. So hang all over me, Casey,” he instructed. “Tongue my ear. And remember to light my cigarettes for me.”

“I’ll be a perfect gentleman dressed as a perfect lady,” I promised. “That means no tongue, but it’s a go on the cigarette lighter.” 

I hung up and got back to work. I needed some wheels. I’d taken a TTA bus into the office, surrounded by northern implants eager to help the environment and disgruntled southerners embarrassed not to have a car. I wasn’t anxious to repeat the experience. So I arranged for a rental car to be delivered to the office, then spent the rest of the afternoon trying to locate a good photo of Jake Talbot and Franklin Cosgrove online, occasionally taking a break from my Internet skimming to see if Burly had called and left a message for me at home. No luck.

I had better luck with the photos. I found Jake Talbot in a group shot taken at last year’s debutante ball, downloaded it onto my system, then isolated the image of his face and printed it out at four times its actual size. Not bad. His overbred nose was unmistakable.

A photo of Franklin Cosgrove was even easier to find. His mug was plastered all over the place, usually attached to some aging socialite who’d needed an escort for the evening. Geeze, but he was one step short of a gigolo. The only difference was that he was holding out for one big payday, instead of mooching it in installments. It would be sweet to tie him into this mess somehow. I’d love to take him down.

At the end of the day, I drove my rented Escort back to Durham. They’d delivered a white car despite my request for a dark one, and I spent the rush hour drive time trying to figure out why all rental cars are white, when no one ever actually chooses one that color when they buy a car for themselves.

I stopped by Faircloth’s to ask Jimbo how the work on my Porsche was going. As usual, a couple of his coworkers stood around, staring, while we spoke. I always had to fight an insane urge to rip open my blouse and flash them when I stopped by Faircloth’s. Those guys definitely needed to get out more.

“That friend of yours who made you pull over saved your life,” Jimbo told me as he wiped his hands on a greasy cloth far more filthy than his fingers.

“Why do you say that?”

“Someone loosened the bolts on all four of your CV joints,” he said. “If they’d fallen off at high speed, your car would have stopped dead in its tracks. You would have, too, probably.”

I thought about it. “It isn’t a natural occurrence?”

He looked at me with pity. Alas, as a non-mechanic, I was one of the washed and unenlightened. “All of them bolts wouldn’t go like that at one time without help,” he explained in a slow drawl. “Plus, there’s scr [, tolor=“wiatch marks up and down the shafts. Someone used a pair of pliers to loosen ‘em. You got you a serious enemy, Casey. One who knows cars.”

Well, I hadn’t noticed Richard Petty trying to force me off the highway, so that left about eight million other North Carolinians as possible suspects. “Did you fix everything?” I asked.

Jimbo nodded. “I still got to clean things up. It’s a little greasy down there. She might burn off a little smoke unless I wipe things down.”

“Don’t wipe her down,” I said. “Leave her as she is for a couple of days, okay? And don’t touch her again. I’ll pay a storage charge or whatever I have to.”

He looked at me, perplexed. “If that’s what you want,” he said.

“It is,” I assured him. “And thanks, you cute thing, you.” I pinched his oil-smudged cheek and left the reverse imprint of my thumb and forefinger on his skin. He ducked his head, embarrassed.

“You be careful now, Casey,” he mumbled.

“I can take care of myself, Jimbo,” I assured him. I took pity on him and didn’t give him a kiss good-bye. His friends stood around, watching, as I left.

“How can I look more like a man?” I asked Marcus, peering into the mirror at a Casey that he had created using a crinoline Donna Reed dress, curling iron and pumps. My hair flipped up at the ends like I should be pointing at an early Frigidaire and chirping about the joys of housework. The retro-drag look was very in, according to Marcus, and I had the hips and breasts for it.

“Just pump some iron before we go,” he decided, “So your muscles look cut. And let me soften your makeup.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

Marcus looked apologetic. “You didn’t have far to go, honey.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “That’s what I get for just being myself.”

Marcus had opted out of drag in favor of an incredible charcoal zoot suit that made him look seven feet tall and more dapper than Cab Calloway. I got a good look at him under the street light in the bar’s parking lot and whistled in admiration. “You are so Chicago,” I told him. “You are positively smokin’.”

“I’m in love, Miss Casey,” he explained as he opened the door of my car and helped me out into the Pony Express parking lot. The place was jammed.
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“Not you, too,” I complained. “Bobby’s right. There’s Viagra in the air.”

“Not Viagra,” he corrected me primly. “Love.” He broke into a pretty good version of “Love is In the Air.” There was no lip-synching for Marcus.

“I’m gonna become a nun,” I mumbled. “It’s the only acceptable justification left for being single.”

Entering the front door of the Pony Express was like stepping into a monsoon. A roar of music and voices filled the air, sweaty bodies surrounded us and giant floor fans did their best to cope with the heat. I stepped in front of one and it blew my skirt straight up past my shoulders.

“There goes your secret,” Marcus mumbled. “And don’t think there weren’t a whole bleacher full of boys standing around waiting for a peek at your package.”

They wouldn’t be looking at me anymore. I found Marcus a seat at one end of the crowded bar, dutifully lit his cigarette and ordered a round of daiquiris from the bartender. Hey, if I’m gonna look like Donna Reed, I have a right to drink my liquor through a straw.

I surveyed the packed room. Everyone looked alike: buff, well-dressed and reeking of personal care products. The titillation factor faded quickly. Unless they’re sleeping with me, I don’t much care who people sleep with, and so I wasn’t as surprised as Bobby D. to discover a large percentage of Raleigh’s movers and shakers moving and shaking their booty with the boys.

“There he is,” Marcus said, gripping my wrist with the strength of a boa constrictor.

“Who?” I asked, looking around for the dealer.

“My new husband. The engineer.”

“Good God, Marcus.” I complained. “That guy belongs on a Wheaties box.”

I left Marcus to bat his eyelashes at some All-American buzz-cut collegiate type and kept an eye on the corner of the bar nearest the cigarette machine. Two daiquiris later, the dealer showed up wearing his top hat and carrying a black knapsack, which he placed at his feet as he took up a position near the machine.

He’d hardly had time to loosen his prairie collar when a line formed to his right. I gave Marcus a nod and took my place in it, behind a beefy man with very red ears and khakis that were several sizes too small.

Years of waiting outsid [aitiv he ladies rooms has taught me patience. I was calm, cool and collected by the time it was my turn.

“This is the story,” I said softly when the dealer turned expectantly to me, his hat pulled low over his forehead. “Take a good look at this.” I opened my leather purse— which was light blue and matched the goofy dress—then pulled a fake gold badge out of the bottom of it. I flashed it at him, then quickly stowed it back inside. The dealer didn’t even blink.

“What do you want?” he asked in an accent that was vaguely British.

“I want to talk to you outside for ten minutes.”

“About what?” he asked, his eyes sliding to the line waiting behind me. I was costing him business. “You gonna bust me?”

“I don’t care about you,” I told him. “I care about two of your customers.”

“I don’t give up my customers,” he said, his mouth tightening. I realized his accent was Jamaican. “It wouldn’t be brotherly of me.”

“It’s not very Jah of you to be selling coke,” I whispered tersely. “Whatever happened to ‘peace, love and ganja?’”

“Profit margins,” he hissed back with a terse smile.

“These are two rich white guy customers,” I persisted. “Straight guys. And I’ll give you two hundred and fifty dollars for talking to me for ten minutes.”

That was one one-hundredth of what Randolph Talbot had tried to buy me off with. I thought it an appropriate sum.

“Now you are talking, mama,” he said. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” He took my elbow and slung his backpack over his shoulder. “Back soon,” he told the next guy in line as he gently guided me toward the front door with exaggerated charm, as if we were heading for a dance floor to cha-cha.