Power to the Max (14 page)

It was the oddest conversation. She couldn’t quite believe he intended to break her legs. Especially since he liked them. “Perhaps we could make a deal.”

As he sat back, his chair groaned audibly even over the lilting piano, the hum of voices, and the high-pitched laughter. “What kind of deal?”

“We split the take. Fifty-fifty.”

He raised a non-existent eyebrow. That had been shaved off, too. “My dear, you didn’t look at one man. You’ve been here two hours and haven’t turned one trick, not even a quick blowjob. Fifty percent of nothing is nothing.”

“Then you don’t have to worry about my stealing your Angela’s territory, do you?”

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You’re new at this.”

“Very new.”

“Well, I won’t ask why, I don’t really care. But I’ll take your fifty-fifty if you let Angela give you a few pointers.”

Max almost laughed with triumph. Instead she gasped, stretching for indignation. “A minute ago you were going to break my legs for horning in on her territory?”

“That was when I couldn’t see your revenue potential.”

“Oh.” She didn’t ask what had changed his mind.

The bartender drifted by, head cocked for the slightest signal. Hammerhead flicked his wrist, and the man returned to his station. It seemed Mr. H. rated personal service. Everyone else got the waitresses. Though some might have preferred the short skirts, the attention was definitely less impressive.

Another peal of too-high laughter grated on Max’s eardrum. She turned but couldn’t make out which of the female group was the irritant. They all seemed to be swaying a bit more as the evening wore on.

Hammerhead tapped his well-manicured nails on the table top to get her attention. “When Angela gets back, you talk to her. If she thinks she can do anything with that suit and your hair, then we have a deal.” He leaned forward, his breath pleasant and yeasty with foreign-born beer. “By the way, fifty-fifty is better than any deal you’ll get on the street.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. But what do I get for my fifty?”

“Use of the bar, no hassle from the management”—he tipped his head toward the bartender—“or the cops. And if some guy gives you a bad time”—raising his brow and his hands at the same time—“I break their legs for you.”

“You got a thing about legs, don’t you?”

He grinned with a perfect set of white teeth, too perfect. Obviously porcelain. “You ever see that Redskins game where Joe Theismann breaks his leg?”

She shook her head, slowly, mesmerized by those perfect teeth.

“I got that part on tape. Watch it over and over. Sounds like a chicken bone snapping, don’t you think?”

* * * * *

Hammerhead ordered her another white zinfandel. Damn, at this rate, even though fruity wine didn’t affect her the way chardonnay did, she still wouldn’t be able to drive herself home. As soon as her drink arrived, he sent her back to her own table. She’d almost expected a pat on her head from the big guy for being a good little girl.

She took her chair, still in line with Witt’s sight from his lobby seat. The muscles of his face didn’t so much as twitch. With the poor lighting and the distance between them, she couldn’t be sure he even blinked. But the hard line of his face spoke plainly; he was pissed, yet looking out for her anyway. Macho. Cop-like. Possessive. Endearing.

She’d never been
possessed
before, at least not in the man-woman sense. Not even with Cameron. He let her go her own way. Whenever she’d pushed him too far, he’d simply walked out, sort of like a reverse time-out one would force on a child. They didn’t discuss. They didn’t compromise. They simply ignored whatever had happened when he came back.

That didn’t mean she was right. In fact, most of the time she was in the wrong. She picked fights when she was worried or scared. And a lot of things had worried or scared her when Cameron was alive. Her stressful job at Kirby, O’Brien and Dakajama. Cameron’s constant harping on her so-called personal issues. Her past. Maybe, instead of letting her feed him her crap, he should have squashed her. If he’d squashed her that last night instead of walking out on her, he wouldn’t be dead.

Max wondered if Witt was up to squashing her when she really acted up. A big guy, broad shoulders, massive chest and with a cop’s attitude, he was certainly capable of it. He hadn’t squashed his first wife, though, not even when she’d told him she wouldn’t clean the bathroom anymore unless he sat when he took a leak. For Witt, that had been the last straw. He’d walked out on her then because, in his words, it was his God-given right to stand and piss.

Okay, there’d also been the fact that Debbie Doodoo had an abortion without telling Witt. Since that tidbit had come from Ladybird with no confirmation from the big guy himself, Max couldn’t very well count it into the mix.

That was the thing. A well-deserved squash could save a marriage. But it had to be done before the last straw got broken.

Did that mean her marriage to Cameron had been doomed even without the 7-11?

It was then that Angela returned, in the middle of that very thought and at precisely nine-thirty, rescuing Max from her maudlin mood and too many notions of squashing and leaving.

The woman stopped at Hammerhead’s table, but didn’t give him cash. He pointed in Max’s direction, Angela glanced over as they exchanged words and a smile.

Max tightened her grip on her wineglass. She didn’t like that scurvy, malicious smile. What the hell were they up to? It wasn’t normal to offer pimping and protection to a woman you’d never seen before. She could be an undercover cop. She could be a serial killer. She could be a bored housewife who’d rat on their operation once she got an attack of nerves or conscience.

In the end, their reasons didn’t matter as long as she found out what had happened to Lance.

Heading straight for Max, Angela wended her way through the tables. Eyes followed. Young eyes, old eyes, girl eyes, guy eyes, envious eyes, wanting eyes. Angry eyes. Witt’s eyes. She could feel them boring into her even through the potted palms.

Angela’s body expunged the eyes as she took the seat opposite Max. She held out a smooth, pale-skinned hand, fingers long and delicate, nails painted a soft shade of coral, a sapphire tennis bracelet circling her wrist. “Angela Rocket.”

“Max Starr.” Not questioning the use of her real name, Max held on to Angela’s hand longer than necessary. “I love sapphires.” Gently twisting the hand in hers, first left, then right, she leaned down to take in the brilliance of the stones. They sparkled in the flickering light of the table candle. “It’s beautiful.” She dropped Angela’s hand and sat back. “Where’d you get it?”

“Lance, Lance, Lance” flashed in green neon in Max’s head, but she didn’t expect the true answer, had the heck surprised out of her when she got it. “A friend of mine.” Angela held the bracelet up, turning it to the light as Max had done. “He died. This is all I have left of him.”

There was a certain wistfulness to her tone. Her eyes misted, not with tears, but with fond memory. Max had to ask herself, was this the look of a killer?

Cameron the skeptic. Nice of him to pop in like the proverbial fly on the wall. Or maybe he was more like the bad penny. Whatever, he was right. Max couldn’t count Angela out of the game on the basis of one tender facial expression.

Though it did give the working girl a certain sense of sympathy.

The moment ended. Angela got down to business. “Hammerhead says you’re interested in working with me?”

Max felt her eyes widen without intention. “Not
with
you.”

The girl leaned forward, smiling with perfect lips and perfect teeth. These days everyone seemed to have perfect, dentally-enhanced teeth. Perfect breasts, perfect legs, too. Damn, what was an imperfect woman like Max supposed to do?

“Don’t worry, Max Starr, I won’t make you do girl-on-girl. Not even a ménage a trois.” Which didn’t mean Angela Rocket wasn’t above it.

Why did the table of three loud and slightly tipsy females chose that moment to fall silent? Max’s glance flitted from Witt in the lobby to Hammerhead to the Greek God whose head had snapped toward them. A flush rose to Max’s cheeks, though she managed to keep the shock from her face.

At least she thought she had until Angela’s next words. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

Thank God the bartender arrived with Angela’s drink—more personal service, it seemed, though not quite as quick—setting the wine down next to Max’s already half-empty glass. She hadn’t noticed Angela place an order. It might have been from Hammerhead. It might also have been a standing order. She returns, get her a glass of the same.

Dying to know what the wine was, Max kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want Angela, or Hammerhead, knowing how closely she’d been watching.

They were alone again, if you could call sitting in the middle of a semi-packed bar with ears and beady eyes all around being alone. At least the music was non-stop. Max tugged on her inner cheek, chewing as she considered her options.

“I’m a little short on cash right now.” It was the best Max could come up with right now. And it was the truth.

“Why not get a job?”

“My skills haven’t proved particularly marketable.” Lie.

Angela raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Even Burger King will do when you’re strapped.”

“I need a lot of money.” Lie.

“And you’ve heard we working girls make a lot, right?”

“Don’t you?” On firmer ground now, with questions and answers, Max felt better. She hoped she could keep Angela on that track.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

Angela tipped her head to one side, her lovely sable hair cascading over her shoulder. Max, briefly envious of the sable color, waited on the answer Angela finally gave. “Depends on who you’re working with, where you’re working, and whether you’re into drugs.”

“I’m not into drugs.” Max spoke too loud. The Greek God turned her way, but she looked down before their eyes met.

“Good. Drugs’ll get you out on the streets faster than a swift kick in the ass.”

The
streets
seemed to be anathema. “I wouldn’t dream of going out there.”

Angela nodded as if she approved Max’s choice. “Hammerhead’s a good business manager. This hotel’s got a good clientele. You can solve your money problems in no time.”

“Don’t you work anywhere else?”

Angela wound her hair around her finger, lifted her glass to her lips and sipped, relishing it with lowered lashes and a captivating smile. To her left, a portly gentleman stared, overtly fascinated by that finger, that lock of hair, the ruby lipstick stain. By Angela herself. “I like to stay in one location until I’m not welcome anymore.”

Still obsessed with knowing the name of that chardonnay, Max took a sip from her own glass. No one stared, she was sure. “And why wouldn’t you be welcome?”

“Management changes. People complain. Time to move on. You should never stay in one place too long.”

Unless a wealthy patron wanted her exclusively and was willing to toss in an apartment, gifts, and all the fine things she wanted. Like the sapphire tennis bracelet.

Max asked. She might never get another chance to find out if her theory held water. “What about having one guy who sort of ... helps you out?”

Angela tipped her head to the side, considering. “What, like some
Pretty Woman
fantasy?”

“Well, yeah.” It sounded equally as silly as when she’d said it to Witt.

Angela half-snorted, a soft sound which strangely ended up seeming almost ladylike. “I’ll take whatever’s thrown my way.”

Yep. Sort of beat the hell out of Angela Rocket’s motive for killing Lance La Russa.

It sure made Hammerhead look extremely attractive. As a suspect. His fifty-fifty meal ticket had been about to start playing house without him.

“Never stay in one place too long,” Max repeated. “Sounds profound.” Exactly how profound she was sure Cameron would elucidate upon later.

Angela tapped her nails on the table top and changed the subject completely. “Do you have a business card yet?”