Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen Page A

Killian.” She zipped her jeans and stepped into a pair of sandals.
    “Mr. Peepers?” Monique Jr. said. “Why?”
    “To talk.”
    “Bad idea,” said Monique Sr.
    “Not many good ones at three in the morning.” Erin checked herself in the mirror. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
    “Be patient,” Urbana Sprawl advised. “He’ll be back. Especially you keep playing his songs.”
    “I can’t wait,” Erin said.
    “How you gonna find him?”
    “He’s found.”
    Urbana Sprawl smiled. “The phone book!”
    “Nope,” said Erin. “Unlisted, unpublished.”
    “Then how’d you find him?”
    “Research,” Erin explained, enigmatically. Erin couldn’t tell them the truth. One phone call had sent Agent Cleary to the computer keyboard. He was glad to help, and asked few questions; he still felt bad about her dismissal.
    Monique Jr. told Erin that it was crazy to call on Mr. Peepers in the middle of the night. “He could be a psycho slasher for all you know.”
    “Oh, I believe he’s harmless.”
    “That’s what they said about Ted Bundy.”
    “Thank you,” said Erin, gathering her purse and dancing clothes, “for the peace of mind.”
    Without much effort, Urbana Sprawl blocked the door. “Give him till the weekend,” she said.
    Erin felt a wave of fatigue. She was losing the energy to argue. Her friends were right: it was craziness.
    “Patience,” Urbana said.
    “Until the weekend,” Erin promised. “If you can stand the new music that long.”
    Monique Jr. said the ZZ Top was dynamite. She said she’d never dance to rap again. She wanted a white top hat and tails as a costume for “Sharp-Dressed Man.”
    Frowning, Urbana hoisted a titanic breast in each hand. “Try jumping around with these suckers and you be in traction. So screw your ZZ and gimme that slow Cube.”
    Erin was sympathetic. She couldn’t imagine going through life with a bosom so large. None of the dancers doubted the rumor that Urbana had once smothered a man on a convertible sofa. It was completely plausible.
    “See you tomorrow,” Erin told her friends.
    “You headed home?” Monique Sr. asked. “Be honest.”
    “Home,” Erin said.
    Shad followed in his own car, just to make sure.

    Moldowsky found the congressman in a state of massage. A redheaded woman in a gold tank suit straddled his back, chopping at his pale shoulder blades. The woman had very long fingernails for a masseuse.
    “Say hi to Eve.” Dilbeck’s words thrummed comically with each chop.
    “Hello, Eve,” Moldowsky said. “We need a moment of privacy. Do you mind?”
    Eve said that was perfectly fine. She spoke with a light British accent.
    “Go hop in the shower,” Dilbeck told her. “I’ll be there in a flash.”
    When she was out of the room, Moldowsky said, “David, where is your wife?”
    “Shopping, I think.”
    “You think?”
    “Yes, shopping. I told Pierre to drive slow.”
    Moldowsky said, “You are a hopeless shithead.”
    Dilbeck sat up and covered himself with the towel. “What’d I do now, Malcolm? Hell, you’re acting like my mother.”
    They heard the faucets turn in the shower down the hall.
    Moldowsky motioned with his chin. “Is she a hooker?”
    “I don’t know yet,” said the congressman. “And even if she is, so what? She’s got no earthly idea who I am, Malcolm. She just moved here from London.”
    “Beautiful. Hands across the water.”
    “What’s the matter with you?”
    “The sugar bill, Davey. Your colleagues are playing it tough, and my clients are deeply concerned. They want to know if they’ve got their money on the wrong horse.”
    “Relax. I’m entertaining young Christopher tonight.”
    Relax? Moldowsky thought. The moron has a prostitute in the tub, an assault victim in the hospital and a blackmailer who’s ready to call the newspapers. “Did you speak with the judge?” he asked.
    Dilbeck nodded. “Yes, we had lunch.”
    “Well?”
    “He was grateful for my interest in