Delores finally finished slipping the bill into the spandex at his hip when Marge piped up, saying, “My turn. You’re not in any rush, are you, cowboy?”
“Of course not, ma’am,” Trace answered, hiding his grimace along with another healthy sigh, while Marge searched for more cash.
It wasn’t easy to pinpoint the exact moment that had led to this, but if he had to make a guess, he figured it was Christmas, fifth grade. The year his sister Gwen had given him the sound track to Saturday Night Fever. The same year Pittsburgh had its worst blizzard in history and the snow had fallen so hard he couldn’t go sledding or even build a damn snowman. The infamous year he’d caught disco fever.
Bored out of his mind, he remembered splashing on some Aqua Velva—another pitiful example of what the females in his family considered a Christmas present—and dancing around his room like John Travolta Jr. in training for the Solid Gold olympics. If Gwen had just given him the sports-magazine subscription with the free football phone as he’d asked, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Because if he’d never learned to dance, when his editor, Manny, had spotted him at a colleague’s wedding reception six weeks ago, Trace would’ve been just like every other rhythmless white guy in the place who froze in panic when the music started.
The waistband of Trace’s skimpy underwear snapped back into place like a rubber band and Trace snapped back to the present.
“Well. You’re a big one, aren’t you?” Delores glanced at her friend. “Did you see him, Marge?”
Marge rolled her eyes. “I’m old, not blind.” Turning to Trace she said, “So what do they call you, big guy?”
“Probably Big Guy,” Delores crowed, smacking her knee, and they both laughed uproariously.
Trace shook his head, and in spite of himself felt a grin tugging at his mouth. The frisky pair reminded him of the two old men from The Muppet Show. Watching them, he chuckled softly.
If any of his friends from the Herald could see him now he’d never live it down. Trace had been well on his way to becoming one of the paper’s top investigative reporters when he’d gotten fired. Unfairly, in his opinion, as well as that of every other hapless male who’d ever been cornered by the boss’s oversexed daughter, Jeanine. Now, thanks to his ex-editor and the vindictive Jeanine, Trace was lucky to even have his job at the Daily Intruder, which was saying a lot since he was presently employed in journalism hell.
Undercover as one of the dancers, Trace was investigating a tip Manny had gotten about male prostitutes on board the Mirage, and the middle-class suburban housewives who solicited them. Apparently a growing problem Manny felt would send the Daily Intruder’s circulation skyrocketing. Obviously Manny was an idiot. An idiot who knew his readership and who’d threatened to fire Trace if he refused the story.
As much as Trace hated the assignment, he found himself reluctant to give up the finer things in life like food and shelter. And after his first night on the job, he had a hunch there was a much bigger story taking place on the decks of the Mirage.
It was a well-known fact the Mirage was owned by the supposedly retired ex-Mafia boss Angelo Venzara. Or Mr. V., as he was called by his employees. But last night when Trace had gotten lost and wandered near the hold, he’d seen enough to have him reassessing Venzara’s supposedly reformed status. Specifically, the two armed thugs who’d been carrying an unmarked crate toward Angelo Venzara’s private area of the ship.
A couple of calls to some of Trace’s old sources confirmed that things onboard might not be all they seemed. In the past few months, the Mirage had made a number of hastily scheduled launches during its off-hours. And been spotted loading unmarked cargo during one of the cruise’s island stops in the Bahamas. Even without his journalistic instincts cranking up to full alert, Trace had come across enough evidence to know that Mr. V. was up to something. And with his much-hated cover already established, Trace was going to find out. Because if he was right, it was a chance to get his career back, and that was worth anything. Even doing the electric slide in his skivvies.
A group of young lovelies a few feet away tried to catch his attention, banging their drink glasses on the table top and waving money from their hands like little flags. Trace laughed softly. Maybe he needed to get a better attitude. He had to admit that whatever this cover cost his pride it was more than made up for in horny women. After all, what red-blooded male wouldn’t enjoy all these screaming females anxious for a chance to get him naked?
He tipped the brim of his hat to the two feisty seniors. “Thank you, ladies. It’s been a pleasure,” he said, genuinely smiling this time.
“I’ll say!” Delores sent him a wink.
Chuckling, he turned to leave, but before he’d made it more than half a step, he felt a hard smack across his semi-bare ass. His eyes widened.
“Great chaps!”
“Even greater buns!” His frisky friends hooted with laughter.
Trace sighed and shook his head. Then again, maybe his attitude had been just fine all along, not to mention a whole lot safer.
1
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, you don’t know when you’re coming back?” Phoebe Devereaux said into the phone. “How long can you just hang out in the Caribbean when you don’t have any money?” Phoebe managed to keep her voice one level below shouting. If she lost her temper now, she’d never get the whole story out of her little sister.
“I mean, I don’t know when it’ll be cool for me to come back. I told you, that cop, Alvarez, is going to be majorly pissed off when he finds out I skipped town. I keep telling him that Mr. V. is legit, but Alvarez won’t chill out,” Tiffany said. “And money’s not a problem. My boyfriend Tony’s going with me.”
Phoebe cradled the phone to her shoulder and massaged her throbbing temples. Since they were kids, Tiffany had been getting into trouble. Always the faithful big sister, Phoebe had rescued her from too many scrapes to count. Most of which, from the moment Tiffany had hit puberty, included a man. The no-good, love-’em-and-leave-’em bad-boy type that was Tiff’s favorite.
Phoebe shook her head, her gaze finding the open window across from her. The sound of the neighbor’s lawn mower floated inside her cozy little kitchen while a soft breeze ruffled the curtains. What had started out as a fairly perfect day lazing around at home, Tiffany had managed to destroy in less than five minutes. No surprise there, really, considering the source.
“Okay,” Phoebe finally said, plunking her glass of iced tea down onto the countertop and pushing it away. At the moment, she was a little too tempted to round up the one and only bottle of liquor in her house and spike the heck out of it. “I want you to start over at the beginning, and this time don’t leave out a single thing.”
“Oh, all right.” Tiffany heaved a sigh worthy of the stage. “But then I really have to leave, so pay attention this time.”
Phoebe didn’t respond. She was too busy grinding her teeth.
“Like I said before, there’s going to be a big meeting on the Mirage next Saturday night. Some guys who used to work with Tony’s uncle, Mr. V., are coming over from Vegas and New York and the whole ship is gonna be closed off for customers that night. Nothing illegal is going on, I’m sure, no matter what Alvarez says, but even still, the whole thing is pretty hush-hush. Me and a few of the girls happened to know about the private cruise because Mr. V. himself asked us to work special for the party. Hang out for dinner and drinks then do a shorter version of our show. And well—” Tiffany hesitated