Free Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen Page A

casual favor, like jumping the car battery or hooking up the stereo.
    “The ulna is a good one,” Shad was saying. He tapped Erin’s forearm to show her the spot. “A crowbar right about there, we’ll have his attention.”
    Erin sat up. “Can I ask you something? Do I seem the type of woman to be impressed by violence?”
    He grunted noncommittally.
    “I’m serious, Shad. Is that your opinion of me?”
    He cocked his huge head and stared at her curiously. In the darkness he resembled a shaved bear. “It’s what I know best, that’s all—kicking ass. On account of my job.”
    “Then it’s not me?”
    “Ha! No, it ain’t you.”
    “Because I am not impressed by that sort of thing.”
    “Is that why there’s a gun under the seat?”
    Erin couldn’t think of a sharp retort.
    Shad grinned. “It’s all right, babe. You’re entitled.”
    “I’ve never used it,” she told him.
    “But you might.” Shad folded his arms. “All I’m saying is, violence can be helpful. Sometimes it’s the best way to make your point.”
    “Not with Darrell.” Erin’s ex-husband would cherish an injury. What better proof that she was hanging out with a rotten crowd, and was unfit to care for Angela! Darrell, the conniving bastard, would milk a broken limb for all it was worth. He’d wear the cast until the plaster rotted off his arm.
    “Your call,” Shad said.
    “I just want to talk with the man.”
    “Fine.”
    But deep inside, Erin briefly savored a vision of Shad pounding Darrell Grant into dogmeat. She probably should’ve been ashamed by the feeling, but she wasn’t.
    Especially when she thought of what he’d done to Angle’s dolls. At midnight Shad went looking for a Coke machine. Erin put on a Buffett tape and turned the volume low. She liked the Caribbean songs the best. Her imagination set sail, and before long she was dreaming of pearly beaches and secluded harbors. She was barefoot in the surf, wiggling her toes into the sand.

    When she opened her eyes, her shoes were gone. Both doors on the old Fairlane had been opened. When she got out of the car, she stepped on something plastic, which cracked into sharp pieces. The Buffett cassette on the pavement.
    Erin froze. “Shad?”
    A hand grabbed her by the hair, twisting hard, jerked her head back so that all she saw was sky. She felt something sharp against her throat.
    “You still snore like a pig.” It was Darrell Grant.
    Erin shook uncontrollably. It was embarrassing to let him see her so afraid.
    He said, “I can’t believe you tried to set me up. I can’t fucking believe it.”
    “What?” Erin didn’t recognize the pitch of her own voice.
    Darrell Grant slapped a hand across her mouth, told her to shut the hell up. They both heard the footsteps. “Your boyfriend,” Darrell whispered. “This’ll be choice.”
    Shad came out of the shadows with a Diet Coke in one hand and an unopened can of Canada Dry in the other. He put both cans down as soon as he saw the long knife at Erin’s neck. Darrell Grant told him not to try anything stupid. Shad’s expression remained invisible in the darkness.
    “I got an idea,” Darrell said. He told Shad to lie on his belly or else get a bucket to catch Erin’s blood. Shad nodded and got down on the ground. Darrell Grant released Erin and immediately pounced on the bouncer, digging his knees into the other man’s enormous shoulder blades. Laughing, Darrell managed to cinch Shad’s thick wrists with a pair of flexible plastic handcuffs.
    “Knock it off,” Erin said, still shaky.
    With both hands Darrell Grant poised the dagger at the crest of Shad’s bare skull; the smooth flesh dimpled under the pressure of the blade.
    Again Erin told him to stop, and again her ex-husband cackled. He rolled the knife handle back and forth in his palms, so that the point twirled against Shad’s skin. Erin saw the first drop of blood, blackish in the dim light.
    “That hurt?” Darrell Grant asked.
    “Nope,” Shad