The décor was flashy and modern, bright lights in neon orange, blue, and red. There was an empty dance floor infront of the stage where a woman in a leopard-skin thong and sequined pasties danced to Katy Perry’s “Roar.”
The waitresses, exemplifying the club’s name, were all dressed like dolls, in barely there, white ruffled skirts and bibs held up by red suspenders.
The women’s nipples were covered but not much more, and when one of them bent over to set drinks on a small round table nearby, nothing but a tiny thong covered the twin globes under her skirt.
Beau urged Cassidy up to the bar. A twenty appeared in his hand, which he shoved across the counter at the approach of the bartender, a tall, skinny guy with a thin goatee.
“We’re looking for Dooley Tate. He in tonight?”
The bartender took the twenty. “He’s here. Who wants to see him?”
“Beau Reese.”
“I’ll let him know.” The guy disappeared, then returned a few minutes later. “Dooley’s upstairs. You can go on up.”
Beau pushed another twenty across the bar. “Thanks.”
Cassidy walked in front of him toward the staircase she had spotted when they walked in. The bouncer gave them the eye but made no move to stop them.
When they reached the top of the stairs, Beau opened the door and Dooley Tate, short and stocky with thinning light brown hair, rose from the opposite side of his desk.
“Beaumont Reese,” Tate said. “Used to watch you on TV. Never thought to see your pretty face in a place like this.”
Beau closed the door. “You never really know what the wind’s going to blow your way, do you? I gather you were a friend of my father’s.”
“On occasion.” As Dooley sat back down, he gestured to a pair of battered oak captain’s chairs in front of his wooden desk. “Have a seat.”
They sat down across from him.
“So who’s the lady?” Dooley asked.
“My name’s Cassidy Jones. I’m a private investigator.”
“I’ve heard of you. You helped that bounty hunter, Maddox, track down a serial killer . . . What’d they call him?”
“The Night Watchman.”
“Yeah, that was it. So what do you two want?”
“I want to know if you loaned my father money,” Beau said. “If you did, I want to know if he paid it back.”
Dooley chuckled. “Been some time since your old man was hurting bad enough to come crawling to me for favors. Even if he was, the last few years, the kind of money he needed was too big for me to handle.”
Cassidy caught the tension that crept into Beau’s shoulders. “If he wasn’t getting money from you, who made him the loans?” he asked.
“I don’t know for sure. Years ago, a guy named Sanford Cummings could play in the big leagues, but he had an untimely run-in with an eighteen-wheeler a couple of years back. There’s a guy name of Malcolm Vaughn. Looks down his nose at a small-potatoes operator like me. Thinks his shit don’t stink because he’s got connections, people who can handle the big money loans he brings in. Your old man might have gone to him.”
“You think he did?”
Dooley shrugged. “Could be. You’d have to ask him.”
Beau sent Cassidy a glance and they rose from their chairs. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
“Your dad was a good customer. Always paid his debts—one way or another.”
“What do you mean?” Beau asked.
“Sometimes a favor is just as good as cash.” Dooley rounded his desk, walked over and opened the door. “A word of advice, Beau. Vaughn’s not a guy you want to piss off. Do yourself a favor. Let sleeping dogs lie, if you know what I mean.”
