Royal Flush (23 page)

"I can't argue with that logic," I said. Kent was beginning to loosen up, either from the vodka or from all the topless women parading around in front of him. The edge was still there, but it had receded into the background. When he smiled, the candlelight from our table made his eyes twinkle. I tried to shake myself out of it.
Don't fall for him,
I started telling myself. The trouble with getting older was that I had become more desperate, and I often found myself creating the wildest fantasies based on mere scraps and shreds of human interactions I had. In my mind, I had already married my mechanic, the valet in my building, several of my customers, and a guy who had helped me select new tires for my Audi last spring. Not to mention Alex Trebek, the sexiest Canadian alive. In one of my fantasies, he and I shared a place in Hawaii, where we lay in a giant hammock together, testing each other's knowledge of geography and famous poets. So you can see how sitting across a candlelit table from a cute Englishman unleashed the under-stimulated hormones in my body. My brain was fine with being a single, soon-to-be-middle-aged woman, but somewhere in my consciousness lurked a nagging old aunt, and she wanted me to get married and have lots of babies.

"So Raven," Kent began again, snapping me out of my daydream. "As I was saying, what I mean by long-term is, well, a long-term
investment
."

Talk about a buzz kill. Did he think I was going to invest in his lawsuit too? "What kind of investment are we talking about?" I asked, trying not to sound too skeptical. I had to remind myself that he was a scam artist who believed I thought he was British royalty.

"My estate, of course," he said, getting more serious. "Melanie probably explained something about it to you, but—"

"Sorry," I said. "I'm flat broke. I hate to cut you off, but I can barely make my mortgage payments. Being a private investigator isn't very lucrative."

Kent's face seemed to cringe ever so slightly, but he made a brave show of it. "No worries," he said. "But do you think you can
get
any, you know, financing? Even if you don't have any yourself, this is a great opportunity. There aren't many estates back in the old country like mine. If I can just get enough together to secure the title, it will be a windfall for all of my investors."

He wasn't getting it, probably because I was going overboard trying to be polite and friendly. I wanted to tell him to shove it, but I had to play along.

I pretended to consider it for a few seconds. "I do have some relatives with money," I mused. "I could run it past them, I suppose."

He perked up at the possibility. "Better yet, just make the introduction. I'll make the pitch. You see, some people can't resist an accent like mine." He proceeded to explain in great detail what a great investment his estate would be, and how it would take the world of "palace tourism" by storm. As he spoke, he seemed unable to resist contorting his face into a self-satisfied smirk, which now made it my turn to cringe. His was the kind of expression that killed off all the charming glimmer in his eyes and revealed his true nature as an avaricious cad. But as he spoke, I was beginning to wonder whether he had no other intentions toward me except to bilk me out of some money. Based on our conversation so far, it seemed increasingly likely that neither he nor anyone else intended to abduct me or cause me harm, at least at the moment, and that I might have been just a little bit paranoid in arranging all the security to protect me. But even if he wasn't going to hurt me, I still wanted to swipe his cell phone. I still wanted to unveil the private communications he must have had with Melanie, which could tell me once and for all if she had been killed.

I nodded along with his self-congratulatory monologue, trying to disguise my lack of interest, my growing disgust, and the fact that my mind was spinning with schemes and plans to try to wrest his cell phone away from him. When his double martini arrived, he slurped greedily at it and looked me in the eye again to toast.

"Cheers," he said, not meaning it. I returned the phony expression and took a sip of my own drink. Liz, who was still standing at our table, eyed my half-empty glass suggestively. I nodded, and she scurried off to bring me another. She probably figured I was on a hot date with a younger man, and she was trying to do her best to make things perfect.

Kent tried to renew his monologue about the English countryside, but I didn't think I could take any more of it. My brain began running on overdrive, trying to come up with a way to extract myself from the conversation and steal his cell phone.

"I need to freshen up," I said, excusing myself. "And don't steal any of my martini!"

I headed back into the bowels of the club, where I used the restroom, and then found Alexandra as she was coming out of the locker room.

"I need a favor," I said, somewhat gingerly. We had been friends years earlier, but she had grown jealous of me when I became the club's top draw six or seven years ago, and she wasn't good at hiding it.

She looked at me skeptically. She was still beautiful, blonde, and blessed with amazing eyes, and she appealed to men who weren't looking for ninety-seven pound sticks. Not that she was fat—far from it. But she had curves—real ones—and the body of a woman who wasn't afraid to eat a steak every once in a while. She was also six-foot-two.

"What kind of favor?" she asked.

"I'm with a guy, and he likes you. I'll cover it, but I need you to give him a dance. A really good one, okay?"

She nodded. "That's it? I would do that anyway. What's the favor?"

I smiled hesitantly. "I'm going to try to borrow his phone while you're doing the dance."

She crunched her features up and cocked her head sideways in confusion. "Huh?"

"It's not a big deal," I said, scrambling to manufacture a plausible reason I wanted his phone. "I just need to see if he's cheating on me with someone. I think he's been texting another girl, and it's eating me up inside." Sometimes a lie is much simpler than the truth.

"Okay, I get it. Sure, I'll play it cool. And I'll find a way to
really
distract him. Is that the idea?" She had grabbed my arm for effect.

I nodded, relieved that she wasn't holding a grudge. "You got it." I reached into my bag and found a bunch of twenties. "This covers it, okay?"

She counted out seven twenties and seemed impressed. "I hope for your sake he's been a good boy."

I shrugged. "Me too. I'll let you know. And thanks!"

Alexandra folded the money and slipped it into a tiny pocket on her bra, and then she scampered off, a funny look spreading across her face. She had been wary at first, but I sensed she was now intrigued to be part of a little caper.

On my way back to our table, I filled Carlos in and told him to be on the lookout for Alexandra and Kent in the lap dance parlor, which was a secluded, dimly lit room in the rear of the club. I would be lurking outside, waiting for the right moment, and Carlos could be around in case things went south. He nodded along in silence and then squinted at me.

"You're starting to get good at this crap," he muttered.

I shrugged. "It's just an idea. Now watch me screw it up."

When I returned to our table, Kent was already standing up, chatting with Alexandra. His arms were folded across his chest, a sign that he felt a little defensive. He turned his attention to me when I arrived.

"You really didn't have to do this," he said.

I put my arm on Alexandra's shoulder and turned to face Kent. "I saw you looking at her. You looked as if you could blow off a little steam, so I made it happen. Live a little! You're so young."

He shrugged, a smile creeping across his face. "I'm not turning it down, believe me. Let's go!"

Alexandra took him by the arm and, as they headed to the back room, she turned her head back and winked at me.

I gave them a couple of minutes to get settled into the lap dance routine, and then I headed back there myself, with Carlos in tow.

In the back room there were three armless chairs aligned toward the rear of the room, the idea being that security staff could monitor the activities back there without the customers knowing they were being watched. In the far corner a hefty, balding man was getting the treatment from Naomi, an exotic half-Japanese, half-Russian girl who'd recently dropped out of medical school. Kent and Alexandra were right in front of us. Kent had shaken off his initial wariness and was embracing the experience. Literally. Alexandra had removed her top and was pressing herself into Kent's chest, and his arms kept reaching for her back to pull her in even closer. She was politely but firmly fending off his hands, and I expected she was gently repeating the rules of engagement into his ear, the primary one being
hands off
. I had given her a gigantic tip to make her more accommodating, but the hands thing was non-negotiable.

Alexandra was good at her job. I was never a big fan of giving lap dances because the men's expectations were almost universally too high. For most men, the lap dance was the closest thing to sex, and they had trouble enjoying the fantasy without wanting to take it to the next, forbidden level. It was understandable: we got them all worked up, and their hormones began going crazy. That was the point. But, built into the process was the inevitable letdown the customer experienced when the five minutes were over. Their brains might understand, but their hormones were saying,
hey idiot, there's a beautiful naked girl on top of you, why the hell are you getting up to leave?

Alexandra was selling it, by which I mean she was acting as though giving Kent a lap dance was a privilege she enjoyed rather than a sketchy way to make a quick buck. If you could make a guy feel special, as if he was better than the rest of the rabble in the nightclub—something he probably believed already—he'd come back again and again, and the tips would follow in due course. The best lap dances weren't only dances—they were transformations. For five minutes, a paper-pusher from Peoria could be transformed into a powerful model of manhood, a tower of testosterone fueled by alcohol, the stripper's body, and the things she would whisper in his ear. The sex appeal was a big part of it, no doubt, but a well-crafted lap dance was really just another way of providing what Las Vegas could provide better than anywhere else, which was an appreciation of how interesting and special the customer really is.

All of which is to say that Kent was thoroughly enjoying being made to feel special and interesting. Alexandra was not shy about allowing certain of her body parts to press up against his face, and once Kent learned his lesson about keeping his hands to himself, he began to appreciate what a massive tip from an insider would get him.

Carlos elbowed me. "Now's the time," he whispered.

I nodded, knowing he was right—my pounding heart had already recognized that fact. I took my dummy phone out of my own pocket and crept up behind Kent's chair, while Alexandra continued her jiggling and writhing, pretending not to see me get down on my hands and knees. I knew the phone was in Kent's right pocket, so I crawled over to that side of his chair. Kent was oblivious, and the loud music would conceal any noises I made, but I wasn't sure whether I would be able to reach into his pocket without alerting him. It was my virgin run as a pickpocket.

What I hadn't counted on was the very real possibility that there would be other people in the back room with us. As I prepared to do the deed, another dancer led a large, balding man by the hand to the chair in the corner of the room. I didn't recognize the girl, who must have been new, and she did a double take when she saw me. I used my finger to make a
shhh
signal, but that only aroused her curiosity even more. I looked up to check on Kent, but he was still giving Alexandra his undivided attention. Pretty soon the other customer turned to face me, fixing me with a quizzical expression as if to say,
this is my dime, lady, don't screw around
.

Panic set in. Alexandra was doing a great job of distracting Kent, but it was only a matter of time before the other two would queer the deal and expose my not-so-well-thought-out plan. I started crawling backwards in retreat, but was interrupted immediately by a soft hand on my back. It was Carlos. The other dancer didn't recognize me, but she definitely knew Carlos, who worked in the club six nights a week. He had appreciated the gravity of the situation and decided to barge in to explain things to the other girl. He whispered something in her ear and nodded. She didn't seem completely satisfied with whatever he'd said, but she grabbed the guy she was with and pushed him down into the chair. The customer soon lost interest in anything else that was going on in the room, and Carlos backed away.

I didn't know if Kent had noticed any of the interactions going on fifteen feet to his right, but if he had, it no longer mattered because Alexandra had taken his head in her hands and pressed his face into her body. I scurried back behind his chair and began inching my right hand closer to his pocket. He was wearing light gray cargo shorts, and even in the dim lighting I could see the rectangular outline of his phone in his right front pocket.

I reached in with my index and middle fingers, trying to be as surgical as possible. My fingers could feel the warmth of his body, even though I hadn't made contact with the fabric inside his pocket. Eventually I got a loose handle on the phone, between the tips of my fingers, but it wouldn't budge. The problem was that Alexandra's legs were straddling Kent's body, and her left thigh was pressing into his right. I tried pulling a little harder, but still nothing. Finally, sensing my problem, she shifted her leg slightly, and I made my move. The phone slipped out, grazing his thigh ever so slightly, and I slipped it into my left hand. He hadn't noticed. In a surprising stroke of luck, Kent's phone looked identical to the one I had bought earlier.

Part two was getting the dummy phone into his pocket. I considered quitting while I was ahead and just getting the hell out of there, but I didn't want him searching all around looking for his phone. If there was anything damaging on there, its absence would freak him out. So I took the new phone and slowly started to sneak it into his pocket. It wasn't working.