Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

A fterward, Coop and I said goodnight by way of a dreamy kiss that let me know even though he had my proverbial number, he still had a very real desire to ring me up in other ways. It's just about midnight and as I'm about to crawl into bed with my favorite furry beast, Watson—not his daddy, but I'm hopeful for a future reversal of fortune in that arena—my phone buzzes.

I flip it over, anticipating a lusty diatribe from Coop begging me to let him in and have his way with me, but no such luck. It's my Uncle Jimmy.

Need to see you at the office. Get here now.

Great. So much for sawing some logs and drifting off to dreamland where I can have my way with a hot detective.

Instead, I grab my ever-loyal furry sidekick and head down to Leeds, a greasy little town with all the charm of a dirty sock, but it just so happens to be where Uncle Jimmy reigns supreme.

We pull up to the Red Satin Gentlemen's Club, a joint that's all about taking it off with its red walls, red carpet, and a long, glitzy runway lined with half-dressed girls doing their best to keep the clientele drooling.

The place is a jerk's paradise, filled with the stench of cheap cologne and even cheaper desperation.

I weave through the tables, avoiding leering gazes and the occasional grabby hand as I try to make a beeline for the back office where Uncle Jimmy holds court. The heavy bass from the speakers vibrates through my chest, and it mingles with the raucous laughter and catcalls of the patrons. Watson wiggles in my arm, his nose twitching at the myriad of questionable scents, but mostly he's trying to leap into the arms of scantily clad waitresses. Besides the dog park, Red Satin is his favorite place to hang out.

Just as I'm about halfway through this maze of harlots and horrors, something catches my eye on the stage. A familiar face is dancing around, draped in a hot pink feather boa, and it's definitely not one of the regulars. I squint and strain and my jaw drops once I recognize who it is.

It's Loretta Spumoni! Cooper's sister!

What the heck is she doing here? And dressed like that? Or more to the point, undressed like that.

Wow. This night just keeps getting better.

"That can't be right." I laugh to myself while visions of all the sugarplum dirt I've got on Loretta dance through my mind.

I can't help the yuletide-based analogy. Christmas is practically breathing down Thanksgiving's neck, and that's the only thing I could come up with.

"That's right," a woman growls from behind, and I turn around to see Lottie's older, far scarier sister, Meg.

Meg Lemon runs this place as far as I'm concerned. Technically, she tells the dancers how to jiggle their wares and who to do it in front of to make the most bucks. She's the dance choreographer, but Uncle Jimmy has her more or less managing this sleazy joint for him.

Meg dyes her hair a dark shade of midnight and dresses as if she's on her way to sacrifice a goat. She's perpetually clad in black, her feet perpetually entombed in combat boots, and she wears a perpetual scowl to go along with it. Her signature black lipstick only adds to her charm.

"She's a regular," Meg continues, nodding toward the stage where Coop's sis is twirling her hot pink feather boa. "Loretta and her friends come here all the time."

I blink in amazement, but not for obvious reasons. "You're allowed to call her Loretta? I thought only her closest friends are allowed to do that. You and the Black Widow Lazzari must be pretty tight."

"Nope." Meg shakes her head and at least three moths fly out of that necrotic beehive on her head. "She just got sick of me calling her Salami."

I stifle a laugh. "I've let that deli meat moniker slip a time or two as well."

Meg shrugs. "Takes one to know one."

Was I just insulted?

"Now, what the heck are you doing here at midnight?" she asks.

"Trust me, I'm wondering the same thing," I mutter, watching Loretta shimmy on stage. "I got a summons from Uncle Jimmy. He said he needed to see me asap."

She lifts a sharply drawn-in eyebrow and it gives her a cartoon appeal.

"Well, you better get to it then. And keep that dog close. You never know what kind of trouble you'll find around here."

I'm about to boot-scoot to the back when Loretta does a double take in my direction, and just as I'm about to duck out of sight, Watson leaps out of my arms and bolts for the stage.

He's such a boy.

"Hey, get back here," I shout. "Those are not volleyballs!" I shout even louder, but my voice is no competition with the music shaking and quaking the walls.

Watson darts all the way onto the stage and right into Loretta's arms.

Loretta is in mid-twirl with her hot pink feather boa when she looks down in surprise as Watson nuzzles into her boobs, wagging his tail like he's just found the love of his life.

Meg chuckles beside me. "He's not the first dog that's done that. And by dog, I mean man." She takes off for the bar and I take off for the stage.

"Watson, you little tramp! Get down here!"

Another tramp hops down, Loretta herself, while Watson continues to burrow his way into her chest.

"Well, well, if it isn't my big brother's walking, talking tramp stamp." Loretta smears a hot pink smile my way. "Here to join the show?"

Walking, talking tramp stamp? To take the words out of Meg's mouth, it takes one to know one .

"Not if I can help it," I say, taking back my pooch. "Sorry about that. He's got a mind of his own. And apparently, you do, too." I motion to the hot pink feathers flying between us. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me." For now at least. I think we both know I've got enough to blackmail her into oblivion. There's not a single Italian mother or brother who would tolerate their blood relation shaking their culo on a pole.

"Most men have a mind of their own." She gives Watson a quick pat. "And as far as secrets go, I don't have one." She squints my way. "What are you doing here?"

Wonderful. As if an inquisition from Coop isn't bad enough, I've got his sister offering up the preamble.

"I've got family business to tend to." The words slip out before I can vet them. I can't help it—it's way past my bedtime and I had one too many slices of Lottie's pumpkin pie back at the festival. I'm lucky I'm not dead. But right about now, I'd take a tour of the morgue rather than stare at Loretta's mile-long hot pink eyelashes. "What are you doing here?"

I bet her brother has no clue she moonlights as a dollar-store dominatrix.

No secret, my shiny hiney. There's no way Coop would approve of this behavior.

"One of my girls is getting hitched." She nods to a table full of schnockered women who are twirling panties on their fingers—most likely their own—and knocking back shot glasses with glow-in-the-dark ice cubes. "We were just getting ready to head across the street to the Banana Hammock Club. We thought we'd start here first. The antipasto is better."

I glance at the table and, sure enough, there's enough antipasto to make my mouth water. An overflowing platter of thinly sliced prosciutto, salami, and capicola arranged artfully next to marinated olives, roasted red peppers, and tangy artichoke hearts. There's also a generous selection of what looks to be sharp provolone, creamy mozzarella, and aged Parmesan, all flanked by crusty slices of Italian bread.

It's a spread fit for a queen—or in this case, a bachelorette party with a penchant for good food.

"Help yourself," she says. "You can even head across the street with us if you like. Those boys really know how to put on a show." Her lips curve as if she just issued a threat, and I have no doubt she did just that. I bet Salami would love to lord that over me when it comes to Cooper. But I'm not here to give her any ammo.

"I might take you up on the antipasto, but there's something I need to tend to first."

I take off with all the enthusiasm of attending my own beheading.

And with my Uncle Jimmy in charge, it wouldn't surprise me in the least to find him holding a cleaver.

Something tells me it's only a matter of time.