Chapter 13: You Shake My Nerves and You Rattle My Brain...

Citron had thought of nothing else but Ethan Dalton during the hour between the two incoming calls. Ethan doted on Madison — yet another weakness in the cutthroat world of business. In the real world.

The caller had somehow managed to find the girl. And was obviously using her to leverage Ethan out of hiding. Citron smiled to himself; that tactic would never work with him.

He, himself, was a viciously aggressive negotiator. But in this case, there was no sense in trying to argue about the money. The caller had known what he was doing; this was a straightforward transaction — a two-step payment spread over a few days. And Dalton would be his.

Citron was going to do it. The only question he had was whether to call Quintin Apache back to Wyoming. Yes, yes he would. Better to have a sniper within range, just in case. Just in case.

Kate Broussard put a large sign in her Main Street window:

“LADIES ONLY!

NO COVER CHARGE!

Monday night at 9:00.”

She spent a week prepping her dancers, “Tell all your girlfriends — if this thing takes off, we’ll make it a monthly event.”

Jolene raised her hand, “What about the private rooms. You know... ?”

“Same as with the men, honey. Lap dances and hand-jobs. Oral in the BJ Room.”

Eulalie smiled in approval.

Gigi raised her hand, “Miss Kate, not all the dancers eat pussy. I mean, they’ll make out with the ladies, use their hands, but...”

“That’s okay, Gigi. Anyway, we don’t know how much call there’ll be for that. But I’ll schedule you girls so we should have enough pussy-eaters in the house to meet the demand. Whatever the demand turns out to be.”

Truly, though, no one really knew what to expect.

Thursday.

Lacy was in Cheyenne. Or rather a 60-year old woman with dull brown eyes was.

Lacy — now known as Helen Ferguson — was about an hour east of Laramie. She figured the meet would take place in one of Citron’s out-of-town properties. He owned several residential and commercial units around the state, He had mentioned his own cabin, but Lacy and Chase discounted that. Citron would pick a more neutral location.

And, almost certainly, he would have his killer, the Knife Man, somewhere in the vicinity. Probably not in the building; probably hidden somewhere within rifle range. Probably.

That same day, a Thursday, Logan picked Chase Windsor up at the Jackson airport. Sunglasses and a gimme cap for Andre Previn Road. The tracker was still attached to Logan’s Toyota, so YesBut Nelson would learn he’d been to the airport and, eventually, would find out that he’d returned with a second mystery passenger.

However Rémy had agreed to have his Dobermans deliver an escapee from East Mississippi Correctional back to Meridian. He knew the two of them liked traveling together, liked getting out of town. They’d probably make a side trip for tamales and whores on the way back.

By the time they reviewed the surveillance tapes, Eulalie would have already delivered Chase Windsor to the safe-house.

Eulalie tied off the Jon boat, led the way up the stairs, and introduced the two older men, “Mr. Smith, this is Mr. Jones.”

Mr. Jones had a copy of that morning’s Washington Post with him.

The more Kate thought about Ladies Night, the more she liked the idea. It might or might not pay off financially, although she hoped to hell it would.

But beyond that, there was a good chance that many of the customers would be first-timers. Her regular audience was over 90% men. A few younger women came in with husbands and boyfriends. And a few of the braver ones came in small groups with their girlfriends.

Ladies Night ... uncharted territory.

Lacy — Helen Ferguson — wore brown.

She had brought her own bright-light makeup mirror and everything else necessary to transform herself into an older woman. The Cheyenne Motel 6 had only a short counter space available, but it would do — along with the desk chair.

As she had done while rehearsing back in Pasadena, she began with dull, brown contact lenses. Chase Windsor had taught her that trick, way back when. The change was instantaneous and startling. Lively emerald eyes lost their sparkle. Lacy’s intelligence no longer shone through; she now had a dull, slightly torpid look.

She poured a small amount of a beige liquid into her palm and used her fingers to apply it to her face and neck. In under four minutes, healthy, glowing skin looked pallid, almost jaundiced. She patiently scrubbed her hands until no traces remained.

Then she carefully darkened the two parenthetical lines that arched from her nose to down around her mouth. The Game-Changer pencil from Munich had been expensive; and it was worth it. After she also deepened the lines around her eyes, she became 30-something years older.

Next the wig. Lacy bobby-pinned her hair into a tight blonde helmet. She carefully adjusted the liner, before putting on the mousy brown hairpiece. It featured thinning hair with gray just peeking out at the roots. A dye job in need of another dye job.

Finally, the outfit.

Even though Citron should never see her underwear, she stepped into white cotton granny panties and fastened the too-large brassiere in front. She rotated it slowly around and inspected the sagging cups. Just a hint of droop, an older woman no longer trying very hard to maintain the facade.

She buttoned a light brown blouse up to the neck. She tucked the blouse into a dark brown skirt. It was loose and flowed down to her calves.

Next she pulled on incongruously red socks, men’s socks that reached up over her calves. The brogan chukka boots were also brown, unpolished, and were a little worn down at the heels.

She walked into the bathroom for a full-length inspection. Nodded pleasantly to herself, “Frump.”

She’d wait to don the half-frame tortoise-shell glasses, the distraction glasses, until she arrived at the rendezvous spot.

Eulalie Guidry was a nester. She made her own home wherever she went. Living full time now with Ethan ... well he hardly recognized the place. Her clothes were everywhere — both bedrooms, both bathrooms, living room, deck, kitchen.

As well as her digital devices, schoolbooks, graphic novels, and scent — a blend of citrus and vitality and, somehow, youth.

Ethan had no complaints however, none at all.

Chase Windsor wasn’t quite as skilled as Lacy when it came to reading people. He was in the top 5%, without question, but Lacy was simply on another level.

However, Windsor was hyper-observant and had sized up Sausalito during his one trip through downtown, into the residential area, down to the City Docks, out to the safe-house in the Cajun Bayous.

His conclusion: the town was past its prime. Or soon would be. He knew that the population — just under 10,000 had held fairly steady through the last two census periods. But the demographics weren’t promising. Like so many rural towns, Sausalito was experiencing an outflow of younger people.

Once out of high school, a few left for more schooling — usually a two-year community college. More of them said adios in order to seek employment somewhere else — a better job than could be found at home.

Windsor had to admit that Lacy had been right — Marie Guidry was running the show about as well as it could be done. She and her junior partner — the Chief of Police — had the town pretty well sewn up.

To Windsor, however, that was yesterday’s news. He turned his focus to Eulalie Guidry.

The first-ever Ladies Night at Miss Kitty’s wasn’t a full-blown rager, but it was certainly lively. The pole dancers had done a good job of spreading the word — and there was a lot of chatter, some considerable curiosity, and a ton of speculation — what the fuck would it be like, women only?

The lunch crowd — men — had been surprisingly robust for a Monday. It was like they had to get an early fix because the joint would be off limits to them that night.

The evening’s early arrivals — mostly younger women — began showing up an hour early, around 8. Kate had made the decision to start things off with free champagne. Only Freixenet, but it was chilled. And, most importantly, free. It worked — it got the party rolling.

Kate sent a couple of girls up on the stage an hour earlier than she’d planned. No complaints — tips were tips no matter what time they arrived.

Jolene Horton, the waitress, was in the dressing room trying to decide between a pink thong and a flesh-colored one. Gigi said, “Pink, honey, it draws the eye.”

“You’re right.”

They stood side-by-side, nude except for heels, in front of the huge mirror. A dozen other girls were on either side of them, also prepping for the festivities. They no more thought about being naked in front of each other than a football team did in a post-game shower room.

Besides, when you parade around that stage in front of 40 or 50 eager guys ... well, the dressing room was nothing. They’d seen each other through new boobs, a couple of pussy jobs, pregnancies, C-sections, childbirth — there was nothing left to hide and no reason to hide it.

Gigi and Jolene had been buddies since kindergarten. Gigi, several inches taller, traced the back of her index finger up and down Jolene’s pussy. She grinned, “Later tonight you can go full pussy-wedge. Tee-Joe won’t be here.”

Jolene giggled, “You’re right, he won’t.” She examined herself in the mirror — freshly bald. Excellent. Then she grew serious and leaned in to whisper, “Gigi, the other night ... when you... ,. you know ... with Tee-Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“Was he ... would you say he was ... like okay, size wise?”

“Oh, honey, you got nothing to worry about, Tee-Joe. He ain’t no porn star, but he’s bigger than most men, come in here.”

Jolene nodded in relief, then frowned again, “Babe, how’d he ... what did it taste like? That boy eats so much junk food; I can’t keep him on a healthy diet.”

Gigi giggled, “That one I can answer, girlfriend. Your Tee-Joe shoots himself a load. Mary Lou was talking about that very thing just the other day.”

Jolene brightened, “Really?”

“Yes ma’am, for sure. And that boy’s cum tasted just fine. Salty and healthy.” She winked, “You get home and you can tell Tee-Joe that he can cum in my mouth anytime he wants.”

Jolene giggled.

Kate Broussard came up behind Jolene, placed her hands on her shoulders, and started kneading the back of her neck with her thumbs. Jolene sighed, “Ahh.”

Kate said, “Honey, now that Jerry’s gone, why don’t you start working the pole? Tips are better. You’d make an extra thirty, forty bucks a night. And that’s not including the back rooms.”

“I know, I know. I’d like to, but Tee-Joe...”

Gigi jumped in, “Babe, he only comes in on payday. Friday nights.”

That was true. Jolene’s son had a regular schedule. He got off work at the poultry plant at four. Went to Wells Fargo, dutifully put $30 in his savings account, got $50 in cash. The rest of his take-home pay of $476 went into his checking account. He’d help his mother with rent and groceries and utilities.

A good boy, dutiful. Although Jolene had some reservations about his Gulfport girlfriend, Shelly Trahan. He was sort of engaged to her; she was sort of his first cousin.

After Tee-Joe stopped at the bank, it was home to shower, grab a quick bite, and head to Miss Kitty’s for his one evening out on the town.

Kate said, “Jolene, I could put you on the night shift for Saturday. A trial run.”

Gigi applied eyeliner and nodded, “That’s a good night, girlfriend. Not as good as Friday, but pretty damn good.”

Kate leaned in and whispered, “I had three different boys asking about getting a blowjob from you last weekend.”

Jolene stood straighter and beamed, “Really! Who?” She looked in the mirror — yep, her nipples had just hardened. And her pussy was definitely tingling.

The meeting with Paul Citron was set for three in the afternoon. Lacy could tell from Google Maps that she’d be walking from the parking area to the ranch house with the sun in her eyes. Fine.

Logan would be out there somewhere from six in the morning on. She was confident that with his military background, he wouldn’t be spotted. He also wouldn’t be able to protect her once she entered the house. In the unlikely event that Citron was planning some sort of insane ambush, Logan wouldn’t be in a position to save her.

He’d revenge her, of course, but that would be little comfort.

No, Logan would be in place to see who else was watching. And Lacy had little doubt that someone would have eyes on her from the moment she drove onto the ranch property. It might be the Knife Man; it might be a sniper trained by the Rangers, but it would be someone. Lacy’s bet, and Logan’s too, was that Citron’s man would creep into position long after Logan was already well hidden.

Eulalie had told Marie about her idea for Ladies Night. It was usually better — no, always better — to tell Marie ahead of time.

She looked at Eulalie and said, “Good idea. But don’t start hiring male strippers without clearing it with me.”

“Why, the thought never occurred to me. Male strippers, huh.”

Lacy — Helen Ferguson — arrived at her destination twelve minutes early. She sat primly in the rented Nissan, her hands resting on the wheel at ten and two. She had parked in the middle of the gravel lot, with the front of the car facing the house.

The wheat and barley ranch was 57 miles north of Laramie; the house was in the southwest corner of the 640-acre property. Paul Citron owned it through a Delaware shell company that housed most of his agricultural interests.

In addition to the house, there was a large red wooden barn and three smaller outbuildings that hadn’t been painted in years. Perhaps decades. Lacy thought: Farm equipment, probably.

The seven members of the tenant family — the Donaldsons — were nowhere to be seen. Nor was anyone else.

At two minutes before three, Lacy put on her glasses; the ones with the slightly bent left temple. The glasses that kept slipping down her nose. She got out of the car, carefully locked it with the key, and then circled back, rattled the door handle to double-check. Just a fusty old woman.

She also wouldn’t be surprised if someone placed a tracker on the car while she was meeting Citron.

As she approached the front door, she walked with a slightly pigeon-toed gait — faintly awkward steps as she glanced nervously around.

She knocked hesitantly on the door at precisely three o’clock.

Logan Kelly had been in place since 5:20 in the morning, full dark. He’d walked in from the north, over seven miles on foot. He’d studied Google Maps, more for an overall orientation than for choosing his precise hiding spot.

For this operation, he’d called on a retired Navy friend, John ‘Bull’ Hempstead. The ‘Bull’ was misleading; Hempstead was only a little over the minimum Navy height requirement — 60 inches. But he was a good man in a firefight, and Logan trusted him without reservation.

Bull was also a guns and gadgets nut. And, it was one gadget in particular that interested Logan — a surveillance drone.

The two men had met in Rapid City, South Dakota the day before. Close enough to Laramie, but remote enough that an accidental sighting by Citron, or anyone working with him, would be highly unlikely.

Bull reserved two adjoining rooms in his name in the Rushmore Holiday Inn. They did a room service dinner — burgers and beer — and Bull showed him a photo of his newest toy.