Slice of Life Snippet 4
Standing in the center betting queue of the Players Lounge, yellow WANTED poster in hand, Dixie cast a wary eye at a skinhead two lines over.
A tingle between Dixie’s shoulder blades suggested this hunch might yet pay off.
“Gin Sip on the nose,” a woman ahead cooed loudly to the man standing beside her. “Sweetie, you said I could pick the winner in this race.” Lime-green bobbles dangled from each ear; lime-green stretch pants clearly defined each ample butt cheek.
The portly man in a flowered shirt shook his head. “Gin Sip’s a maiden, no stats. Everything we’ve won tonight you’re going to lose on a sucker bet?”
“In my premonition, Gin Sip burst from the gate like a rocket, trailing a wake of fire—”
Dixie hit a quick-dial button on her cell phone. The couple’s squabble and the murmur of a hundred simulcast monitors would easily cover her own conversation.
“I may’ve spotted that kid I’m looking for,” she said, when Parker answered.
Eight freighted seconds passed before he spoke. “Dixie, these reservations were damned hard to get.”
“I know. But I really need to check this out.”
Parker’s frustration sighed into her ear. Any other Friday night they’d be eating a gourmet meal from his own kitchen. Brawny, passionate, fairly useless with a hammer or wrench, Parker Dann could make pots and pans dance like a scene from Fantasia. Nevertheless, he’d been excited about dining out this evening at a new inn and restaurant that drew a favorable write-up in Galveston Streets magazine.
“All right,” he agreed finally. “Mud and I’ve already lost twelve games of Solitaire. Should we go for twenty?”
Dixie pictured her Mean Ugly Dog sitting at a card table with Parker. She grinned, wishing she was with them.
“Can you move the reservations up half an hour?” It wouldn’t take long to get a full-face view of that skinhead.
“On grand opening weekend? The place is booked solid.”
“Can’t hurt to ask. If they won’t, then just muse over the menu with a bottle of their best wine—my treat—until I arrive. Okay?”
“I’ll ‘muse’ for exactly fifteen minutes.”
Dixie couldn’t blame him for being pissed. Living eighty miles apart limited their opportunities for spontaneous get-togethers, and every time they booked a date more than a few hours in advance, Dixie’s erratic schedule crimped the plan. But Ryan was counting on her, too.
“I’ll finish up here as fast as I can,” she promised. “And Parker … thanks.”
With an indecipherable mutter, he disconnected. She considered calling back, telling him she’d forget Ryan’s reward quest and leave right now. The skinhead wore camouflage fatigues, a silver skull earring, and steel-cap combat boots—typical neo-Nazi regalia. Maybe that tingle of foresight Dixie felt was nothing more than an itch. Jennae’s mug shot showed a square, pretty face, wide mouth, full lower lip, no jewelry, platinum waves falling to her shoulders.
Yet some oddities in the hairless youth’s appearance suggested female in drag. No Adam’s apple, for one. Despite the August heat, an oversized jacket obscured the kid’s chest. And his gait, as Dixie followed it to the betting queues, swayed too supplely to be all male. On the other hand—
“Pardon me,” a sharp, nasal voice addressed her.
Dixie spun on her boot heel to find a face from her past: Assistant District Attorney Rodney Kincaid, handsome, ambitious, and slippery as wet fish.
He shoved a ten-dollar bill toward her. “I believe you dropped this.”
“Nope, not mine.” Maybe he didn’t remember her. When Kincaid joined the DA’s staff, several months before Dixie left it, she hadn’t liked his slam-dunk attitude toward gaining convictions. She wasn’t at all pleased to see him now.
“Sorry. I was sure it fell—” His eyes did the quick blink of recognition. Too quick. “I know you. You’re a prosecutor—or were. Left a couple of years ago. Flannigan, right?”
“Three years.” After battling Texas’ revolving-door justice for a decade, she’d had enough. Sliding a glance at the skinhead, Dixie offered the obligatory handshake.
“Where are you now, Rodney?”
“Chief in the three-thirty-second. Recent transfer.” He tucked the bill into his jeans pocket.
Nice fit. Fantastic body—for a jerk.
“Did you ever have that judge?” he asked.
Dixie shrugged it away. “Part of another life.”
As the woman at the head of the line completed her betting transaction, Dixie tuned out Kincaid and moved up a step. When he followed, she glanced pointedly at the shorter queues, then cut her gaze back to find him straining to read the WANTED poster in her hand.
“Jennae Thompson,” he read from the bold type.
Dixie folded the photograph out of sight. “A.k.a. Margie Tomlin a.k.a. Genny Tomkins.”
“Wanted in three states, including Texas?”
So the guy was a speed reader. Dixie shoved the poster deep in her pocket.
Kincaid looked around and lowered his voice. “Is she here?”
“In this crowd? Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Thirty-thousand dollars. Better than your average bail-bond contract. That’s what you’re doing these days, isn’t it? Bounty hunting?”
“Yep.” Dixie chose to ignore his snide tone. She saw the skinhead slap a wad of bills on the counter, receive a betting slip and turn to leave. Dixie finally got a straight-on look at his/her face—wide mouth, full lower lip, brown eyes. Jennae had green eyes, but colored contact lenses would handle that. A lightning-shaped tattoo marked the skinhead’s right cheek. No mention on the poster of a tattoo. It might be recent. Or fake.
Dixie sensed Kincaid’s gaze. To follow the skinhead now would certainly draw the prosecutor’s attention.
“Give us a quiniela box, one, three, and six,” the man in the flowered shirt told the betting clerk.
“No, sweetie,” his wife argued. “Gin Sip on the nose.”
“We are not betting all our winnings on your hair-brained fantasy.”
When the couple moved off, Dixie laid a ten on the counter. She wasn’t much of a gambler.
“Gin Sip,” she told the clerk. A woman’s premonition counted a lot higher in her book than eeny-meeny-miney-moe.
“To win?”
Well … “Win, place, or show,” she hedged.
“Across the board.” The clerk punched out her ticket.
For a calculating moment Dixie loitered, as if deciding where to light. Despite her often loudly voiced opinion that politics swung too many sound cases into the shitcan, her relationship with the DA and many of the staff had remained congenial. No point in slamming the door now.
“Give the folks at home my howdy.” She smiled at Kincaid, sketching a wave in passing. Tucking the betting slip into her pocket, she strolled in the same direction as the skull earring and camouflage fatigues.
Each of the Horizon Restaurant’s nine cascading tiers had a single row of tables where viewers could watch the races live or on simulcast. Cash machines and self-serve betting terminals provided added temptation. Spotting the skinhead settling into a chair, Dixie asked to be seated at a table one level up. She could appear to watch the dogs while comparing his/her features with the mug photo of Jennae Thompson.
The shaved scalp accentuated the unusual shape of the kid’s ears, a feature most difficult to alter. Upper shell tipped outward, lobe snug against the head. Exactly like Jennae’s.
With that single point of reference, Dixie assessed the eyes, nose, and mouth again: all conformed to the mug shot. The disguise worked because most people shied away from young men who looked like trouble. Only a cop or a bounty hunter would peer past the camouflage and rough tattoo.
Now all Dixie needed was a worthy officer to exercise the warrant. If she handled the arrest and paperwork herself, she’d never make her dinner date with Parker.
Yes, Buy the Book now, because you’ll want a great weekend read.
