Picture Perfect

by Fern Michaels

  A deep bellow of thunder sounded above them. Elva shivered and drew Davey into her arms for comfort. Streak after streak of lightning skittered overhead, lighting the inside of the camper. Elva swallowed hard. She feared thunder and lightning almost as much as she feared the dark.

  “We’re going to sit quietly for a little while so I can think. I have to think about what’s best for you. Do you understand that, BJ?”

  Davey nodded and relaxed into the crook of her bony arm. He felt almost safe. Almost.

  Chapter 9

  The sky was darkening, more from the threatening storm than from the oncoming night. The roads were almost deserted, even the main road that led back to the garage. The occasional car that passed was going in the opposite direction; the drivers intent on getting home for supper after a long day on the job.

  Cudge stopped the pickup in the bay area of the garage. He was relieved to see a dim light shining through the door. Quickly he climbed out of the cab in search of the mechanic on duty.

  “Hey, fellah,” he said, trying for his most pleasant tone, “I’ve got a couple of tires what needs fixin’—could be I bent up the rim driving on a flat. I’m camped down the road and I left my wife there, havin’ a fit because she’s afraid of storms. I’ll throw in a few extra bucks for you if you can fix it now.”

  “Ah, sure, why not? I was about to close up for the night, but a fellah can always use a few extra bucks. Keeps the wolves away from the door, if you know what I mean. It’s gonna take me at least an hour.” The tall, slim man wiped his grease-stained hands on the seat of his coveralls. “Why don’t you go next door and have a beer? They got nude dancers in there for the after-work crowd.”

  Cudge relaxed; the mechanic seemed more interested in the tire than in him. “Sounds good to me, I could use a cold beer.” Sensing that the man expected him to make some remark about the dancers, he added, “I haven’t seen a good set of tits in a long time.”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” the mechanic said, grinning. “I thought my wife had a good pair when I married her. You should see them now—two lemons and all nipple. Hell, it don’t hurt to look, so I go in every so often and get my fill. Ain’t nothin’ wrong in lookin’, I always say.”

  Cudge followed the man out to the pickup, where he retrieved the tire. Lowering his voice and looking over his shoulder, the man continued, “There’s one little gal in there that’s a piece of work. I ain’t never been with her, but I heard about her. Calls herself Candy Striper and she’s got knockers on her that’ll knock your eyes out. You can watch her dance and dream a little.”

  “Sounds like a waste of good beer to me,” Cudge grunted. Everywhere you looked there were perverts. “You said an hour, right?”

  “More or less. When I’m done, I’ll throw the spare back in your truck. But you’ll have to pay up now, ’cause I’ll be leaving soon as I’m done with your job.”

  Cudge handed over the money, with some extra as promised. He walked across the gravel-topped parking area surrounding the bar. A weather-worn sign beneath the orange neon proclaimed BEER—SNOOKIE’S. The thrum of music blared as someone opened the door to leave. Cudge had been in bars like this before; the place smelled of beer and cigarettes, and sawdust littered the floor. There was a crowd at the curving bar but he spotted an empty stool.

  Resting his elbows on the bar, he ordered a draft. He glanced around at the people; the place was packed. He grinned, thinking of what the mechanic had said about his wife’s breasts. Hell, anything was better than Elva’s—her hard little breasts reminded him of overgrown walnuts, and you had to look to find the nipple.

  Tinny music pounded as two scantily costumed girls mounted a step-stool to get up to the beer-splattered bar. Cudge stared at their jiggling bodies but his thoughts were a million miles away. Well, a few, anyway. On Lenny. On Elva. On the blabber-mouthed kid. On how he was going to get out of this mess he’d gotten himself into. He knew he had to think of a plan. Naked bosoms and gyrating pelvises would have to wait for another day. It was getting late. Time for another beer and then he had to hit the road.

  The music ended just as the bartender slid Cudge’s beer down the length of the bar. Cudge took a long swallow and looked around. He hated dumps like this. Someday he was going to get all duded up and strut into a first-class cocktail lounge and drink champagne. He’d have a pearl-gray Lincoln Town Car, like undertakers drove, and a cigar clamped in his mouth. Cigars always added a touch of class, especially if they were Havana cigars. He’d go to Canada to get them if he had to. He shook his head at his fantasy. This bar was his speed, and he’d never move on. The lousy cops would be on his tail anytime now. No point in fooling anyone, least of all himself. He had to get rid of Elva before dawn and travel light. Even if it meant ditching the pop-up and coming back for it later. He was shaken from his thoughts by a sweat-soaked man beside him calling out, “C’mon, Candy, show an old man how it’s done.”

  “And after I turn you on, what am I going to do with you?” the second girl from the end shouted over the music.

  “The same thing you did last week, baby. I got thirty bucks if you’re interested.”

  The girl laughed and swayed her hips and cupped her breasts, making them stand erect. Cudge’s interest peaked. He nudged the guy sitting next to him. “You got into her?” he demanded.

  The man stared at Cudge. “She’ll take on anything, mister, as long as you got thirty bucks. She locks in on thirty for some reason. Not a penny less. She likes two tens, a five, and five ones. Anything else is a problem for her.” His round brown eyes stared at Cudge. “She gives you your money’s worth, too. You interested?”

  “Not if I have to pay for it,” Cudge snorted. The day he’d pay a hooker would be the day he tied his cock in a knot.

  “You’re in the wrong place then, buddy. Candy don’t hand out no freebies. She’s putting her baby brother through medical school.”

  My ass she is, Cudge thought to himself.

  “She likes her money up front too. You can’t get around old Candy—she’s a businesswoman.”

  Cudge took a better look at the prancing woman on the bar. “Old Candy” was right, but for looks she wasn’t half bad. Better than scrawny Elva, at any rate. He’d been to bed with a bag of bones for so long, he’d almost forgotten how nice it was to be cushioned between a pair of thighs that had some meat on them. Her belly was slightly rounded and fleshy; it jiggled as she danced. Nice to slap his own belly into, he thought, feeling a sensation of life in his loins.

  Thirty bucks. That’s what she wanted. A dollar for each year of her age. Still, she did have a nice smile. Friendly. There hadn’t been too many friendly people in his life lately, God knew. And her legs were long. Real long. Long enough to wrap around a man when he was . . . Cudge laughed at himself then, a dry, humorless laugh that made the man beside him turn to stare. What did he care?

  Candy’s bright smile took in everyone at the bar. Her skin was white, pale white, almost translucent under the blue-tinted lights. Again Cudge felt that stirring below his belt as she gyrated, her breasts bouncing. A long time ago, he’d seen one of the old-fashioned burlesque shows. The stripper had worn tassels on her breasts and could make them twirl in different directions at the same time. He bet Candy could do that; he’d love to watch her try.

  “You got thirty bucks?” he asked the sweating man next to him.

  “Right here,” the man said, slapping the bills on the bar.

  “You a gambling man?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I got thirty bucks that says I can get Candy to leave here with me with no cash up front. A freebie. You want to cover the bet or not?”

  “You’re on, man. I’ve known Candy a long time, and she don’t give it away.”

  “Hey, Candy, come on over here,” Cudge shouted.

  Candy Striper stared down the length of the bar. A new dude. Looked loaded. Been a while since she’d lain with someone she didn’t know. What the
hell. His thirty bucks was just as good as anybody’s. She didn’t like his eyes though. Pig eyes. And he had tattoos. She didn’t like tattoos either. Candy weaved her way among the bar glasses till she was standing in front of the man. She squatted down so he could whisper in her ear.

  She laughed delightedly. “You putting me on?”

  Cudge shook his head. “Tell my sweaty friend here that you’re coming with me and you’re givin’ me a freebie.”

  “You heard the man,” Candy told Cudge’s neighbor, who was watching her with a shocked expression.

  Cudge scooped up the money and put it in his shirt pocket. When you were on the run, thirty bucks could be the means to an end. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  “Not so fast. I got a job to do here.”

  “Yeah, well, forget it,” he answered. “I can’t wait around all night.”

  “Listen, I got a break coming after the next set. Twenty minutes at the most and then I’m all yours. Have another beer and watch me dance while I warm things up for you.”

  Cudge almost told her to forget it, but the promise in her eyes stopped him. And what was waiting for him back at the pop-up? Elva? Skinny, scared Elva. She would be there when he got back, cowering inside the pop-up, cheeks streaked with tears, body shaking with every clap of the storm.

  “Okay, do your thing, baby,” he told her, assuming his most debonair manner. “You ain’t got nothin’ I can’t wait for.”

  A half hour later they left the bar. Outside, in the wind and rain, he looked at Candy. “How far do you live from here?”

  “Behind the bar. This dump used to be a motel and those little one-room cottages are still out back. Were you serious about Las Vegas? I never been outside this town, much less to Las Vegas. Do you really know show people there who can get me a job on the stage? When are we leaving?”

  “Right after you give me your freebie.”

  “Man, you can have all the freebies you want if you take me to Las Vegas. On the hour if you want. I gotta be honest with you though. I got this little problem. I don’t mind giving if you don’t mind getting.”

  “What the hell?” Then it dawned on him what she’d said. He had a condom in his wallet that he’d been carrying around for just such an emergency. He wasn’t “getting” anything he didn’t bargain for. “No problem.”

  “Where’s your motor home? I like those things—all the comforts of home. You don’t look like a rich promoter.”

  “Now, did you ever see a rich promoter?” Cudge demanded as he hustled her around the side of the bar. “I parked it behind the garage. This looks like the kind of neighborhood that means trouble.”

  “You scared me there for a minute. I thought that pile of junk over there was yours. I wouldn’t be caught dead riding in something like that.” She motioned to his Chevy pickup, which was parked in front of the garage bay.

  Cudge’s eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t you now? Probably belongs to some hard-working slob who’s sitting in that bar watching you gals toss your tits around.”

  Concentrating on keeping her balance on the gravel in her incredibly high heels, Candy led him toward the cottage nearest the road. A slat-ribbed dog near the door growled to show he resented their intrusion. Cudge watched the dog while Candy dug in her purse for the keys, clutching the edges of the sweater she had thrown over her shoulders to hide her nakedness.

  “Don’t let the dog bother you, honey. Just like the rest of us, he’s only looking for a good meal.” The door swung open and she reached inside for the light switch. “’Course, things are different out in Las Vegas. Nobody, but nobody, goes hungry out there. Say, how long did you say it would take to get there?”

  “I didn’t,” Cudge answered, his voice harsh. He didn’t like answering questions, especially ones that challenged his lies. Besides, if she was dumb enough to think she was good enough for Las Vegas, she deserved anything she got.

  “Here it is, home sweet home. Should I pack first or do you want to ball? Don’t make no difference to me.”

  “You got any alcohol around here?”

  “Wine. A whole gallon. You want some?”

  “Get it out, I feel like getting drunk. The guy sitting next to me at the bar said you’d take on anything for thirty bucks. Is that right?”

  “Thirty bucks is thirty bucks. I just close my eyes.”

  “How come you sell yourself so cheap?”

  “I really need the money. I’m putting my kid brother through medical school,” Candy said, uncorking the jug of wine.

  “You need a better story than that one.”

  “I’m not putting you on. My kid brother, Jackie, is going to be an orthopedic surgeon someday. If you get me a job on the line in Las Vegas, I can send him more money. He’s having a real tough time. Do you know, just one medical book costs seventy-five dollars, sometimes more! Here,” she handed Cudge a full glass of wine. “I think I’ll have some myself to get in the mood.” She poured herself a glass, then took a sip. “So, how do you like it, anyway?”

  “The wine? It’s vinegary.”

  “No, not the wine. Sex. How do you like your sex? I don’t want you to be afraid to tell me what you want.”

  “What—are you kiddin’? Afraid? Me?” Cudge laughed until his eyes started to water. When he’d settled down, he glanced around the room. This dump was no better than that furnished apartment he’d left in Newark. The iron bed in the corner looked like George Washington could have slept in it, and the sheets probably hadn’t been changed since.

  There was a Panasonic radio-CD player on the table. Candy’s brightly polished fingernail pressed the “on” button and Kenny Rogers started to sing “Lady.” Candy casually shrugged her sweater off her shoulders. She always enjoyed watching the really cool-acting guys get excited when they got her alone. But something about the way this one was looking at her with those pig eyes of his worried her. Suddenly she realized that she’d been a gullible fool, and that he was nothing but a drifter with a silver tongue. He was no more a big promoter than she was Miss America. Still, a girl had to have hope, and working in a dump like Snookie’s turned those hopes to needs.

  “You were fibbing to me about Las Vegas, weren’t you?” she asked, hearing the quake in her voice. The guy’s eyes widened, then narrowed, and his expression turned evil. Candy decided she definitely should have stuck with the men who frequented Snookie’s. There wasn’t one who would go out of his way to do anything for her, but none of them scared her. She had to get out of here, away from this man.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Cudge asked. “You always get jumpy when it’s time to hit the sack?” His voice was almost genial and Candy thought it must be a trick of the light making his pig eyes glitter and emphasizing the grim lines around his mouth.

  Forcing herself to relax, she leaned over to undo the tiny straps on her shoes.

  “No, leave them on. They make your legs look nice and long.”

  Now this was the kind of talk she was used to hearing from her customers. So what if he was a little kinky? She had a steady who liked to cross-dress. And even if he didn’t take her to Vegas, there was still the thirty bucks.

  Stuart Sanders lost no time once the plane touched down. He ran the length of the seemingly endless concourse; having no patience for the escalator, he bounded down the steps two at a time and elbowed his way through the milling travelers in search of the car that would be waiting for him.

  Mac Feeley was waiting behind the wheel, cigar clamped in his mouth. He reached over to open the door for Sanders. “How goes it, big guy?”

  “You don’t want to know,” Sanders replied in way of greeting. “Let’s move it. Take the turnpike. Is this one of those souped-up jobs the motor pool hands out to speed demons like you?”

  Feeley grinned. “This little number is slick—it starts out at ninety and works up to one eighty. You think you’re flying. Five bucks says I get you there in thirty minutes.”

  “Is that with or without the siren?�
� Sanders asked irritably.

  “Either or, you name it.”

  “I’d hate like hell to get pulled over and lose time.”

  “No way. This car has official government plates with the right code numbers, and I guess you didn’t see the State seal on the door. You look done in. You hear anything? How did things go?”

  “Nothing on my end. Mrs. Taylor elected to stay behind with her husband. She said she trusts me and the others to find her son.”

  Feeley switched the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “There’s a lot to be said for motherly love.” His voice was sour.

  “What’s new here? Any leads? How’s the aunt handling things? What’s the latest on the guy with the painted truck? How did the old couple check out?”

  “Dr. Ryan is worried but she’s holding on. We tracked the older couple down in Virginia and asked a few questions, but it was a dead end. The local police think they have a few leads, but they aren’t ones for sharing—they think this is their baby all the way down. Our guys had to pull badges to remind them who’s in charge—what can I tell you? From here on out it’s going to be legwork.”

  “What’s your hunch, Feeley?”

  “I’d like to know more about the body they found. Coroner’s making his report in the morning, but it’s pretty certain the stiff was beaten to death. Nasty head wounds. Leonard Lombardi, twenty-eight or so, lived in Newark. Putting the pieces together, we believe he was already dead when he was brought to the campground. Best lead we’ve got is a guy named Edmund Balog, aka Cudge Balog. Everything is pointing in his direction, right down to a report from a trooper who stopped him on the road. Said he was real nervous about opening the pop-up rig he was dragging. Emergency called the trooper away so he never got a look inside.”

  “Any connection with the syndicate, you think?”

  “Haven’t found any so far. And there’s been no ransom demand. My thought is that the kid saw something he wasn’t supposed to. Other than that . . .” Feeley shrugged “. . . your guess is as good as mine.”