A Dangerous Affair

by Jason Melby

  "Good morning," Jamie responded with her head down.

  "How long has it been since your last exam?" the doctor asked.

  "About a year."

  The doctor reviewed her medical history. He noted the loss in weight and the elevated blood pressure readings. "So what brings you here today?"

  Jamie nudged her blouse below her shoulder to expose the butterfly tattoo on her back. "I need to get this removed."

  The doctor cleared his throat and sat on the rolling stool. "Go ahead and turn around. I need you to remove your shirt so I can examine the area more closely. You can leave your bra on."

  Jamie lifted her blouse over her head. Faint bruising along her side marred an otherwise flawless torso.

  The doctor noticed the obvious signs of physical abuse, which suggested more about Sheriff Blanchart than he cared to know, especially in a town where the law's reach extended beyond the boundaries of its own authority.

  He pressed on Jamie's side to assess the condition of the bruising near her ribs. "Does this hurt?"

  "A little," said Jamie, despite the intensity of the pain.

  "I'd like to get an X-ray. Just to rule out any fractures."

  "I'm fine. I slipped in the tub and landed funny. It looks worse than it feels."

  "Has this happened before?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure?" the doctor challenged her.

  "Positive."

  "You should be more careful," the doctor cautioned. He touched the tattoo. "How long have you had this?"

  "Since college."

  Jamie felt cold hands on her skin. "What's your opinion on laser removal?"

  "Given the size and location of your tattoo, you would be a good candidate. It's uncomfortable and usually takes several visits to obliterate the pigment. We could freeze the area instead and use a rotary abrasion instrument to remove the image."

  "You mean grind it away?"

  "It's not as harsh as it sounds. I use a local anesthetic to numb the area." He examined the butterfly wings more closely, noting the mix of colors injected under the skin. "Another option is a surgical excision to remove the image with a scalpel." He pinched the skin. "I might be able to excise the entire area in one visit."

  "What about scarring?"

  "There would be some scarring."

  "How much?"

  The doctor removed his gloves. "It depends on the individual person. It varies from patient to patient. Go ahead and put your shirt back on."

  "What do you think I should do?"

  "In your case, laser treatment might be the best alternative. It will take a few weeks for the skin to heal, but it's the least invasive procedure."

  Jamie climbed down from the examination table. Her cell phone vibrated in her purse. "How soon can you schedule me?"

  "My receptionist can set an appointment for you."

  Jamie read Alan's name from the caller ID. She had two minutes to reply before Alan called again—and got angry. "I have to go."

  The doctor stood in front of her for a moment. "I'd like to schedule you for an x-ray on your ribs. It shouldn't take long."

  "I'm fine," said Jamie. "Really. It's just a bruise."

  "Most likely, but I won't know for certain without examining the film."

  "I really have to go."

  "What about the next time?"

  "I told you," said Jamie. "It was an accident."

  "Accidents like those have a way of getting progressively worse."

  Jamie reached for the door. "What are you suggesting?"

  "Nothing, Mrs. Blanchart. Nothing at all."

  Chapter 16

  Josh lit a cigarette by the soda machine outside Sonny's Car Wash. He kept his morning break to a minimum with the owner watching the shop—a pompous Texan with old oil money who drove a red Dodge Viper with a blue racing stripe painted down the middle of the hood.

  Josh knew how everyone sucked up to Sonny, especially the towel boys who worked the end of the wash line for minimum wage plus tips. He also knew Sonny loved the illegal workers for their willingness to tolerate twelve-hour shifts six days a week in the Florida heat with no benefits. At Sonny's Car Wash, labor laws went the way of prohibition. Men either worked like dogs or quit without pay. Wetbacks who stayed on and tolerated the boss earned a nickel raise on the unofficial payroll. Legal immigrants earned a quarter.

  Josh himself earned kudos for his efforts and the promise of an annual bonus if he held the cost of materials down while increasing the weekly car volume—a classic Catch-22 because the more cars he washed, the more chemicals he consumed. This left him with two choices: dilute the already watered-down soap even further or speed up the wash line to handle more cars in an hour. Both options sucked because both meant the cars didn't clean up as well, which brought more angry customers demanding a re-wash, which consumed even more chemical agents.

  For Josh, the job was a job. A steady paycheck with reasonable job security. What he'd failed to learn in school, he'd learned on his own, busting ass from one dead-end gig to another before he landed at Sonny's Car Wash. Sonny took him under his wing and taught him about the car wash business. How to maintain the equipment. How to improve customer service. And most importantly, how to keep the illegals happy to minimize payroll expenses. Any fool could work for minimum wage, Sonny taught him, but a desperate man would always work for less.

  Josh finished his cigarette as Lloyd rode up on the Triumph.

  "I didn't think you'd show," Josh said to his older brother.

  Lloyd dismounted and unzipped his motorcycle jacket. Josh knew his brother's confidence was reduced from the minor trepidation about his criminal record. He motioned for Lloyd to follow him inside to the back office.

  "What do you need?" Sonny asked when the two men entered his world. He wore a wide brim Stetson on his mostly bald head. Snakeskin boots with a one-inch lift bumped his height to just below average. The edge of his oversized belt buckle disappeared inside the substantial girth beneath his flannel shirt.

  "I told you about my brother, Lloyd," Josh started.

  Sonny sifted through the pile of junk mail on his desk to find the Hooter's calendar he'd ordered six weeks ago. He used a Bowie knife to slit the cellophane wrapper and retrieve the goods. He beamed at the October photo. "Would you look at those..."

  Josh leaned beside the desk and towered over his boss to peek at the leggy brunette. "But can she cook?"

  "Does it matter?" said Sonny.

  Lloyd kept silent.

  Sonny flipped to November. "Did you need something?"

  "My brother's looking for work," said Josh. "I told him we could use the help."

  "That's why we hired Alberto."

  "Alberto hasn't shown up for a week. I heard he moved his family back to Texas."

  Sonny laid the calendar on his desk and shot a perfunctory glance at Lloyd. "What do you know about washing cars?"

  Lloyd shrugged.

  "It's not a trick question, son."

  "Sure," said Lloyd. "I know how to wash a car."

  "Let me see your application."

  "He just got here," said Josh.

  Sonny pointed to the cross tattoo on Lloyd's inside forearm. "Where did you pick that up?"

  "Here and there."

  "You've done time, haven't you? Hard time. I can always tell. How long?"

  Lloyd frowned. "Ten years."

  "What for?"

  Josh took Sonny aside by the inspection window facing the wash line. "I'll vouch for him."

  "I don't like him," Sonny balked.

  "He's legit," said Josh. "And he speaks English."

  "I don't care if he speaks Latin. A monkey can do this job. I could find a hundred guys like him on the street if I had to."

  Josh persisted. "You said yourself we need the help. He won the Heisman in college. His team won back-to-back championships."

  "I run a business, not a football team."

  "Just throw him a bone. At least a few weeks until
he gets back on his feet. If business picks up, we'll keep him. If not, we'll let him go. Right now we need the help. Lloyd needs a paycheck."

  "I caught the last guy skimming the register."

  "Lloyd's not like that."

  "Not interested," said Sonny. He scooped the calendar from his desk. "I'm taking this for a joy ride on the can. I need you to watch the front while I'm gone."

  "Just give him a chance. He's my brother, not some loser who walked in off the street. My word. He won't let you down."

  Sonny contemplated the situation before he stepped in front of Lloyd and said, "I'll give you a shot because you're Josh's brother. But if I catch you stealing so much as a stick of gum from someone's car, I'll have you arrested. And I will press charges."

  Lloyd stuck his hand out to shake. "Thanks."

  Sonny ignored the gesture and stormed out.

  Josh slapped his brother on the shoulder. "I'll show you what to do."

  "Now?"

  "I'll clock you in. We get busy around lunch time and then again around five. When it rains, it's dead. When the weather clears, we're slammed again." He brought Lloyd outside to the car wash entrance and grabbed a vacuum hose. "Use the hard nozzle on floorboards and seats. Use the bristle brush for doors and dashboards, but not on glass."

  Lloyd took the hose. "I think I can manage."

  "Wait until the customer gets out of the car. Then start with the mats. If the car's in really bad shape, do the best you can with the vacuum and let it roll. The line has to keep moving."

  A four-wheel-drive Toyota Tundra pulled up.

  Lloyd opened the door for the driver and quickly vacuumed the interior after the driver got out.

  "Now pull it up to the tracks," Josh instructed. "Always make sure the car's in neutral. The track will bring it in automatically."

  Lloyd drove the Tundra forward and nudged the transmission into neutral.

  Josh waved the next car ahead. A red Volvo S40 with a female driver and no passengers. He held his hand up for the driver to stop.

  * * *

  Lloyd opened the door for Jamie Blanchart and felt a rush of adrenaline when his gaze met hers, an instant attraction of gravitational proportion complemented by a radiating warmth that spread from his inner core to his beaming smile. He stared at her angelic face and erased his past—a dark, secluded space now flooded with a scintillating light, obscuring everything outside the breathtaking view in front of him.

  Jamie blushed. "Excuse me," she said, pushing her door wider to make her way around him.

  Josh smacked his brother on the shoulder. "Let's go." He snapped his fingers by Lloyd's ear. "Hey! You with me? Sonny's watching."

  Lloyd stepped away from the Volvo and saw his new boss outside with Varden. "How well do you know Sonny?" Lloyd asked his brother.

  "Well enough to know he doesn't give second chances. Don't fuck this up, or we'll both be looking for another job."

  Chapter 17

  Blanchart patrolled the familiar Lakewood streets behind the wheel of his cruiser. A wedding photo taped to the dashboard above his laptop reminded him of his good fortune. He had a nice house, a beautiful wife, and a job that afforded him the ability to run a lucrative operation. An operation now threatened by an arrogant parasite who underestimated the consequences of his actions.

  Blanchart circled the block with his side-mounted spotlight aimed at an abandoned shopping mall frequented by prostitutes and local vagrants scrounging for a piece of the American dream. Tonight was slow, with some of the usual suspects peddling their wares in another part of town.

  He made a second pass along the mall's south entrance where his spotlight caught a hooker in fishnet stockings and a purple tube top bobbing for apples through the window of a small sedan. He blipped the siren and flashed the police lights to scare the driver away, leaving the young prostitute to fend for herself.

  He drove toward her, slowly.

  "Damn... Sheriff... Can't a bitch earn a livin' without no po-lease involvement? I got mouths to feed at home."

  Blanchart aimed the spotlight at her face.

  The hooker stood knock-kneed, her arms crossed at her chest. She blocked the light with her hand. "I was just giving directions."

  "I could tell," said Blanchart. "Get in the car."

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "Get in the car or spend the night in jail."

  "Why you always got to be like that? You want the house special or a straight-up fuck?" She climbed in the passenger seat and checked her lipstick in the visor mirror. Braless cleavage spilled out of her top when she leaned over to touch the sheriff's thigh. "It's aw'ight. I'll take care of you."

  Blanchart pulled a C-note from a roll of cash. "Leeland Marks. Where can I find him?"

  "Who?"

  "The guy who's been stepping where he doesn't belong. Where is he?" Blanchart waved the money in her face.

  "I ain't never heard that name befo'."

  Blanchart grabbed her by the back of the head and covered her face with a rag. Then he slammed his fist against her nose.

  The rag swelled with blood.

  "That won't be good for business."

  "What the fuck you do that for?" the woman cried. Tears poured out. "Why you trippin' on me? All up in my business? Dumb honky motherfucker. You done broke my nose!"

  Blanchart pushed the cigarette lighter in the socket.

  "Did Leeland promise you free junk? Or a corner with more traffic?" He twisted his wedding band on his finger. "These streets don't belong to him, they belong to me."

  The hooker wiped her swollen nose. Blood dripped on her lap. "I swear I can't picture no dude named Leeland."

  "Picture this," Blanchart grumbled. He popped the lighter and pressed the glowing element on her leg.

  The hooker screamed. She clawed her nails at Blanchart's arm to make him stop.

  The lighter smoked. The smell of burned flesh circulated in the cabin.

  Blanchart let go and reinserted the lighter in the twelve-volt receptacle. He observed his trembling hostage, which pleased him. He had no compunction about killing her and leaving her body in the road, but she'd always come through for him in the past. In his experience, the only bad informant was a dead informant.

  "If I snitch on him he'll kill me and my baby."

  "There are worse things than death."

  The lighter popped.

  Blanchart grabbed her hair and brought the glowing element toward her eye. "This might sting a little."

  "I heard he likes to hang at this biker bar near the water," the hooker blurted.

  "Which one?"

  "The Tiki Hut. Near the FEMA trailers."

  "What else?"

  "That's it. I heard he likes to party three on one. I never met the dude before. That's all I got. I swear."

  Blanchart stuffed the cash in her top and wiped her nose with the rag. "Go back to work. You'll know when I need you again. And keep this conversation to yourself—or the next time you see me will be the last."

  Chapter 18

  Leslie rubbed her eyes when she entered the courthouse detention cell and gave the okay signal to the deputy behind the observation mirror. She dropped her attaché case on the table and slid a chair across from her shackled client.

  "My name is Leslie Dancroft," she said in her congested voice before she settled in behind the table and thumbed through a bundle of legal folders. "I'm with the public defender's office. The court appointed me to represent you. I'd like to start by asking you—"

  "Where's my lawyer?" Manny Morallen demanded in his prisoner restraints and orange jumpsuit with the collar covering a portion of the black Yin/Yang symbol on his neck. His pork chop sideburns extended toward his chin and melded with a thick mustache. His arms were sleeved out in prison ink with the word "Defiance" spelled out in black letters across his knuckles.

  "I am your lawyer," said Leslie, projecting an air of confidence and a bit of indifference toward the man she knew only by name and rap
sheet.

  "I want the dude who was here before," Morallen protested. "The one who said he could make this go away."

  "Right now I am that dude, Mr. Morallen, and the only thing standing between you and a swift conviction. I suggest you lose the attitude and share some love about what happened on the night of October twelfth in the house on Lipscomb Street."

  "How soon can you get me out of here?"

  "Your bail hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Given the charges and your criminal record, I wouldn't hold your breath. You've been charged with first degree murder of a Lakewood Deputy Sheriff who happened to be a married father of one. That won't earn you any points with a jury."

  Morallen jerked against the arm restraints. "I didn't kill no cop!"

  Leslie felt tiny saliva particles hit her face, so she scooted her chair back. A correctional officer entered the room.

  "You good in here?" the officer asked her.

  Leslie wiped her chin. She burned her gaze at Morallen and asked, "Are we good in here?"

  Morallen settled himself in his chair. "We're cool." He waited for the officer to leave before he whispered, "I was there, inside the house, when that cop was killed. But I didn't touch him. I'm just a cook."

  Leslie opened Morallen's folder and skimmed the highlights. "Apparently not a very good one. You were busted twice in Miami-Dade and nearly blew up a house in Homestead."

  "Those charges were dropped," said Morallen.

  "Did you learn your trade in prison?"

  "My uncle taught me."

  "Professor Enrique Morallen," Leslie quoted from Morallen's file.

  "He was until the cops shot him dead at a traffic stop."

  "Sounds like you have a beef with the law." Leslie opened Morallen's file. "Sheriff Blanchart's arrest report indicates you were taken into custody outside a campground two days after the Lipscomb Street incident took place. Investigators found your prints on a twelve-gauge shotgun left at the scene, the same shotgun allegedly used to kill Deputy Sheriff Randal Carter."