TUESDAY NIGHT



Sara stretched out on her berth and shifted the laptop more comfortably across her thighs. The sway of the water lulled her, as it always did, and she read through the file on the flash drive for the third time, taking mental notes as she waited impatiently for . . . something.



It came. She heard an unfamiliar voice calling “Hel-lo? Is there a Miz Sidle on board?”



Sara scrambled, setting the laptop out of the way. She clambered up the ladder to the deck after checking the security camera, and stared at the figure standing on the dock in the halo light of lamps. “Um . . . you’re a chicken.”



“I’m not just a chicken, I’m Louise, the Singing Telegram Chicken of Happy Cluck Messengers!” the hefty African-American woman squeaked back proudly. She was indeed a chicken, covered in a fat gold-feather suit complete with beak, wattle and wings. Her shapely legs were encased in orange tights and the latex feet had three toes and claws. Sara bit her lips to keep from laughing.



“Louise. A telegram chicken.”



“Cluck yes, baby, and I have a very special message for you from King Leo . . . are you ready, girl?”



On the verge of losing it altogether, Sara nodded, wrapping an arm around her own waist. Louise cleared her throat and began to chicken dance as she sang the tune for Camptown Races. “Oooooohhhh--You know the code for where I’ll be, doo dah, doo dah, onto that you add a three, oh doo dah day—“



She launched into the second verse happily. “Forty two works out just fine, doo dah, doo dah, if you need to find my line, ohh doo dah day. Then a double eightttt and a sixty threeeee, that’s all that you need to know, now you can find meeeeeee!”



With a flourish, Louise spun and squawked, throwing her wings out in a big dramatic finish, and nearly falling over her own rubber feet.



Sara reached out to grip the mast, shoulders shaking hard. She tried not to laugh, but good-naturedly, the chicken woman chuckled, “Oh go on honey, you KNOW you want to; it’s okay!”



That was when Sara lost it, her squeaky bray echoing out over the water, mingling with Louise’s deep rumble. Eventually, Sara made her way onto the pier with rubbery legs, her breathing a wheeze now as giggles sporadically bubbled up out of her. She blinked her wet eyes and grinned at Louise, shaking her head with a little disbelief, “OhhhhmyGod, you have no idea how much I, ah, I needed that.”



“Oh I know, I know—believe or not there’s a lot of satisfaction in this job,” Louise nodded, preening a little. “Of course I have NO idea what the hell your message means, but at least you got it, right?”



Sara nodded, fishing in her slacks pocket for the spare twenty she kept behind her compact mirror. “It’s a personal joke . . . here—“ she tipped the woman. Louise took the twenty graciously, her smile full and sunny. She handed Sara a printout (pulled from somewhere deep in the suit) and nodded.



“Yeah, I get a lot of those too. Anyway, you have a good night. Oh and if you ever need to send a message by singing chicken, you think of me first, you hear?”



“Louise,” Sara promised sincerely, her dimples grin flashing out again, “Believe me, you’ll be the only singing chicken on my rolodex, I promise.”



“Good to hear, honey! Night now!” Louise turned and made her way back up the dock, feathers ruffling as she did so. Sara watched her go, blinking and feeling unexpectedly warm. She turned back to the hatch and climbed down again, bolting it shut behind her, then smoothed the paper out.



The phone number was simple enough to figure out, and within a minute she dialed it, hearing the distant ring as she clutched her own disposable cell.



“Frango—“ came the sound of Mr. Peppermint’s voice, low and familiar; the very sound of it made her chest tighten, and Sara took a quick breath.



“King Leo. Nice delivery service.”



“Thought you’d appreciate the camouflage.”



“Camouflage?” she asked, walking back to her berth and settling in on the bed. Mr. Peppermint laughed softly.



“Consider this—would you ever think that a singing chicken telegram would be my style?”



“No,” Sara responded promptly. Mr. Peppermint’s little affirmative sound echoed in her ear.



“Exactly. Therefore, I used it.”



“Clever man—“



“I have my moments.” Mr. Peppermint admitted modestly. He leaned back in the hot water, resting his arms along the sides of the tub and relaxed a bit. The heavy crystal ashtray rested near his fingertips, and sitting on the rim was a Montserrat Chocolate Velvet cigar. The smoke drifted upward in elegant curls.



“Where are you?” Sara asked, feeling a little lonely and shy.



“Let me tell you where I’d rather be,” came his slow reply. “All of them start with you.”



“Wow, okay that’s a pretty romantic line,” Sara murmured, pleased and a little breathless. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sway of the water for a second. “Not that you need to stop or anything—“



“Not about to. Miss L spoke to you?”



“She reminded me about Shop policy, yeah. Can’t say I’m too thrilled with it,” Sara sighed. “I thought we were building a pretty good rapport there, professionally.”



“Mmmm hmmm,” Mr. Peppermint agreed, picking up the cigar and drawing on it deeply. “A synergy rooted in our personal affinity and mutual attraction.”



“Which is probably why she wants to nip it in the bud,” Sara pointed out with a sigh. “Horniness is not a workplace adjective.”



“You’re redefining my manual,” Mr. Peppermint countered, exhaling. The husky laugh in his ear echoed in the receiver.



“That sounds totally dirty.”



“I mastered corporate-lingus years ago. And in this case, I don’t think the rationale for the Candy Shop policy holds true. Beyond wanting to have you in every possible personal permutation permitted, Sara, I trust you, which is both a comfort and a surprise to me,” he paused, adding, “I haven’t trusted anyone in a very long time.”



“Oh,” Sara managed as the lovely heat deep in her chest fluttered. “Thank you.” She shifted the phone to her other ear and cleared her throat. “Do I hear water?”



“I’m in the tub.”



A sultry pause circled the conversation.



“Okay, I’m not sure how much more of this I can take . . .” Sara growled through a laugh. “Singing chickens, romantic declarations and now you’re telling me you’re naked on the other end of the line.”



“I like baths,” Mr. Peppermint replied, and she heard the smile in his voice. “I’m having a cigar as well.”



“You smoke?”



“No.”



“Oh,” Sara puzzled, then sighed, “More camouflage?”



“Partially. Psychologically I’m sure Miss L. would accuse me of using it as a substitute, but it’s not a bad balm for certain . . . tensions.”



“Yeah, well it’s a hell of an image, babe—“ She could picture him so easily, reclining in steaming water, the humidity making his hair curl damply at his temples, his expression somewhere between cherub and satyr.



“One you may eventually see in person . . . minus the cigar,” Mr. Peppermint replied. “Are you working?”



“Yep. I have to pick out a somber black suit for a funeral on Thursday. My sister.”



“Ah. My condolences. I hope you wear something with a veil. I think you’d look very sultry in a little bit of black netting.”



“Short skirt, fitted jacket, black sheer hose, sunglasses. I’ll think about netting.”



“Oh I will too,” Mr. Peppermint assured her sincerely. “Believe me.”



“So what are YOU doing, besides sitting in hot water without me?” Sara asked silkily, sliding her shoes off and letting them drop off the end of the berth to the deck.



“Considering the best course of action to topple a government figure, but that’s minor. We’ve got about six minutes before anyone monitoring the Bohemian calls to check in on you, so I’d rather spend it plotting. Where do you want to run away with me?”



“Someplace . . . safe. Just you and me; no Shop, no sweets or false faces, Gil,” came her hoarse little sigh. “Man, woman, maybe a blanket or two . . .”



“Tis consummation devoutly to be wished,” he agreed. “Maybe we should use the strategy of a fox and see how many trails we leave.”



“Good idea. I have at least three destinations I can push.” Sara paused and added in a sultry tone, “I already bought condoms.”



Mr. Peppermint gave a little grunt of frustration. “Don’t tell me things like that—a cigar, even a chocolate cured one can only go SO far.”



“I’ll suit you up myself,” she persisted, wicked delight in her voice. “Slick and slow . . . “



“More.”



“Where the hands go, can it be too long before the lips follow?” she reminded him with a throaty chuckle.



On the other end of the line, Mr. Peppermint growled. “This is a hell of a way to take my transcontinental calling plan virginity . . .”



“Suffer,” Sara moaned cheerfully, sliding her free palm under the waistband of her slacks, “Because with the mood I’m in, it’s going to be ladies first--“



There was a quick puff of breath and a soft demand, “Details, sweetheart—“



“Fine—you’re not the only one who can appreciate something wrapped tightly and full of flavor,” she chuffed back, pinning the cell phone between her ear and shoulder. The lazy flick of her fingers between her legs had Sara quivering; already her body was responding eagerly to her touch in tandem with Mr. Peppermint’s honeyed words.



“All of you . . . “ he gritted out, “I want all of you to myself . . . to open your thighs and mount you properly, dear . . . “



“Jeeesussss--“ Sara gulped, unable to suppress a pang of lust so strong it made her stomach shiver. She gave a happy groan and stroked her taut little pearl, circling it with a fingertip. Mr. Peppermint’s breathing deepened in the phone line.



“And I won’t . . . can’t . . . . be satisfied . . . until I taste of you and smell of you . . .” he confessed. Sara tensed, her pretty toes curling. She slid another finger along her throbbing cleft, focusing on the urgent pleasure between her legs, and the husky seduction of Mr. Peppermint’s voice. “Under me, delicious and hot, mine for the having . . . “



“IWANTyou—“ she cried softly, closing her eyes helplessly. His low utterly masculine groan echoed in Sara’s ear as the weightless waves of heat and chill flared through her, radiating out from under her fingers and throughout her entire lanky frame.



She arched and slumped back against the mattress, breathing deeply, a flush of yearning mingling with embarrassment and amusement. “Ohhhhhh . . . . um, yeahhhhh, that was . . . “



His answering sigh, deep and pleased, left her smiling. “ . . . Beautiful. And . . . er, messy. Among other things, you’ve made me drop a two hundred dollar cigar into the tub, thanks to your incredibly sexy whimpering.”



Sara slowly slid her hand out of her panties, rubbing the slickness along her stomach, pleased and shy; somehow lonelier than ever. “I miss you.”



“I love you,” Mr. Peppermint replied quietly. “Now hang up and call Greg; ask him if he sent you a telegram chicken. I love you. Then it will be your turn; I’m at the Patriot Lodge and I don’t plan to be out here more than three days. I love you. At the moment I have to take a shower and go to work.”



“Go to work,” Sara agreed. “Cancun, Paris, Hawaii. We won’t go to any of them this time. And what you said? Me too.”



Before he could reply Sara closed the cell phone and took a deep breath. Then she rolled over and reached for the phone on the nightstand and dialed a number as she tucked the disposable under her pillow. A voice answered.



“Very funny Greg—you DID send the chicken, didn’t you?” she began, forcing her voice to be light and careless.

Miss Lollipop smoothed down the filmy nightgown, and reached for the peignoir, sliding into it gracefully. The muted lilac color flattered her dark hair, and she checked herself in the mirror before stepping out of the bathroom.



Sugar Daddy was sitting on the bed, his back against the headboard, a newspaper in his hands. He looked up at her, his gaze dark and deep.



“For the record, this entire plan sucks. Except this part,” he amended, watching her approach the bed. Miss Lollipop flashed a smile at him and sat down on the edge of the mattress, leaning over towards him.



“It’s been a while since I’ve been in the field, but I’m still qualified,” she murmured, looking at his pajamas. They were burgundy plaid flannel, and Miss Lollipop wondered if they were as soft as they looked.



“Heather, everyone’s qualified to die. According to John Irving, we’re all terminal cases, but that doesn’t mean we have to like it. And this entire . . . scheme still leaves me uneasy. Too damned much can go wrong.”



“Which is why I need you to make sure things go exactly the way Stanley Pertonelli recommends, dear. I take the curare blend, you call in the ambulance, I’m declared dead and I’m on my way to Resurrection Gardens.”



Sugar Daddy set down the newspaper. “Tell me the truth—you sent the girls on vacation because you didn’t want them to know you were going to try this.”



She nodded. “Ellie and Zoë earned the time off anyway, but yes—I didn’t want the added worry. I’m sure they’re having a lovely time in Santa Barbara, but that’s not the point, James.”



“Then what is?—that you’ve still got what it takes? Because I don’t know who you need to convince,” he replied in a mild tone, his gaze still wandering over her lightly clad body. Seeing it, Miss Lollipop tried to shoot him a stern look, but couldn’t quite manage. “Jim . . . “



“Sorry, a little distracted there,” he replied smoothly. “I don’t suppose I could grant a dying woman a last request?” She blushed, and Sugar Daddy savored the sight; he added, “When are they expecting your call?”



“Between midnight and one,” Miss Lollipop replied, smoothly sliding over the covers to come closer to Sugar Daddy. “And since it’s only ten-thirty now—“



“—You’ll need something to relax you, gotcha. Let’s see . . . “ he pretended to consider options as he pulled her into his lap. “Pinochle . . . Leno. . . . Cross stitch . . . “ Over his shoulder, Miss Lollipop reached for the bedside lamp and clicked it off. The bedroom went dark, and the soft sound of shifting cloth filled the room. “Ohhhh, yeah, you know, I think I like your suggestion here MUCH better--“



“James darling, if I’m going to die tonight, I’m going to die happy.”



“Mmmm, at this rate,” came his husky, happy growl, “--me too.”

Ecklie shifted uneasily. He was standing, caught between the rounded bulk of Bruce Eiger and the meaty muscle of the bodyguard at the door. Neither man seemed to being paying any attention to him, at the moment, and that was a small favor.



The room was filled with television screens, and the majority of them were focused in wide-angle shots of various locations. Ecklie recognized the casino ones easily enough; the others were slightly confusing though, and he concentrated on them, wondering why a few looked vaguely familiar.



One seemed to be a shot of the main emergency room doors of Desert Palm. Another was of some corporate meeting room table, complete with padded chairs and bland artwork on the walls. Yet another screen focused on a men’s room . . . Ecklie looked away when someone entered, feeling slightly nauseated.



“I’m thinking of promoting you, Connie,” came Bruce’s mild rumble. Startled, Ecklie said nothing, but he felt the prickle of sweat along his upper lip. Bruce Eiger did nothing without expecting something in return—that was a given fact.



“Uh, thank you.”



“No problem. I appreciate loyalty, and I know you could use the extra money, what with your little bitty gal being in the family way and all—“



Ecklie gritted his teeth when he heard the low chuckle of the bodyguard behind him. On one of the screens, someone walked past a blurry glass wall.



“So it will be a good thing. A little more money, maybe some better hours . . . “ Bruce commented cheerily. “I can be good to the people who stick with me. There’s just one small thing you gotta do first, okay? Think of it as an initiation of sorts.”



Ecklie blinked. He looked at the wall of screens, and realized he recognized the blurry glass wall; hell, he wiped it down nearly every 
week . . .



Bruce sighed and turned around, focusing his piggy eyes on the thin man before him. He smiled. “Connie. I know how much you hate working out at the Crime Lab, buddy, so here’s the thing—you’re gonna blow it up for me.”