Justice patted her shoulder. “Make ya a deal. If the bouncer gives you any lip on the way out, you can break his nose.”
She laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“Alright then. Let’s find this girl.”
Ash scanned the room to get a lay of the land. She hated to admit it, but the place wasn’t half bad for a strip club. It looked more like a honky-tonk.
It wasn’t as sleazy as some of the places she’d been. That wasn’t saying much, though. One club she’d had the misfortune to visit in New York’s Chinatown featured something called a “Ping Pong Pussy” show, which had scarred her for life. Ping pong balls should never be launched out of some places.
Lone Star had a Texan feel, which matched the name. The club’s music was so loud it practically vibrated the tables…if they’d had tables. Instead, bar stools were placed around old Jack Daniels branded kegs. One wall had beer cans arranged in the shape of Texas flag. Ash glimpsed a group of men in the back, watching a stripper in lingerie ride a mechanical bull, her bared breasts jiggling.
Classy.
The DJ in the booth by the bar played Jessica Simpson’s sultry version of These Boots Are Made for Walkin’. The stage in the center of the room featured three women twirling on poles—all of them wearing cowboy boots, Daisy Duke short shorts cut to show their ass cheeks, and red bikini tops that barely harnessed their breasts.
A waitress who breezed by with a tray of shots wore a red bandana halter top, cut-offs, and red cowboy boots. She tipped her hat to Justice as she passed.
“What brings you fine gentlemen to this establishment?”
She turned to see a handsome man standing near the bar in an expensive-looking black suit. Ash sized up the good-looking, blond man in his early thirties. He had penetrating blue eyes, and he smoothed an expensive black silk tie as he returned her frank gaze. He didn’t look like he belonged at the club, but criminals came in all shapes and sizes. Some much more attractive than others.
“Well, if it ain’t Byron Beauregard.” A pulsating vein stood out on Steele’s forehead.
She’d heard the name before. The DEA had a close partnership with the FBI when it came to drugs and organized crime, so they briefed each other on current developments. Beauregard had worked his way up the Lone Star Mafia food chain in Texas.
Beauregard looked so…normal. Color her disappointed. She’d been hoping for some flashy suits, like the kind the Italian mob guys strutted around in.
The latest stories placed him as the brand new underboss. Cotton Krug, the former underboss, had inexplicably come to an untimely end, which put Beauregard right beneath the head honcho, Tucker Cobb.
What Ash couldn’t work out was why the FBI hadn’t yet made a move on Beauregard and his organization. Were they waiting to build a better case? Or did the mafia have protectors in high places, men in power they paid off with pricey bribes?
Beauregard offered a hand to Steele and Justice. The bikers folded their arms over their chests, refusing to play nice, which made Beauregard shake his head.
“And who might this pretty thing be?” Beauregard asked Steele.
Steele and Justice remained silent as if they were doing statue impressions.
Ash was confused by their behavior. Weren’t they hauling this asswipe’s drugs over the border?
“Ashton Calhoun.” She offered her hand to the gangster.
She’d intended to shake it, but he kissed her knuckles instead. “Byron Beauregard, local businessman and entrepreneur.”
Ash grasped his hand and squeezed hard as she looked him straight in the eye. For a moment, they stared at one another, hands locked.
Beauregard’s smile widened.
She kept hers stony and devoid of warmth. Drug-dealing bastards like him had killed her brother.
He winked. “Can I have my hand back, darlin’?”
She released him and smiled sweetly. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine. And what brings a pretty thing like you to this deplorable place?” Beauregard slyly glanced at Justice and Steele. “Unless you’re here to avail yourselves of some adult pleasure?” He raised a wicked brow. “Far be it from me to judge anyone’s…appetites.”
“Oh God, no,” she screeched before she checked herself.
The mobster threw back his head, laughing. “And why not? Were you hopin’ for a better offer?” His tone implied he might make one…or he was playing with her.
Ash found the implication more uncomfortable than a ping pong ball stuffed up her vagina.
“She’s here on business,” Steele snapped as he stepped between them. “You own this place?”
Beauregard shook his head as if the idea were too ludicrous to even contemplate. “Don’t go gettin’ on your high Horsemen. I don’t own this…club.” He cast a disdainful eye around the room. Ash was sure he’d been about to use a more colorful term—like rat’s nest or hellhole.
He continued prattling away. “One of my relatives owns the Lone Star, and I was simply stopping by to be polite.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You know how it is with family.”
“Last time we checked, you didn’t give a fuck about bein’ polite,” Justice said.
Ash watched this interplay, fascinated. What the hell was going on here? Had the Horsemen been unwilling to work with the mafia?
“If I wasn’t a gentleman, I would’ve ordered the bouncer to toss you out on your sorry asses.” Beauregard reminded her of a crocodile about to snap its jaws shut on tasty prey. “Except for Ms. Calhoun, of course.” He turned his attention back to her. “And you never elaborated…what exactly brings you all here?”
Steele cleared his throat. “We need to speak with one of the dancers, Ginger Heart. You know her?”
“Afraid not, why you wanna speak with her?”
“She’s a person of inter…an interestin’ person.” Ash had almost fucked up. She’d rather shoot her way out of a problem than pussyfoot around. It was a character flaw.
He scratched his chin. “You meant a person of interest. Now that’s somethin’ I think an officer of the law might say.” Beauregard pinned the bikers with a flinty gaze.
“She ain’t a lawman,” Steele’s lips twisted. “Er, woman.”
Beauregard stepped around Steele and invaded her space. “What alphabet soup are we talkin’ here? FBI? ATF? DEA?”
She couldn’t tell if he was about to take her out back to the old woodshed, or if he was about to offer her a bribe.
“None of the above, actually.” It was sort of the truth.
“No?”
“Nope, I don’t work for any of those agencies. I’m here in a civilian capacity.” Ash hoped the dear Lord wouldn’t strike her dead for lying.
“And the fine, upstanding Horsemen are acting as your escort?” Beauregard asked her the question, but he stared at the bikers, baiting Justice and Steele.
As if on cue, the men flanked her small body with their imposing frames. Annoyed, she squeezed between them, pushing herself to the forefront.
“Trust me. I don’t need protection, boys.”
Beauregard gave her a bemused smile. “I don’t believe you do.”
“You could talk the hide off a cow.” Steele stalked closer to the mobster. “We got business here that don’t involve you.” He walked off.
Beauregard blocked Steele’s way again. “What are you hopin’ to learn from Miss Heart?”
“We’re gonna girl talk a bit. You know how it is.”
Beauregard frowned but let it go. He turned his attention back to Steele and Justice. “Since you boys are here, we gotta have a conversation about…a situation.”
Now it was her turn to be curious. “Which situation?”
Steele scanned the room. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
Beauregard nodded. “Follow me.” Before he walked off, he pinned Ash with a warning glance. “We won’t be long, so don’t go causin’ any tro
uble while we’re gone.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. You boys have a real nice chat.”
Ash didn’t waste any more time. She made her way to the back of the room and didn’t linger near the stripper poles since she’d lost her escorts. Experience told her one of the men would offer to buy her a lap dance if he could watch.
Instead, she hedged her bets, hoping Ginger would be backstage, getting ready.
Ash slipped through the door stamped Employees Only at the rear of the club. Behind it lay a long concrete hallway. Halfway down the corridor, she found a door slightly ajar. Inside, a half dozen women sat in front of small white dressing tables and mirrors surrounded by lights.
A radio in the corner played Miranda Lambert’s Kerosene. The women chatted as they applied makeup, paying her no mind. Some of them wore robes, others had on variations of a cowboy/stripper look.
She didn’t have a badge to flash, but she hoped her don’t-fuck-with-me expression got results.
“I need to speak with Ginger Heart,” she said loudly over the music.
Shrugging, the women returned to their grooming and gossip, except for one redhead in the rear of the room. She hunkered down at her mirror, obviously trying to look unobtrusive, but ended up making herself seem guiltier than hell.
Keeping her body between the woman and the door, Ash stepped over, and the stripper feigned interest in her makeup. Glitter coated her eyelids, and her lips had been painted a glossy Pepto Bismol color. Her hair was teased and sprayed like a chick in an eighties music video, and she wore a pink sequined bikini with matching leather cowboy boots. Her Stetson lay on the table in front of her.
“Ginger Heart?”
“Naw, I don’t know her.” She hooked pink dangly earrings in her lobes and studied her reflection.
“Okay, we’ll try this again. Enid Poole?”
Her eyes went wide, and she met Ash’s eyes in the mirror. Her lower lip quivered.
“W-who wants to know?”
“I’m Ashton Calhoun, and I need to ask you a couple of questions.” She kept her tone light so she didn’t spook the girl.
“You a cop?”
“Nope. I only want some information. It’ll just take a couple minutes, I promise.”
“Okay, fine. But do you mind if we talk outside? I could use a cigarette.” She grabbed her lighter and a pack of mentholated smokes from a drawer.
“Not a problem.” The sooner Ash got out of this place, the better she’d feel.
Ash made it past the bouncer without incident, but the four bachelor party boys still stood against the walls. They watched her with interest as she walked past. One of them was bent over, puking on the sidewalk. Another had a cigar in his mouth, and he licked his lips as he ogled her. Another sang an off-key version of Tim McGraw’s Real Good Man. The last one pissed on some poor bastard’s Ford truck.
Pukey wiped his mouth. “Hey there, sexy girl. Is she your girlfriend?”
Ignoring them, she pulled Ginger further into the parking lot so they could speak in private.
With shaking fingers, Ginger lit a cigarette. “What do you wanna know?”
“A few months back, you were arrested for driving while intoxicated near a strip club called The Pussycat Palace.”
“Yeah, and I paid my fine. What about it?”
“Did you work at the Palace? For the Raptors?” The DEA hadn’t been able to prove it with any records, since the club hadn’t kept any, but it seemed likely.
Ginger studied her pink boots. “I can’t talk about it.”
“Can’t…or won’t?”
She sucked on the cigarette again and blew out a series of smoke rings. “A bit of both, actually. The Raptors are no joke, and talkin’ about their business with outsiders is dangerous.”
“Your name won’t come up.”
“Who do you work for?”
“I’m not with the police. I work with a security firm. This ain’t a strictly legal operation. I’m not gonna call you as a witness or ask you to testify against anyone. I just need info.”
“And why should I believe you?”
“Because I’m not lyin’.”
Ginger stared at her, and Ash could read the indecision on her face.
Pissy staggered over to them. “Hey, girls! How about a lap dance?”
“Fuck off.” Ash pulled Ginger further away from them. “I’ll never tell ‘em where I got the intel.”
“And if I tell you, what’re you gonna do about it?”
Ash smirked. “I’m gonna rain all kinds of hell down on those boys.”
After a long moment, Ginger nodded and gave a small smile. “Yeah, I used to work there before I got my head straight.” She pulled a blue coin from her bikini top. “I got my six month’s sobriety chip from NA last week.”
“Narcotics Anonymous?”
Ginger nodded.
Ash was impressed. Six months sobriety from hard drugs was an achievement.
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
Pukey drifted closer. “Hey, don’t be a bitch. We’re tryin’ to help you make some money.”
Ginger ignored the guy, talking to Ash instead. “When I worked at the Pussycat, they handed out drugs like candy. Got me hooked, and then….” Tears filled her eyes. “Those dicks deserve all the hell you can give them. What do you wanna know?”
“They’ve disappeared. The Raptors abandoned their business holdings and their homes. We haven’t even found any family members. Do you know any place they liked to hole up when they were in trouble?”
She thought a moment. “Yeah, actually. There’s this state park they liked to hang at. They used it a couple of times when somethin’ went down with the local police. They used fake ID to get cabins and camping spaces until it blew over. And one summer, they threw a huge blowout there.”
Ash pulled a piece of paper and pen from her pocket. “Do you remember the name?”
Ginger nodded.
“Write it down for me.”
As the girl scribbled down the information, Ash scowled at the bachelor party guys who were getting closer. She got a good look at the matching T-shirt designs as all four of them wobbled toward her. It had a lame checklist: moon someone, get a girl’s phone number, get a girl to flash you, shotgun a beer, and—her personal favorite—get a girl to spank you.
“Can you think of anything else that might be useful?” Ash asked when Ginger had finished. She tucked the piece of paper into her pocket for safe-keeping.
“Cabin number twelve. Manson, the president, used to bring his side chicks up there on weekends and when he’d get into it with his old lady.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “He had some kind of deal with the park rangers because they left it empty for his use. I know he’s…gone…but there might be something you can use there.”
“Did he ever bring you up there?”
“Only once, and believe me, once was enough.”
Ash sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you two lesbos?” Pissy asked. “Because we’d pay to watch you fuck.” All of his buddies shuffled in behind him. They reminded her of zombies with their vacant expressions and slow movements—only instead of brains, they wanted breasts.
Ash didn’t reply. These dicks were practically begging her for a smack-down. Ash placed her hands on her hips. So much for not making a scene.
“Thank you for the help. Go inside now. I’ve gotta have a word with these here gentlemen.”
Ginger didn’t walk away. “Um, I don’t wanna leave you here by yourself. This doesn’t look safe.”
“I’ll be fine. Go on.”
The stripper hesitated but darted past the drunks and scooted in the door.
“No. Don’t leave us, Pink Ranger.”
They all cackled at Pissy’s joke.
“Alone at last,” Ash said as they circled her. She cracked her knuckles. Damn, she could use a little tension release. Nothing like a good old-fashioned, knock-down, drag-out
bar fight.
“Maybe I can help you boys with the last number on your checklist.”
“You’re gonna spank us?” Pukey asked.
“In a manner of speakin’.”
“Oh, I’m scared.” His voice was high and girlish.
“You should be.” Ash kicked him square in the balls.
Chapter Seven
Steele and Justice followed Beauregard into an unmarked door on the left side of the bar. The room was an office, and like the rest of the club, it had a country and western theme. Steele took a gander at the signs on the wall. One read: $5.00 fine for whining. Another read: Sinners and Saints Welcome Here.
The walls and the floor were wooden, and the ceiling held several long, braided ropes. Strung through them were Mason jars with pail-like lids that had been wired with bright white lights. Two suede chairs faced a converted barrel. It’d been tipped on its side, sawed in half, and nailed to two wooden slats, which held it in place. With the flat wooden top, it formed an unusual desk.
Beauregard sat in the leather chair, while Steele and Justice took the chairs on the opposite side of the desk.
The door burst open, and a woman with long blond hair walked in. She had a rough-and-tumble look with her faded jeans and flannel shirt. Lines surrounded her mouth and eyes, and Steele bet her blond hair had come from a bottle.
“This is my aunt, Bonnie Beauregard. She’s…rustic.”
Bonnie strolled over and placed her hands on her shapely hips. “And what he means by rustic is, I don’t put on airs, unlike some people I know. Now, what are y’all doin’ in my office?”
“I’m havin’ a meetin’ with these nice gentlemen. It’ll save me a trip.”
“I told you I don’t want none of your no-account mafia dickheads runnin’ around this place. I paid for it with my own money, and I don’t owe you boys jack shit.”
Beauregard leaned back in her chair and placed his feet on her desk.
“We’re bikers,” Steele informed her. “And for the record, we hate those mafia assholes as much as you do.” While he spoke to Bonnie, he glowered at Byron.
She laughed.
“If you don’t mind?” Beauregard said pointedly.
“I do mind, but I doubt it’ll stop you.” Bonnie shoved his feet off her desk and sauntered to the door. She tipped her hat. “Nice to meet ya, boys.”
Wild Ride (Let it Ride Book 2) Page 20
