Chow Down (Hotshot Book 4) Read online

  “Yeah, that one was kind of goofy. Okay, I admit that,” she said, shrugging. “Look, enough crying over spilled milk.”

  “Spilled milk, I—”

  She held up her hand. “I didn’t come here with fresh coffee, so I could get yelled at and listen to your attempts to start another fight. Honestly, I just wondered if you would like to come over for dinner tomorrow night. You know, see the old place. I mean, after all, you’re paying for it. We could maybe just catch up. You know, touch base.”

  “Why? What do you need?” Dickie asked cautiously.

  “Why do I have to need anything? Why can’t I just do something nice without you complaining all the time?”

  “Maybe, Rae Nell, because it’s just that when you try to do something nice for me, I always end up getting royally screwed.”

  “Look, do you want to come over for dinner or not? You can leave as soon as we’re done eating and get back to that Brothel of Dance place if that’s what you’re whining about. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss out on all the haggling for price and services that’s bound to go on.”

  “It’s the Emporium of Dance, as you know. You promise I can leave after dinner and you’re not going to ask me for any money? You’re not going to ask me for any favors? You’re not going to complain about…”

  “Dickie, when did you get so cynical? I promise I won’t ask you for any money. I promise I won’t ask you for any favors. My God, I’m just looking to catch up, that’s all. You’re free to leave whenever you want. Jesus, I have to say, after extending the olive branch, I honestly thought I would get a little better reception than this.”

  “You sure?”

  “Girl Scouts honor. Say seven-ish?”

  He let out a long sigh, closed his eyes, reminded himself this was really stupid, then nodded helplessly.

  “Okay, seven, but I’m warning you, Rae Nell. The first time you ask me for a favor, any favor, I’m out the door. Okay?”

  “Okay, Crabby,” she said, then gave him a peck on the cheek and quickly made her exit before he had a chance to change his mind.

  “Hello, Vernon, you’re up bright and early,” Rae Nell said.

  “Just enjoying the early morning views around this place,” Vernon said.

  Chapter Four

  Dickie cautiously backed his Jeep Wrangler into a parking space a half-hour late for the appointment with his accountant and friend, Fenton Larkin. His car had seen better days. The duct-taped windows leaked, and the interior was just a tad moldy from the summer rain. Earlier in the year, an irate stripper wielding a nail file had slashed a fourteen-inch gash across his refurbished passenger seat. The doors had a tendency to slam the unsuspecting before they had completely climbed in, and the infamous body had been reshaped a few years back by a boyfriend of Rae Nell’s wielding a Louisville slugger.

  He’d been seated in the lobby for a few minutes and was aggressively attacking either a chili or spaghetti sauce stain, he wasn’t sure which, on the sleeve of his navy blue sport coat. Finally, Clairese, Fenton’s secretary and receptionist, had enough. She charged out from behind her desk, armed with a towel and a bottle of club soda.

  “You know, Dickie, you could just get this thing cleaned or, better yet, throw it away,” she said, then grabbed his sleeve and poured club soda over the stain.

  “Hey, watch what you’re doing there.”

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize this coat never had anything poured on it. Give me this,” she commanded, yanking his arm back in front of her.

  “You could stand to get those trousers pressed too. Looks like you slept in them more than once. And maybe a shirt and tie instead of the golf shirt.”

  “You think maybe there could be something between the two of us, Clairese?”

  “Nothing but distance.”

  “Want to think about it?”

  “I don’t see enough lowlifes in here every day? I need to take up with someone like you? I don’t think so. Besides,” she continued, snapping the wet towel at the golf shirt stretched tight as a drum over Dickie’s stomach. “Someone like you rolls over on little old me in the middle of the night, they’d have to scrape me off the bed with a spatula.”

  “You could take tops.”

  “Please, I’m barely two hours past breakfast. Unless you want to see strawberry yogurt and All-Bran on that coat of yours, you’ll think of something else entirely.”

  “Dickie,” Fenton called from his office, “nice of you to finally drop in. Get the hell in here.”

  “Some other time, Clairese. Thanks for the wet spot on my coat.”

  Clairese just shook her head.

  * * *

  “Jesus, Dickie,” Fenton sounded more frustrated than usual, “you had better start getting back into shape, pal, or I’m going to have to ask for cash upfront. At this rate, you won’t be around to get my invoice.”

  “Just more of me to love.” Dickie slapped his midsection.

  Fenton peered back over the top of his reading glasses.

  “You’re an early heart attack just waiting to happen, my friend. Start eating right, start getting some exercise, or you become a liability. I’m not kidding here.”

  “Okay, okay. Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning? Relax. I’m starting a new regimen tomorrow.”

  “It’s always tomorrow, isn’t it? Here,” Fenton said, tossing a file in Dickie’s general direction before turning back to his computer screen. “Things are looking pretty good, that is if your goal was to reach ground zero. You don’t have any money to move around or protect, no working capital, no assets except for the Emporium, well, and that raft you live on. Basically, you’re broke. I can’t believe you’re even keeping books. You taking cash out every night? Based on the figures you gave me here, you’re not cutting it. Oh, hey, by the way, where’d you get that program?”

  “Program?”

  “Yeah, and you just answered my question. You have no idea, correct? Whoever you got doing your books has a nifty little program they’re using. Just as a test, we ran it off some of our systems here. The thing just whistled through each and every one of them, spreadsheets, charts, ratios, whatever we wanted. Look, find out where they got it. I’d like to get copies in all our offices. It even worked on the overseas stuff.”

  “Yeah, my bookkeeper, DJ. I’ll mention it to her. But back up a minute, I’m broke?”

  Chapter Five

  “I have to admit, this is highly unusual quality, Mr. Taggert.” Andre was carefully running his hand against the grain of two cinnamon fur coats.

  “Unusual, highly unusual. As you requested, Sir, we lined and monogrammed both coats. If I might offer a suggestion, the detachable tag affair here, Sir, behind the sleeve, black leather with the chrome buckle and the little studs. It looks an awful lot like a dog collar, Sir, and well, I wonder if your average lady might not be a bit put off.”

  “Thanks for the advice, partner. I’ll be sure to keep it in mind. Course, these are just what you call your prototypes. We’re cranking up one of them marketing campaigns. Get the word out there for the Christmas season.”

  “Really, Sir, interesting.” Andre secretly cringed, as if what was left of the fur industry didn’t have enough problems.

  “I’m thinking of some sexy gal with one of these here coats wrapped around her ass. You know, appeal to the naughty side of everyone type of ad. Big old letters across the bottom of the ad, Chow Furs.” Taggert gestured in the air with his hand as if reading the copy on a giant billboard.

  “Amazingly unique. I’m quite sure no one has ever conceived of an ad campaign quite like that, Sir.”

  “Yeah, we’d most likely be the first.”

  “Certainly the first, Sir,” Andre said, thinking ‘unbelievable’.

  “Yeah, well look, partner, appreciate all your work here,” Taggert said, not wanting to give away any more of his marketing campaign.

  “Yes, Sir.” Andre smiled weakly.

  Chapter
Six

  Over lunch, Marti Cullen was replaying her morning conversation. She’d been in bed, propped against a mountain of silk pillows, watching Craig get dressed. “You know, Craig, this may come as a surprise to you, but I can do something besides spend money.”

  “Look, Marti, all I’m saying is you seem to be rather unhappy of late. Now, I would like to pursue this further, say over dinner tonight. I can’t think of a better topic to discuss than why you’re feeling unhappy this week. But right now, I’ve got an early morning meeting and then surgery. I don’t have time to discuss this any further. At least, not now.”

  “Surgery, Jesus, Craig,” she groaned, falling back on the pillows. “My God, like you’re some kind of brain surgeon or obstetrician or something. Craig, you’re not a doctor, you big phony. You manufacture lingerie. You create feats of engineering for women, that’s what you do. You make underwear for God’s sake, Craig, underwear!”

  “I am a doctor.”

  “Oh, God, Craig, let’s not quibble about this again. A doctorate in Medieval English Literature does not entitle you to an elite medical status. Yes, you have a doctorate; no, you are not a medical doctor, okay?”

  “Easy for you to—”

  “God, I still cringe at the awful memory of that flight to New York when you booked our reservations as Dr. and Mrs. Cullen. That poor little man with the heart attack and you, you big phony, you go back to look at him with the stewardess and then tell her there’s nothing you can do. My God! Of course, there was nothing you could do unless he wanted a story read to him while he sat there and died somewhere over Ohio. What the hell were you thinking? We’re lucky they didn’t arrest the two of us when we landed at JFK. So please, do not give me the surgery routine. You’re just building underwear for some surgically enhanced bimbos to show off the latest pair of medical marvels. It’s just underwear, Craig, underwear!”

  “You and your Foundation Development Corporation. Good Lord, it sounds like you’re raising money for the International Children’s Fund or the Ronald McDonald House instead of selling lingerie to ridiculously enhanced strippers!”

  “Well, you’d certainly be the authority on surgical enhancement, Marti.”

  “Oh, that is ridiculous. A few nips and tucks, a slight firming, a couple of lifts, my enhancement insertions have absolutely no relationship whatsoever to—”

  “Sorry, but right now, I have to run. I’ll be happy to discuss your own personal tale of medical reconstruction at the end of my day.”

  “Fine, but I’m out with umm, with friends tonight, so don’t wait up.”

  Chapter Seven

  Dickie was attempting to start the Jeep and not meeting with much success. The meter had expired a half-hour ago, and the stupid engine groaned in response to his attempts.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” he shouted, then slammed the steering wheel, hoping the vehicle would feel the pain shudder down the steering column.

  His cell phone rang. He patted himself down, searching for it, cocked an ear, and followed the tone to the glove compartment.

  “Yeah.”

  “Christ, you even got that thing on? Jesus, I was beginning to wonder. You forget about our lunch date a half-hour ago? I’ve left three messages. You get any of them?” Darcy’s tirade suddenly reminded Dickie of their luncheon appointment.

  “No, sorry, something came up, and I couldn’t get back to you until now,” Dickie said, doing his best to grovel.

  “You forgot. Don’t bullshit me, man, and you didn’t get back to me. I called you. That’s what I get for making the appointment with you in the parking lot after a Twins game.”

  “I’m not kidding, man. Something came up. Figured you’d understand. You had to eat anyway, right?”

  Darcy Dalton, attorney to the stars, according to his self-promotion. He handled high-profile divorce settlements, prominent possession cases, and the occasional murder.

  Dickie had thought he was in good hands when he had Darcy represent him in his divorce from Rae Nell. Now he found himself sleeping in a used houseboat in the St. Paul Marina while Rae Nell walked away with everything but the Jeep, which she hated and didn’t have room for in the garage, anyway.

  “Look, Richard,” Darcy continued, knowing Dickie hated being called Richard, “we were going to meet, if you recall, to discuss you investigating a divorce case. Are you still interested?”

  ‘Not really,’ Dickie thought but said, “Yeah, Darcy, sure I’m interested. Can we reschedule?”

  “Possibly.”

  Dickie waited a couple of beats.

  “Sorry, just checking my calendar. I’m in trial the day after tomorrow. Suppose you’ve heard about the Carter case.”

  Of course Darcy would be representing a creepy prominent dentist who jacked up his dates on nitrous oxide. At least until one drowned throwing up in a sink, and suddenly the floodgates opened with a dozen women filing charges against the guy. Heard about it? Dickie was one of the few people in town not claiming to have been raped by the guy.

  “Yeah, I maybe remember something. Hey, Darcy, if you want my help on that, much as I’d like to, I better take a pass. Probably wouldn’t be able to get on it for at least a couple of days, and doesn’t your trial start the day after tomorrow?”

  “It’s not about Carter, and can you meet me tonight? It won’t take long. Can you meet me at seven?”

  “Okay, how about Lenny’s?” Dickie said.

  “Lenny’s?”

  “Yeah, steak joint, corner building, white with brick—”

  “I know the place. Okay, just be on time,” Darcy said and hung up.

  The phone rang again.

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, so you finally have your phone turned on.”

  “Hello, Rae Nell.”

  “I’ve been calling you for the past few hours. Where have you been?”

  “Meetings. What can I do for you?”

  “Just checking. You’re really coming tomorrow night, right? You wouldn’t stand me up, would you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t stand you up. Look, I said I’d be there. I will. Tomorrow night, seven-thirty.”

  “Seven! Okay, I’ll see you then. Don’t be late. Bye, bye, bye.” Click.

  “Shit!” Dickie said. She had something up her sleeve. He could feel it.

  Chapter Eight

  After shopping for a set of ‘event’ underwear, Marti Cullen spent the rest of the afternoon being pampered. An overall body massage followed by a manicure, pedicure, facial, and hair appointment, then driving home to nap before seeing Terry Taggert.

  She met him just over a year ago, bowled over by his lingering glance, ruggedly handsome good looks, and a body that wouldn’t quit. Add to that his incredible performance stamina, and she’d hit the jackpot.

  He had told her that he played for the New Orleans Saints, laughing at her when she mentioned she knew nothing about basketball. He called her the moment he came to town, never in the same hotel twice, always the best suite of rooms. They would have a fun night, fantastic sex, and those ‘small tokens of affection.’ Diamond earrings; she checked, and they were real. A gorgeous tennis bracelet, the cocktail ring, money seemed to be no object, and she’d be a fool to pass it up.

  Taggert was a good ten years younger than Marti, which made him at least twenty years younger than Craig. She rounded that up to an even quarter-century. Now that was a piece of meat worth sampling.

  Chapter Nine

  “Well, at least you answered this time. Where the hell are you now?”

  “I’m in the parking lot, Darcy. Calm down. I’ll be there in just a minute,” Dickie said, exiting off the freeway ramp, late for dinner. He stopped at the light to wait for traffic before completing his turn. If he made all the lights, he could be at the restaurant in five minutes.

  “Well, hurry up. I’m starving, and I’m wasting billable time in this dump you picked.”

  “Grab a table. I’m just about to get out of the car now.”

&n
bsp; “I’ve already got a table waiting. It’s bad for my image to be seen sitting alone, especially waiting for someone like you.”

  “I’m almost in the door,” Dickie said, barely creeping forward at the traffic light.

  “Hurry up.”

  Ten minutes later, Dickie entered Lenny’s barroom and found Darcy hunched in a dark corner. His back was to the door, nursing a cosmopolitan. His slicked-back hair wrapped around his tanned face like a helmet.

  “Darcy, what are you doing back here in the dark, man? This can’t be good for the old image.”

  “Dickie, you said one minute, and it’s been about thirty. Where the hell have you been?”

  “Look, sorry, ran into some old clients in the parking lot, and they wanted to thank me and chat for a minute. Old schmoozer like you should know how that goes.”

  “All I know is the only thing any old clients of yours would want to do is run the other way. Look, I don’t care. Let’s just get to the table, so I can order, and we can get going on this thing, okay? I don’t like being seen in this place any longer than I have to be.”

  “What? Lenny’s?” Dickie shrugged. “Hey, sorry, I picked a place with great steaks.”

  “Like I explained before, it’s part of my image, Dickie. It’s a big part of the legal business, clients like a winner. Look, never mind. Let’s just eat, okay?”

  They walked through a small arched doorway that led to the dining room.

  “Hey, Dickie, good seeing you, man. How’s it going?” A burly guy with a shaved head and a black handlebar mustache grabbed Dickie’s hand, pumped it up and down, then slapped him on the shoulder. The sleeves on his white shirt were rolled up, revealing massively muscled forearms. The white, ankle-length apron wrapped around his black trousers masked thighs the size of tree trunks.