“You look flushed,” he said as he pulled onto Pacific Avenue. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” I said, my mind zinging with a hundred thoughts. All of them having to do with Arch and the future. “Just hot. And itchy. I can’t wait to get out of this suit. Speaking of…You’re going the wrong way. Fannie’s Flowers is south.”
“The Chameleon Club’s north.”
I flashed on The Kid’s phone call. My gut said this was about Beckett. I reached in the backseat, grabbed my tote bag and dug out my phone. “I’ll call Fannie and let her know the gig went great and that I’ll return the costume later today.”
“Good idea.”
“Oh, wait.” I squinted at the screen of my phone. “I think I have a text message. I don’t know how—”
Arch nabbed my cell, punched a couple of buttons and handed it back.
“Thanks.” I read the abbreviated text. “It’s from Nic. All it says is that Jayne’s okay and that she’ll call me later. Why didn’t she call with more of an update?”
“I can think of a couple of reasons. Neither cause for panic.”
“In other words, don’t borrow trouble.”
“Aye.”
Speaking of trouble…“So what’s the unexpected news?”
Fighting traffic, Arch cast me a quick look. “Mad Dog’s dead.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE CHAMELEON CLUB WAS LOCATED in Atlantic City’s Inlet. Only not in the newly renovated section. And though it was situated on the boardwalk, it faced the bay instead of the ocean and was a goodly distance from the casinos and souvenir tourist traps. Let’s just say I wouldn’t walk around this area after dark. Even during the day, I held my purse close and watched for muggers and drunks. No wonder Nic and Jayne had flipped when I told them I’d been hired to sing full-time in this, well—calling a spade a spade—dive.
Arch veered into the pothole-ridden parking lot and I had visions of car thieves lurking in the abandoned building a block down. “Isn’t there a nearby garage or a secret place like the Bat Cave where you can park this thing?”
“No.”
“What if we come out and all of the tires are gone?”
“I’ll buy new ones.”
“What if the car is gone?”
“Jazzman’s fine.”
“I wasn’t talking about Beckett.”
“But you’re thinking aboot him, yeah?”
I didn’t bother to lie. Arch would know. “Aren’t you?”
“Aye.”
He didn’t elaborate. I didn’t press. He’d tried calling Beckett twice since receiving the news of Mad Dog’s death. Both calls had rolled to voice mail.
On the ride over my imagination had soared. Arch had no information other than Frank Turner had been found dead this morning in his home, the seeming victim of a burglary. So I’d filled in the blanks, creating two or three different scenarios. Surely Beckett hadn’t killed the man and if he did, it must have been in self-defense only why then would he cover it up? Only maybe he didn’t cover it up. Maybe the cops were mistaken. Or maybe it was a straight up burglary and the thieves—not Beckett—killed Mad Dog. Yeah. That was it. Only I kept going, relaying the plot of a classic caper flick, to which Arch responded, “This is real life, not a movie, yeah?”
Which was his way of telling me to stuff a sock in it.
I’d clammed up after that, until now that is. “Wait,” I said as he helped me out of his spiffy car. “I have to get out of this costume.” Even though Arch had cranked up the air, I was soaked to the skin and itchy. Unfortunately, I tend to break out in a rash when I’m nervous or anxious, although it’s usually confined to my neck and chest. This was a full body itch so I guess that meant I was ultranervous about Beckett.
Arch tugged down the back zipper. I shimmied out of the gorilla suit, sighing when a breeze hit my sweaty skin.
He peered at me over the rim of his sunglasses. “Now that’s sexy.”
He was looking at my chest.
I glanced down, not getting a straight on view like him, but I could imagine. Initially, I’d been wearing layers, only I knew I’d be hot in the ape suit, so I’d peeled off the long-sleeved T-shirt, leaving my pale pink tank top. It was soaked and so was my sheer bra. I met his appreciative gaze. “So can you see my…you know.”
“Nipples?” He quirked his first grin in several minutes then reached into his backseat and produced a denim jacket.
“Thanks.” I didn’t care that it was too big for me. Through twists of fate it seemed someone, somewhere was always getting a peek at my boobs. So far everyone on the team except…No, wait. Everyone on the team had seen my boobs. I didn’t want to think about it.
Arch lit up a cigarette and I marveled for the zillionth time how I could possibly find the nasty habit sexy. I guess it’s because it accentuated his bad-boy persona. It also stunk up the air and blackened his lungs. Lungs I cared about more and more, along with every other organ and limb of the man’s hunky body.
“You should really think about giving those things up.”
“Noted.”
“And?”
“Thinking aboot it.”
I rolled my eyes. Conversation with Arch wasn’t always easy. But I wasn’t daunted. After all, I’d been married to a man who spoke in circles for a living. As an agent, Michael had to appease both artist and buyer which often led to embellishing, twisting, and spinning his words. Sometimes the best approach was to leave off and come back to the subject later. In some ways, Michael had been a valuable training ground for Arch. Weird, but true.
We fell into mutual silence—Arch smoking, me scratching—as we made our way up the wooden steps and onto the boardwalk. Waves lapped at the shore. The sun beamed in a clear blue sky. A beautiful spring day, except for the cloud of doom I imagined hovering over the club.
Arch snuffed his Marlboro then steered me through the front door. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I flashed on the disappointment I’d experienced the first time I’d entered this run-down building. I’d expected a super spy facility, not a dingy bar that looked like it hadn’t been modernized since the 1950s. It even had a beat-up cigarette machine and a jukebox. The pictures on the faded walls featured singers and musicians from days gone by. The only artists I recognized were Miles Davis and Billie Holiday. Then again, unlike Beckett, I wasn’t a big fan of jazz. You can imagine my shock when I was told it’s the only kind of music he allows in this joint. I sing pop, rock, country, disco and R and B. I do not sing jazz.
Although, I’d have to take a stab at it. When not in the field, Beckett expected me to perform here. A cover job of sorts. Just as this bar was a cover for Chameleon. Never mind that there wasn’t a stage and that the mini sound system had been appropriated by Tabasco. At least it was better than flipping burgers in the kitchen. Maybe.
I hugged myself, scratching at my itchy skin through the sleeves of the jacket as Arch and I bypassed vacant tables and targeted the bar. Business wasn’t exactly booming. Then again it was only one in the afternoon. I was pretty certain the two barflies buzzing over their draft beers were the same two geezers I’d seen in here during my last visit.
The bartender, an elderly dark-skinned gentleman with a fondness