TALL, DARK AND TEXAN

by Jane Sullivan

  "It never entered my mind."

  Well, that was a lie. But his random thoughts of the past half hour had nothing to do with the matter at hand.

  "How much does the job pay?" she asked.

  "You don't want to know what you have to do first?"

  "Does it involve getting naked?"

  "No."

  "Then I'll do it."

  "A hundred bucks. Of course, the wardrobe is coming out of your paycheck."

  "Wardrobe?"

  "I'll take you by the Trinity River Thrift Store. Cheap and trashy."

  "So what's the job?"

  "I'm going fishing."

  "Yeah?"

  Wolfe gave her a deadpan stare. "And you're the Worm on the hook."

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  A few minutes later, Wolfe had given Wendy the gist of his plan, and she felt a tremor of excitement at the very thought of it. A hooker. He wanted her to play a hooker.

  Hot damn. Character roles were so much fun.

  Wolfe went to the kitchen, grabbed a box from a cabinet, then brought it back and dumped its contents onto the coffee table.

  "What's that?" she asked.

  "Breakfast."

  She picked up one of the bars. "Protein Power?"

  "Eighteen vitamins and minerals. Lots of fiber."

  "Any room for flavor in there?"

  "No pain, no gain."

  She unwrapped one and bit into it. It tasted like sawdust and sand pebbles held together with Elmer's glue. In the time it took her to gag one down, Wolfe had eaten three. She'd barely disposed of her wrapper in the trash when he grabbed her clothes from the dryer, tossed them to her and told her to get ready.

  After she dressed, Wendy asked Wolfe if she could make a long-distance call, promising to pay him for it out of the hundred dollars she was going to earn. She mentally ticked off her siblings in her head, finally deciding to call her oldest sister, Terri. Terri was levelheaded and nonreactionary and would tend to ask fewer questions than anyone else in her family. Good thing, since Wendy intended to fudge a little on the truth of her situation.

  When Terri came on the line, Wendy told her that since she'd gotten sidetracked in Dallas because of the storm, she'd decided to stay there with a friend for a few days. True to Terri's nature, she didn't question a thing. She merely made Wendy promise to call her as soon as she left for Los Angeles again.

  Wendy hung up the phone, glad she'd bought some time. Now all she had to do was formulate a plan to get to the West Coast that didn't involve taking money from her family.

  Minutes later Wendy was following Wolfe down that big, creaky elevator to the first floor of the warehouse, where she was relieved to discover that the motorcycle wasn't the only vehicle he owned. First in line was a nondescript white van. Next to it sat a gleaming late-model SUV, which she'd have salivated over if she hadn't seen the black Porsche hiding on the other side of it.

  "Oh, wow," Wendy gushed, running her hand over its fender. "Now, this is a gorgeous car."

  "Hands off. We're taking the Chevy."

  "Chevy?"

  Wendy had been so preoccupied with the sports car that she hadn't noticed vehicle number four. Like a mangy mutt sidled up next to a purebred, an ancient Chevy Malibu sat next to the Porsche, its crunched left rear fender crisscrossed with rust and its yellow paint faded almost to white.

  Wendy blinked with confusion. "You have a Porsche, and you're driving that?"

  "We're going into a bad area. We have to fit the profile of the neighborhood."

  "So when do you drive the other cars?"

  "The van's for surveillance, and the others depend on what I'm doing or who I'm after."

  Wendy looked longingly at the Porsche as she slid into the passenger seat of the Chevy. They left the warehouse and headed toward the police station. An hour later Wendy had filed the obligatory theft report with a very bored looking detective who had a splatter of coffee on his tie and a comb-over that hid nothing but his self-respect. It was pretty clear all around that she stood a better chance of getting hit by a meteor at midnight than recovering her car and belongings. It was a sickening feeling knowing she had literally nothing in the world but the clothes on her back, but she refused to give in to it. Instead, she let excitement take over.

  After all, she was getting to play a hooker.

  They left the police station. A few minutes later, Wolfe pulled into the parking lot of the Trinity River Thrift Store. He parked the Malibu in a space near the front door, giving Wendy a nice view of the establishment's dirty sign, dirty windows and dirty neighbors, squashed as it was between an adult video store and a condom shop.

  They went inside. The place smelled like a hundred-year-old attic. Shelves were filled with various garage-sale items—lamps, glassware, dishes, bookshelves. Lining the back of the store were minor to major appliances that were not-so-gently used, along with a genuine antique walnut-veneer bedroom suite complete with missing hardware and beer bottle rings. And the clothes. It looked as if every woman in every sleazy trailer park in Texas had cleaned out her closets and donated them to an even bigger charity than herself.

  The clerk, a twenty-something woman dressed in a pair of jeans and a too-tight sweater, came out of the back room. She had naturally frizzy but unnaturally blond hair and had clearly been the victim of a recent cosmetics counter explosion.

  The woman took one look at Wolfe and stopped short, her mascara-laden eyes slowly widening as her gaze panned upward. Then she glanced at the cash register, as if she was expecting him to haul out a gun and demand all her money. Wendy didn't blame her. Her first look at Wolfe had been equally overwhelming.

  "She needs clothes," Wolfe told the clerk, nodding toward Wendy. "Something flashy and trashy. You got anything like that?"

  The clerk swallowed hard, as if trying to dislodge a boulder from her throat. Finally she pointed to a rack a few feet behind them that was filled with sparkles and spangles. Wolfe strode over, flipped through the clothes and pulled out an animal-print micro-miniskirt. Wendy took it from him, staring at it in disbelief.

  "Sorry," she said. "I can't wear this. Synthetic leopards are an endangered species."

  "You're playing a streetwalker, not a high-dollar call girl."

  She held it up, twisting it one direction, then another. "I don't think this will even cover my rear end."

  "Exactly."

  Wolfe grabbed a minuscule black top with gold sparkles and handed it to her. She stretched it a couple of times. "Well, this'll fit my left pinkie. What else do you have?"

  "Just put it on. What size shoes do you wear?"

  "Five."

  He dug through a nearby bin, tossing shoes left and right before coming up with a pair of monstrous black platforms. If this job included surveillance through third-story windows, she was going to be all set.

  The clerk pointed her toward a short hallway leading to a dressing room, where Wendy wiggled out of her jeans and into the skirt. Then she tossed her shirt and bra aside and pulled the stretchy top over her head and into place. She turned, looked into the mirror and froze.

  Yes, the skirt was short. The shirt was tight. The shoes were stratospheric. But the clothes had caused a definite transformation toward the indecent.

  This was so cool.

  Dressing for a performance was always such an upper. It made her feel the character. Be the character. She blinked lazily into the mirror, then drooped her eyelids in a come-hither stare, visions of hot, mindless, well-compensated sex flowing through her mind. She ran her hands up her hips to her waist, then threw her arms back over her head and tousled her hair into a sexy mess, feeling a buzz of exhilaration at the sight of Wendy the Good Girl morphing into a hot, sexy lady of the evening. Wolfe was right. When in Rome, you had to dress like Roman hookers, or whatever that saying was.

  But then she realized that part of the equation was missing, something no self-respecting prostitute would ever go wi
thout. She stuck her head out of the curtained dressing room and motioned to the clerk. The woman came down the hall.

  "Got any makeup I can borrow?" Wendy asked.

  "Uh … sure. Just a minute."

  Wendy wasn't too keen on wearing another woman's makeup, but then she wasn't too thrilled about wearing another woman's clothes, either. Unfortunately, she was stuck with both.

  The clerk returned with a cosmetics bag the size of a kangaroo pouch. Wendy thanked her and hefted it into the dressing room. A few minutes later, she'd put the painted in painted lady. After a final look in the mirror, she swept the curtain aside. With a pout on her lips and a swivel in her hips, she headed back down the short hall.

  Stopping at the doorway that led into the main part of the store, she slid her hand slowly up the door frame and cocked her hip, planting her other hand against it. Wolfe turned and caught sight of her. He looked down her body to her legs and back up again, a slow, lingering appraisal that told her she'd definitely gotten his attention. Yes. She could feel it. She was every man's dream in one gold-spangled, animal-spotted, high-heeled package, and he couldn't take his eyes off her.

  Then he zeroed in on her breasts. His usual frown deepened into an even more pronounced one, and he shook his head with disapproval. Her elation fizzled like a lit match hitting a puddle of water.

  She dropped her hands to her sides. "What?"

  Wolfe strode over to a table piled with various undergarments. He grabbed a bra and lobbed it to her. She stared down at it, unable to recall the last time she'd seen so much lace and Lycra all in one place. Anna Nicole Smith would have had trouble filling up this one.

  He turned to the clerk. "Got a box of tissue?"

  "Uh … no," she said. "No tissue."

  "Toilet paper?"

  She nodded obediently and scurried to the bathroom, as if Godzilla himself had threatened to eat Tokyo if she didn't hurry. She returned a moment later with a roll of pink toilet paper and handed it to him. He tossed it to Wendy. She stared down at the half-empty roll.

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "Do I look like I'm kidding?"

  She searched his deadpan expression, looking for a little sparkle in his eyes, a little turn-up of his mouth. No such luck. The stone-faced presidents on Mount Rushmore were more likely to crack a smile.

  She went back to the dressing room and put on the bra, trying to ignore the fact that it was a preworn garment, then started stuffing. Then she stuffed some more. It took most of the roll to fill up the cups, and when she finished she pulled the stretchy top down over them. She turned left and right, checking out her new profile in the mirror.

  Boobs. She had boobs.

  Hmm. So this was what it felt like.

  She walked out of the dressing room. Wolfe stood waiting, his sharp focus zeroing in on her newly augmented bustline. She gave him a big smile and thrust her chest out for his inspection.

  "So whatcha think? This is about as big as I can go before I'm a walking fire-code violation."

  He turned away. "It'll do."

  Yeah, he was trying to play it down, but still she could see it in his eyes. Like all men, it was pretty clear that Wolfe deemed excessive cleavage to be a major improvement, like adding a family room onto a tiny house. More recreational possibilities.

  As they headed for the cash register, Wendy suddenly realized that with this skimpy outfit, the moment she stepped outside she was going to have goose bumps on her goose bumps.

  "Hey, wait a minute," she said. "I'm not wearing much in the way of clothes here. It's cold outside."

  "So buy a coat."

  "A coat?" the clerk said, suddenly coming to life. "Oh! I've got the perfect one to go with that outfit! Wait till you see this!"

  She trotted down an aisle and returned with a waistlength garment that looked like a patchwork of purple raccoon pelts. And the raccoon had clearly had a disfiguring skin condition.

  "Isn't it just the cutest thing?" she gushed. "I was gonna grab it myself, but it's eight bucks, and I don't get paid till Friday. Besides, it'd look better on you with your hair color and complexion and all."

  Wendy decided to take that as a compliment. But eight bucks? Right now, that sounded like eight thousand. Not that it wasn't a steal for such a stunning garment, but her hundred dollars was slowly dwindling away.

  She turned to Wolfe. "You're paying for the coat."

  "Excuse me?"

  "It's up to you to provide me with adequate working conditions. Warmth is a basic necessity."

  "But you get to keep it when you're through."

  "Well, I should hope so. I didn't think you'd want to add it to your wardrobe."

  He leaned in close to her and whispered, "But I might use it as a drop cloth to change the oil in my cars."

  "Which would only make it more attractive," she whispered back.

  He glared at her a moment more, then heaved a sigh of disgust. "Fine. I'll buy you the damned coat."

  Wendy turned to the clerk. "I'll just wear this stuff out of here. Could I have a sack for my other clothes?"

  "I'm out up here, so I'll get some from the back."

  Wendy took the coat off the hanger, slid into it and checked out her reflection in a nearby mirror. "Ooh!" she cooed, looking back over her shoulder at Wolfe. "She's right! It's really me, isn't it?"

  "Yeah," he muttered. "It's you, all right."

  She gave him a sigh of mock disgust. "What's a girl gotta do to get a compliment out of you, anyway?"

  "This is a job, not a date."

  "Then I'm betting you have a lot more jobs than dates."

  "My personal life is none of your business."

  "Have you ever thought about smiling once in a while? Just a tiny bit?"

  "Waste of energy."

  "So you're always this crabby?"

  He pulled out a twenty and tossed it on the counter, pointedly ignoring her.

  "Having a bad day?"

  He said nothing.

  "Bad month?"

  Not a word.

  "Well, it certainly can't be a systemic problem. Not with those fiber-loaded power bars you eat. A few of those once a week and you'll never, ever have to worry about—"

  He clamped his hand onto her arm and pulled her aside, dropping his voice to an angry whisper. "Do you want this job, or don't you?"

  She blinked with surprise. "Of course I do."

  "It requires shutting the hell up when it's necessary. And it's necessary from here on out. Do you think you can handle that?"

  She raised her eyebrows. "So I'm supposed to play the sexy, silent type?"

  "That's right."

  She gave him a sly smile. "What if the guy wants me to talk dirty?"

  Wolfe just stared at her, shaking his head slowly. The clerk returned. He grabbed the sack from her hand, stuffed Wendy's clothes inside and hustled her out of the store.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  As Wolfe drove toward Sharky's, he felt more than a little unnerved by the woman sitting beside him. Not that she didn't look the part he wanted her to play. The clothes and makeup were right on the money, showcasing her body in a way that would make just about any man sit up and take notice. But he hated questionable outcomes, and he sensed one right now. Everything about this woman felt edgy and out of control.

  Then again, all she had to do was get the guy to walk out the door of that bar. That was all. Any woman should be able to pull that off, especially one with a body like hers. Forget her unnaturally amplified breasts. Her legs alone would have Mendoza panting in her wake.

  Wolfe brought his Chevy to a halt at a red light, then reached for his clipboard in the back seat. He flipped through the pages, grabbed a photo and handed it to Wendy.

  "This is the guy. He jumped bail on a burglary charge."

  Wendy took the photo. "Are you sure he'll be at the bar this early?"

  "My informant told me that he's coming back today around noon for a game
of pool. Grudge match. High stakes. He'll be there."

  "So why don't the cops just pick him up?"

  "Too many bail jumpers, not enough time. That's where I come in. Once a guy misses his court date, the bondsman can send somebody after him. I'm that somebody."

  "So if this guy is wanted by the police, why is he hanging out in a public place?"

  "It's what guys like him always do. They'll change addresses, they'll change jobs, but they'll rarely change their routines. I've picked up guys everywhere from bowling alleys to pizza parlors to whorehouses. Anything they've done in the past few years, they'll continue to do."

  "That's kinda stupid, isn't it?"

  "Most criminals are."

  "Why don't you just go in there and grab him? You've got to be bigger than this guy. I mean, like, way bigger."

  "Because that bar is friendly territory for him, enemy territory for me. I've found a lot of guys in this area. If I show my face inside, somebody might recognize me, and all hell is liable to break loose."

  "Do you really think anyone is going to mess with you?"

  "Drunk lowlife? Yep. In a heartbeat. That's chaos. I don't like chaos. I like nice, calm apprehensions where nobody gets mad, nobody gets hurt, and nobody even realizes what's going on except the guy who's getting apprehended."

  Wendy smiled. "Gee, that sounds kinda boring."

  "Why? Because nobody's hauling out weapons and firing at anything that moves? Fine, then. It's boring. And I live to work another day."

  "But what if somebody does pull a gun? You're not even armed."

  "Don't bet on that."

  She looked at his heavy coat, sweatshirt, jeans, boots. "I give up. Where's the weapon?"

  "None of your business."

  "Just wondering how lively this job is likely to get."

  "Listen to me," he said. "I'm always armed. Always. But in thirteen years I've never once fired a weapon and I've never been fired on. Do you know why that is?"

  "Why?"

  "Because I don't take chances. And you're not going to, either. You're going to go into that bar, tell him you'll take him to heaven for a hundred bucks, and get him out the door."