"Why?"

"That's pretty much all she said. She didn't sound real happy about it, but she can be that way. She hates her job on account of the chief. He was obliged to hire her because of the affirmative-action thing. I suppose he does his best, but he acts like this is the nineteen fifties and gals like Japonica should be cleaning houses and sitting in the back of the bus. I look forward to the day he falls sick and has to stay here. There'll be some squabbling as to who gets to stick a needle in him."

"You have no idea why she's taking them to the hotel? She didn't mention anything else?"

Carlette shook her head. "That's all. Don't go worrying too much about your mama. I'll take real good care of her and let you know if she needs anything. Dr. Deweese is young, but he's smart."

"What does his wife do?" I asked ever so casually. "Is she a doctor, too?"

"He's divorced, but you'll have to get in line. Every unattached woman in the county is after him. Even though he's on the pale side, I could bring myself to pick up his dirty underwear and drink fancy wine if that's what it'd take. I was always a sucker for big blue eyes. Now you run along and get some sleep."

I had no idea why Japonica had offered to take Mrs. Jim Bob and Brother Verber to the hotel, but it didn't seem worth the energy to think about it. I drove back, parked, and walked hurriedly across the lobby, my fingers crossed that Mackenzie was occupied with mundane chores such as skimming profits or blackmailing politicians.

No one shrieked at me. I rode the elevator to the eighth floor and went straight to my room, not bothering to check on Estelle, or anyone else, for that matter. The Elvis Presley Pilgrimage had resulted in nothing but misery for all concerned. Stormy was dead, Ruby Bee was in the hospital, Jim Bob was in jail, Estelle was on Mackenzie's list of anarchists, an elopement had been foiled, and Mrs. Jim Bob and Brother Verber were both sleeping in close proximity to yours truly.

I had a key to the room, having found one on the dresser. I let myself in and sank down on the bed. A glass with a lipstick smudge suggested Cherri Lucinda had come and gone in the last hour. In that she hadn't been sobbing outside Jim Bob's cell, I presumed she'd found a replacement in the casino-and, if the luck of the draw was with me, might remain with him for the remainder of the night.

I tossed my coat on a chair and was reaching for the remote control when someone knocked on the door. I dragged myself up and went to peer through the peephole. The man in the hallway stood far enough away for me to see the hotel logo embroidered on his shirt.

"Plumber," he said loudly.

Despite the fact he had thick brown hair, I put on the chain before I opened the door. "I didn't call."

"The trouble's on the ninth floor in the room directly above yours. A pipe broke and I need to make sure there's no water coming down the inside of the wall in your bathroom. I can wait if you want to call the desk."

"No," I said as I disengaged the chain and stepped back to open the door.

Wrong.

13

The door slammed into me. I staggered backward, fighting without success to keep my balance as pain ripped across my face and shoulder. I hit the floor with a thud. The man stepped over me as he came into the room and snapped the deadbolt. The sound was as loud as a gunshot. Bad sign.

"Where is it?" he said.

"It?"

"The bag." He dragged me onto the bed and looked around the room. "I ain't in the mood for a guessing game. Just give me the bag and live to tell your story in the morning."

"Help yourself," I said as I gingerly examined my nose. Blood was dripping freely, but the basic structure seemed to be intact. "Take the toothbrushes and plastic cups in the bathroom while you're at it. I only have twenty dollars in my purse, but you're welcome to every one of them. Need an extra pillow or blanket?"

"Shut up." He grabbed Cherri Lucinda's duffel bag and dumped its contents on the other bed. "Where's the other bag?"

In the tradition of Lady Macbeth, I pointed a bloody finger at my overnight bag. "It's yours for the asking. I'm sorry I didn't bring my red flannel pajamas or whatever it is you want so desperately."

"You got some nerve. Has it occurred to you that you might just be in a real bad situation? The last thing you need to be doing is making me mad, you know?" He emptied my bag on the floor, pawed through my underwear and shirts, then looked down at me. "I don't know why the fuck you think you can get away with this. You know who you're dealing with?"

"No, I don't," I said. "Any chance you're going to tell me?"

"I don't have time for this shit. Get up."

"Get up and what?" I countered, assessing my chances of overwhelming him and dashing out of the room. His age was difficult to pinpoint, but there was little doubt he was several inches taller than I was and more than fifty pounds heavier. I would have preferred to take on the ladies from Tuscaloosa en masse.

"Get out of your clothes."

"You're not my type," I said as I wondered how effective the remote control might be as a weapon. If I clicked a button, could I change him into the Disney channel or Nickelodeon? "I don't know who you are or what you want, but if you leave right now, I'll give you a ten-second head start before I call security."

"You're not my type, either. You either strip or I'll do it for you. I won't be all that gentle."

"So you can rape me? There's nothing gentle about that." I may have sounded like a leather-clad warrior princess, but all of my internal organs were quivering with panic. He was too big, too assured-and possibly too experienced. In all my years in Manhattan, I'd only once been threatened on the street, and then by an asthmatic veteran in a frayed pea jacket that reeked of urine. I'd ended up admiring faded photographs of his children.

"I ain't gonna rape you," he said disgustedly. "I'm a professional. Now strip and let's get this over with."

"A professional what? A masseuse building up a clientele? A gynecologist who attacks women in hotel rooms in order to conduct pelvic exams as a form of community service?" Adrenaline was now controlling my mouth as well as my mind. I abandoned the idea of the remote control as a potential weapon and looked wildly at the room service menu. Thick, but plastic. Not promising.

"All right, then," he said, "just go out on the balcony."

I forced myself to suck in a breath and keep my pitch low as I said, "I don't think so. If you take one step toward me, I'm going to scream so loudly that the mayor of Memphis will hear me. I will scratch, kick, punch, and make every effort to claw your eyes. I'm not a black belt, but I had training in self-defense at the police academy."

He sat down on the other bed. "You're a cop? What the fuck are you doing here?"

"This is my room," I said, "which pretty much explains my presence. Your turn."

"This whole thing's a goddamn nightmare. You know that lady with the bright red hair that sort of looks like a fire hydrant balanced on her head? Where is she?"

"I don't know where she is. Who are you?"

He rubbed his eyes. "Like I said, I'm a professional just doing my job-okay? What do you know about this broad called Stormy? A lot shorter than you, big blond hair, enormous boobs? She went skydiving this morning, except she forgot to take along a parachute. She went splat." He slapped his palms together to re-create the sound.

I was beginning to think I might get out of this alive. "Let's talk about the woman with the red hair. What's she got to do with anything?"

"I wish I knew," he said. "Is she a cop, too?"

"Would it matter?"

"Okay," he said, standing up. "I don't have time to hang around and yak. Let's go out on the balcony."