Midnight Rambler: A Novel of Suspense

Melinda entered the VIP lounge with a glazed look in her eyes. She was every hot-blooded male's dream: white toga, six-inch stiletto heels, her hair in a single braid resting on her shoulder. Sitting beside me, she pulled at a knot in her garment. It parted, revealing nothing but a G-string. Her reaction to danger was to snort coke, and I could tell she was higher than a kite.

“Oh, it's my knight in shining armor,” she said.

Her breasts gently swayed as she spoke. She had never gotten implants, and her natural beauty set her apart from every other woman in the club.

“We need to talk,” I said.

Her face turned dreamy.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

I hesitated. Taking my head in her hands, she kissed me on the lips.

“You do love me,” she said.

I gazed into her eyes. It was hard to tell how far gone she was.

“I have a solution to the problem,” I said.

“You want to run away with me?”

“Listen to me. I have a solution to the problem.”

“What problem is that, Jack?”

“The one we talked about last night. Simon Skell.”

“I don't want to talk about him.”

“We have to talk about him.”

Her face turned dark. Then tears rolled down her cheeks, and she started to crack. I sensed another presence in the lounge and looked up. The bouncer from last night was back. I offered no resistance as he lifted me off the couch.

“I told you to stay out of here,” he said.

Melinda held her head in her hands. I spotted Cheever at the bar and waved. He came running and pulled the bouncer off me. The bouncer cocked his fist, and Cheever showed him his badge.

“Fucking shit,” the bouncer said.

Cheever made him empty his pockets. The bouncer was carrying several fat joints and enough nose candy for the Mexican Army. Cheever read him his rights. I returned to the couch and pulled Melinda's toga together.

“I don't want to die,” she sobbed. “I don't want to die.”

“You're not going to die,” I said.

“Yes, I am. Skell's going to kill me.”

“No, you're not,” I told her. “You're not going to die.”

I fed Melinda pigs in a blanket at the local IHOP, and the life came back to her cheeks. She tried to talk, but I wouldn't let her. She was still messed up. Drugs mixed with fear produces something akin to insanity. She desperately needed to get straight.

“What's going to happen to Ray?” she asked after her third cup of coffee.

I assumed Ray was the bouncer and said, “He'll cop a plea, maybe do a couple of months, probably just house arrest or probation.”

She twirled her coffee with the tip of her pinky. She'd cried away her makeup, and beneath the estaurant's harsh neon she looked like a kid. I assumed Ray's coke was the carrot that kept her coming back to the club and saw her shrug indifferently.

“So what's your solution?” she asked.

I told her about rescuing the Vasquez baby and how it had led to my getting the house in Aspen.

“Ever been to Aspen?” I asked.

“I've never been out of Florida,” she said.

“I want you to go there and lie low for a while.”

“Let me think about it, okay?”

Melinda didn't own a car and relied on the largesse of other dancers for rides. I drove her to a sprawling apartment complex near Weston and parked outside her unit. A giant palmetto bug smacked into the windshield, making us both jump.

“Oh, Jesus, I hate those things,” Melinda said. “Make it go away.”

I cleaned the bug's remains off the glass and got back in.

“Will you do it?” I asked.

She looked away. “Leave Florida? I don't know.”

“You need to get out of here for a few weeks,” I said. “I'll buy the airline ticket, send you money for food.”

She placed her hand on my thigh. “Will that make me your kept woman?”

I got out, came around to her side, and opened her door. I was all business walking her up the path to her ground-floor unit. She caught my drift, but at the door she embraced me anyway.

“One day, Jack. One day.”

“Will you do it?”

“You sound like a recorded message. I hate that.”

“I'm sorry. Will you?”

Her key ring came out, and she unlocked her door.

“Let me sleep on it,” and she was gone before I could reply.

During the drive home I remembered Jessie's basketball game. It was late and she was probably asleep in her dorm room, but I called her anyway. Her voice was groggy when she answered.

“I'm sorry I woke you,” I said. “How was the game?”

“We won,” my daughter said. “Your dream was right. I shot eight for twelve from the three-point line and hit 80 percent of my free throws.”

“You're a star.”

My daughter giggled. “Thanks for calling. How was your day?”

“Couldn't of been better.”

“Good. Good night, Daddy. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”