Free Cash Landing by James Grippando Page B

girl.”
    Andie sat forward in her chair and spoke without so much as a blink of her eyes. “We’re going to catch these guys.”
    He looked off again toward the long shadows on the lawn. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know we will.”

Chapter 12
    J effrey Beauchamp was in celebration mode. It was the one-week anniversary of his becoming a millionaire. His pockets were stuffed with money, his nostrils were numb from coke, and the perfect ass of one of his favorite porn stars was grinding down on him in a four-minute lap dance.
    â€œEasy, baby,” he said.
    â€œOooh, Jeffy, you naughty boy. I knew there was a dick somewhere under that big belly.”
    The men at the next table laughed. So did Jeffrey.
    The lap dance was a well-honed art form at the Gold Rush in downtown Miami. Completely naked women worked on very drunk men, and the old song about a fool and his money was perpetually at the top of the charts. Many a hungover patron had awakened the morning after to find that the same five-dollar cocktails he bought for himself were fifty dollars when purchased for a dancer, and that the love of his life who couldn’t say enough about the enormous bulge in his pants had “mistakenly” charged him $1,200 for a hundred-dollar dance— Oops, sorry, sweety. Dancers were from all over the world: Thailand to India, London to São Paulo, and Caribbean goddesses galore. The biggest draw was the weekly “HEAD-liner,” usually a porn star of some note. Most customers were from out of town, save for a handful of regulars that included a former congressman and an ex–state attorney who’d lost hisjob after flashing his badge to get in without a cover charge— and Jeffrey.
    â€œDon’t you ever go home, Beauchamp?”
    He smiled. Lap dances 24/7, legs and eggs for breakfast, grilled chicken and a side of friction for lunch. “This is my home.”
    The music got louder. Bambi worked her ass to a more strategic position, slow and steady. “Jeffy?”
    His head rolled back, and the mirror on the ceiling offered a bird’s-eye view of Bambi at her bouncy best. “What?”
    â€œCan I get a Rolex?”
    â€œUhmm. Okay.”
    â€œOne with diamonds?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œI want it right now.”
    â€œOhhh. Ohhh. Oh-kay.”
    Bambi slid off his lap. Jeffrey knocked back another shot of tequila and pushed himself up from his chair. Half of his ass was hanging out of the back of his pants, and he could feel the cold air on his skin, but he didn’t care. He wiped away the coke residue from under his nose, and Bambi followed him past the line of pole dancers and across the bar to a dark booth in the back. Sully was with a pair of Venezuelan strippers. Jeffrey recognized one, but the other girl was new. He liked the snake tattoo coiling up her arm. Very hot.
    â€œWhah . . .” Jeffrey started to say, but the words wouldn’t come. That last shot of tequila had hit him like a mule kick. He tried again. “Whah . . . hoppin . . . to ya’ ear, bro?”
    Sully tugged at the bandage. “It’s my Vincent van Gogh look.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œNothin’. You need another Rolex?”
    Bambi nodded. “Jeffy said I could have one.”
    Sully snapped his fingers at the new girl with the snake tattoo. The Rolex was the only thing she was wearing, and it made her pout to hand it over.
    â€œYou like this one?” Sully asked as he handed it to Bambi.
    She stepped up on the table and pressed the watch against her pubic hair. “You like it, Jeffy?”
    She was so close, so in his face, that he had her scent. “Yeah, yeah. I lub it.”
    â€œTwenty-five grand,” said Sully.
    â€œPuddut in my ah-count,” said Jeffrey.
    â€œNo,” said Sully. “No more account.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThat’s my new rule. Cash on delivery.”
    Bambi turned around, bent