Stop & Frisk

By Sheryl Sorrentino

As bouncer, it’s Paulie Beckwith’s job to protect pole dancers, break up brawls, and pat down the illegal farm workers and drug dealers who patronize Insanidád, a roadside “gentlemen’s club” on the outskirts of Modesto, California. But Paulie's a peacekeeper with no inner peace; he won’t rest until he finds out who killed his brother, Lloyd, a young pharmacist gunned down in his prime.

By day, Paulie inhabits a camper where he talks to Lloyd’s ashes, lusts after his ex-girlfriend (the bartender), and indulges an unbalanced neighbor who believes her father’s spirit is haunting her. By night, Paulie fends off the cagey Colombian drug lawyer about to marry his beloved ex and take over her father’s club. Unearthing the guarded secret between his unhinged neighbor and soon-to-be boss leads Paulie down a calamitous path of jealousy, recklessness, and unexpected redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sheryl Sorrentino
• Release date: May 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311993083

Sheryl Sorrentino

Sheryl Sorrentino is the author of four previous novels: Later with Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz; An Unexpected Exile; The Floater; and Stage Daughter. A practicing attorney by day, she lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and teenage daughter.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to my brother, a former bouncer, for provided the inspiration for this story with his spirited nightly tales from the dark side. His enthusiastic review of my early manuscript was invaluable in my plot development, and his insider’s tour of the Queens, New York strip club where he stood guard gave me a dose of reality when I would never have had the guts to set foot in such a place otherwise. An equal measure of thanks goes out to my Goodreads buddy, Ashley Wheeler, whose lively and vivid stories of a dancer’s life found their way into this book. You are truly a beautiful spirit possessed of a warm and generous heart.

To Larry Townsend, thank you for the expert legal advice. And speaking of legal matters, I am most grateful to Christopher Morales and Angeli Fitch, two top notch San Francisco criminal attorneys, for authenticating the criminal law aspects of Paulie’s story.

I am equally thankful to my two beta readers: Shelley Doty, a demanding taskmaster with a keen eye. You simply rock—onstage and off. And to Yalda Vahdani, who happily indulges my serial efforts with her first-rate catches and commentary, I couldn’t persevere without your encouragement.

Thanks to my old friend and artistic collaborator, Melton Cartes, for his expert cover designs and tireless support, and to Linda Foust and Irene Hall, my editors on both sides of the Atlantic. A special shout-out goes to Ellie Williams for lending her authentic Welsh ear to Chapter 25.

And last but not least, props to my daughter, Michelle, for bringing fresh views to thorny plot twists; and to my Jack-of-all-trades husband, Richard, for always being there with a helping hand whenever needed.

CHAPTER 1

THE JUNK SQUEEZE

Paulie Beckwith squeezed just hard enough to see if his man had a concealed weapon tucked behind his nards. While the chump stared idiotically at the blue neon sign flashing Girls! Girls! Girls!, Paulie kept his eyes glued to the woman suspended by her calves from a rotating pole. Breasts draped soft-side up, his on-again, off-again girlfriend wore nothing but strappy six-inch platform stilettos, a black lace thong, and red-sequined Santa-hat pasties affixed to her nipples like contact lenses. Fluffy white pompoms dangled from the cone-shaped caps, not quite reaching her chin.

Men hooted and clapped as the pole rotated and Gigi fanned outward like a spinning amusement park ride before righting herself with one adroit flip.

Meanwhile, he detected a stiff object in his subject’s pants pocket. Whatcha got here? He dug deeper.

My cigarette lighter.

Without asking permission, Paulie yanked out a vintage butane lighter designed like a miniature Camel box.

Gift from my old lady, the man explained.

Paulie opened and shut the flip top before handing it back. Cute, but you can’t smoke in here.

When he stepped aside to let the man pass, the next guy in line tried to slip through unnoticed. Hey! How ‘bout showin’ some ID?

The unsteady patron grumbled in Spanish while fumbling through his wallet; eventually, he produced an Electronic Benefit Transfer card.

You’ve gotta be freakin’ kidding me, Paulie muttered.

The wannabe ogler began rattling off slurred, melodic rejoinders while Paulie stood there, poker-faced.

You done? he asked once the tirade had wound down. ’Cause if so, lemme explain somethin’: You can’t get in here with some government welfare card.

Wha’s wrong wit it? the man whined.

If you’re on welfare, you got no business wastin’ money at a strip joint. You oughta be out lookin’ for a job. You see the rest of them guys? They all got driver’s licenses, even if half of ‘em are fake. So why don’t you turn around, crawl back onto whatever bus dumped you at my doorstep, and head on home? And next time, at least have the decency to show up with fake ID.

Paulie heard a smattering of applause with the thickening bass line. He glanced inside at the press of men, trying to decide which he found more unsettling—the day laborers with bulging eyes and dangling tongues, or the drug pushers yakking indifferently while ignoring the unclad girls like a muted TV. Twenty-four-year-old Giselle (Gigi on stage) was now right-side up on her platforms and spikes, grinding her pale hips from side to side while flipping her long black tresses to and fro, her Santa cap’s white pompom twirling in a circle. She really was something, that Gigi; too bad for all her prowess on the pole, he didn’t much like her anymore.

"I got dinero," the man insisted, pulling a wad of twenties from his rear pocket. He craned his neck to see what had caught Paulie’s attention.

I already told ya, EBT don’t cut it, and neither does bribin’ me. As long as I’m coverin’ the door, you need valid photo ID. Now, take a hike. Who’s next?

When the man didn’t immediately move, Paulie gave him a gentle nudge. He turned, grousing in Spanish, then suddenly whirled around with a fist aimed sloppily at Paulie’s jaw. In the very same instant, Paulie blocked the punch and shot the guy a good right hook in the gut with his free hand.

I said get the fuck outta here, before I call I-C-E and have you deported.

The man, now doubled over, slithered through the parking lot, spluttering and trying to catch his breath. As the lone ticket-taker in this tinderbox, on cold nights Paulie wore concealed knuckle rings underneath leather cutoff gloves. He hoped he hadn’t hurt that guy more than he meant to.

Gigi’s number was drawing to a close, and the men—mostly Mexican farm workers in their Sunday best—clapped and whistled as she shimmied and jiggled her Merry Christmas titties. Those white pompoms spun clockwise, then counter-clockwise, faster and faster till they looked like fuzzy tail lights in a snowy blizzard. Rather than arouse him, the spectacle only made Paulie wonder what in hell was wrong with him. Back in the day, when he used to patronize this joint where his former girlfriend still tended bar, Gigi’s antics always brought on wood. Now, all he could think about was driving her sorry ass home after closing so she couldn’t sneak off to bestow after-hours entertainment on some drunk OTC—as in, outside the club. After that, his next biggest concern was staying awake for the hour-long drive to his place to get some much-needed sleep.

Sometimes he missed the good old days when he’d slump at a table after work, mindlessly watching girls gyrate while nursing a warm beer and a predictable hard-on. Back then, the only thing on his mind had been whether to spring for a private lap dance in the VIP room. Now he was responsible for everyone inside this human cesspool, and from his gatekeeper’s vantage point, the sights were not pretty.

His next supplicant was a regular who wore a respectable-looking faded trench coat. He showed a valid driver’s license and paid the ten-dollar cover charge just as Giselle’s number drew to a close. Paulie let him pass while watching Gigi crouch to retrieve the bills front-row patrons had tossed on stage or slipped beneath the railing. Then she hopped down to do a floor lap for a guy who had signaled her. Two more dancers emerged on stage to take Gigi’s place.

He tried to catch Lena’s eye at the bar, but she was distracted by a topless waitress refilling her tray. He needed Lena to send Mike, his backup in the DJ booth, to cover the door so he could take a leak. By now, he was freezing his balls off in the mid-December chill.

Thinking about being swung at one time too many, he again asked himself whether it was worth the hundred bucks Lena paid him under the table each night to put his life on the line checking for weapons and keeping customers’ hands off the merchandise. After being depressed and without work for months after his brother’s murder, Paulie had jumped at his now ex-girlfriend’s offer to cover the door at Insanidád. The cotton-candy pink roadside titty bar was located in Enterprise, California—an easy-to-miss city on the outskirts of Modesto. Lucky for him, Lena’s absentee father owned the exotic dance club and pretty much let her run the show. Because by all accounts, the bouncer gig should have gone to another Mexican like the last guy. Most everyone in this place spoke Spanish, and many of the customers he frisked couldn’t understand a word he said. But they were, by and large, a humble and compliant lot. So with a firm-yet-respectful tone—and a few mangled Spanish phrases tossed in for good measure, Paulie managed to get the job done effectively and, for the most part, without incident.

Though their relationship was now strictly professional, he figured it was only a matter of time before Lena came back around. True, more than two years had passed since she’d broken up with him. But he and Lena were matching strays—like Lady and the Tramp. Her mom had been an alcoholic and druggie who’d lost custody of Lena and her brother when she was ten and he twelve; Paulie’s mom died when he was nine and his brother six.

Their eyes met for a brief moment. Lena raised an eyebrow and turned up one corner of her mouth in a meaningful smirk, proof positive in Paulie’s mind that she was still digging him. Before he could give the signal, a wiry Mexican with gaunt cheekbones and large calloused hands tried to pass. His Salvation Army plaid sport coat technically satisfied the dress code, but he could otherwise pass for homeless.

Paulie blocked his path. Hold on there, buddy. Let’s see some ID. That move usually weeded out the undocumented who sometimes showed up at Insanidád, as illegal farm workers didn’t want trouble and generally avoided confrontation.

Miraculously, the man proffered a California driver’s license. Paulie examined it to make sure it wasn’t fake or expired. Roberto Bustamonte, he read aloud. Thirty-nine years old. Five-feet-ten-inches, brown hair, brown eyes.

"¿Hay mínimo?" Roberto asked.

English, Paulie replied.

"Mínimo. I need buy so many drinks to see las muchachas?"

I collect a ten-dollar cover charge at the door. And there’s a two-drink minimum.

With Insanidád’s watered-down cocktails going for ten bucks a pop—seven for a beer, you’d think they might leave these pathetic berry-pickers alone after Paulie collected the cover charge. But while Lena never enforced the two drink minimum, Hernán, her dad’s hotshot lawyer, had lately taken to walking the floor and hassling patrons about ordering the requisite two drinks. He’d stroll around during the show, park himself in front of tables, and block the guys’ view of the stage while he tapped and jiggled their near-empty glasses.

But I can’t drink. I got episilly.

"Come again? Oh, you mean, epilepsy?"

The man nodded.

Paulie looked around. Listen, order yourself a couple of ginger ales. There’s no law says you gotta drink booze. And don’t leave your glass to use the men’s room or whatever. The waitress’ll take it and make you order a fresh one, even if it was half full. That’s how the club makes its money. All right, I gotta pat you down. Before the man could object, Paulie turned him around and ordered him to place his hands behind his head. You carryin’ anything that could hurt me?

Like what?

I dunno—a needle or somethin’?

Bustamonte shook his head.

Spread your legs, Rob. C’mon, shoulder-width and hands behind your head. He jerked the man’s elbows upward so they locked in a ninety-degree position. Then he moved cautiously behind his suspect. And that’s how viewed all of Insanidád’s clientele. Any one of these seemingly harmless men could pull a weapon, and it would be lights out for Paulie. For all he knew, one of them could have been Lloyd’s killer. Worse yet, if he wasn’t careful and missed something, a suicide bomber or mass shooter could slip inside, and they’d have the next Aurora on their hands. Yep, this whole place could be shot to shit just like that Colorado movie theater, or like his own brother, gunned down in the street at the ripe young age of thirty-one.

With that chilling thought, Paulie shoved his foot between the guy’s legs, his other planted six inches behind to steady himself. He started at the top of Roberto’s torso, then moved slowly down both sides of his body, pulling clothing away at regular intervals and squeezing to make sure nothing was pinned inside. He might joke about fake IDs, but frisking guys was no laughing matter. Paulie ran a tight ship and took his job seriously. Though he was one concealed weapon away from sudden disability or death, he single-handedly performed thorough searches on nearly all the men. He ran his hands down chests, backs, sides, and arms, covering every inch—including armpits, waistbands, and shoes. By now, he had the process down pat; he’d developed a firm but non-abrasive touch whose intention could not be misconstrued.

Yo, whassup, man? You gay or somethin’? Roberto protested.

Ignoring the insult, Paulie squatted behind him, patting down his abdomen, legs and butt before tapping the backs of his knees. Then Paulie felt inside his shoes with one index finger. Face forward, he commanded.

When the guy turned round, Paulie cupped his crotch without warning. Although that always brought a predictable backlash, he found it preferable to sidestep advance notice and simply get the task over with. The junk squeeze was non-negotiable, so why engage in arguments and debates beforehand?

You’re a fucking maricón, ain’t you, bro? What kind of sick faggot grabs another dude’s balls? I came here to get away from my wife’s naggin’ only to be felt up by some gay perv?

Sorry ‘bout that, but if you wanna catch the jigglin’ jugs, you gotta pass my entrance exam first, Paulie countered matter-of-factly.

The man entered. Still needing to pee, Paulie stepped away from the door and huddled inside to warm his hands. He thought about calling Lena on the walkie-talkie but avoided using those scratchy things unless absolutely necessary. And while he tired of being on his feet all night, Paulie had refused Lena’s early offers of a chair. Being a bouncer wasn’t a sitting kind of job, and he didn’t need any large objects hurled at him during a confrontation.

The place was nearly full now. A few more smart-asses like Roberto and they’d be at capacity. Then he could start turning men away. Marilyn Manson’s The Beautiful People began blaring through the speakers. Two of the newer dancers, Willow and Peaches, entered the stage from opposite ends. When they met in the middle, each grabbed the revolving pole with one hand and began shimmying and spiraling over and under one another in a hypnotic choreographed routine. Then Willow—the brunette—wrapped a muscular calf around the pole. She flipped herself upside down and, using nothing but legs, wriggled like an inchworm toward the ceiling while Peaches—the fake redhead (as in blood red)—slithered on the floor like a side-winding snake.

CHAPTER 2

THREAT OF ENGAGEMENT

A tall, fit man sporting a thousand-dollar suit bustled past without stopping. Hernán’s abrupt move gave Paulie yet another reason to detest the toffee-nosed criminal lawyer.

"Yo, Nán, hold up."

Hernán turned. Having come up through the system and gotten into a few scrapes with the law along the way, Paulie considered himself a pretty good judge of character. As far as he could tell, this overpriced dirtbag was a licensed crook more felonious than the racketeers he represented.

Send Mike out to relieve me, willya? I been tryin’ to get Lena’s attention but she’s busy.

Are you due for a break? Hernán asked.

"You know damn well I don’t take formal ‘breaks.’ I’m overdue for a whiz. In another second, I’m gonna take a leak at the curb."

How are we doing tonight? He approached Paulie, pulling a small brown bag from his suit pocket and grazing like a cow.

Almost at capacity, Paulie grunted, shifting on his feet. I just turned away a drunk and disorderly after he took a swing at me. Goddamned wetback tried to get in with a food stamp card. He deliberately used the pejorative term to get a rise from Hernán—a stuck-up South American who fancied himself a cut above the rest.

Hernán held the rumpled bag out to Paulie, who shook his head.

"You must be careful, Paulo," Hernán tsked. We wouldn’t want you getting injured. He stuffed the bag back in his pocket.

The name’s Paulie, he called as the older man strode past. And don’t forget—tell Mike I gotta piss.

He checked several more guys until there was a lull. He again looked toward the bar and tried to catch Lena’s eye, but now she was talking animatedly to Hernán in Spanish. You’d think he might have mentioned that Paulie needed to relieve himself. He could not understand why that slime bucket came around so much lately, or why Lena so readily tolerated his presence. Every time he looked, it seemed Hernán was at the bar popping those stupid Gummy Bears while chatting Lena up.

Hernán had first turned up about a year ago, when the club had been asked to participate in Operation Trap Door, a sting operation by the California Department of Alcoholic Beverage Control. He’d called a meeting of Paulie and the waitresses, introducing himself as the club’s attorney-on-retainer. His job, according to Hernán, was making sure Insanidád didn’t get into hot water with the ABC by inadvertently admitting or serving minors.

Ever since, he’d become a permanent fixture; ostensibly to keep the exotic dance club on the up-and-up when in reality, all he did was harass patrons and undress Lena with beady eyes when not rubbernecking the dancers’ surgically-enhanced butts and gel-filled boobs.

Granted, Lena had a soft spot for every down-and-out Joe who showed up at this place—Paulie included, if truth be told. Maybe she indulged Hernán because they were both Colombian. Even so, that arrogant showoff didn’t need to be hanging around so much. Lena was twenty-four years younger than him, for one thing. And for another, the urbane-looking braggart made Insanidád’s law-abiding clientele uncomfortable. These were humble, unsophisticated farmhands, far from home, yearning only for visual aid and eau de hoohah before heading back to their ten-to-a-room hovels to whack off in peace. Hernán stood out like a sore thumb with his fancy suits, perfectly trimmed goatee, and salon-manicured nails. Ever since that shyster-posing-as-enforcer had inserted himself into the club’s goings-on, more flashy dope peddlers than ever now passed through its portals.

Finally, he caught Lena’s eye and gave a hand signal. Alone now, she buzzed Mike. With the song safely playing for the next 3:47 minutes, Paulie had just enough time to make it to the men’s room and back—assuming it wasn’t crowded.

When he pushed through the restroom door, he found Hernán at one of the urinals. It is turning out to be a good evening, yes? Looks like we should pull in a few grand tonight, Hernán said excitedly.

Paulie truly hated guys striking up conversations at the trough, especially in a thick accent that Paulie suspected was put on for effect. To make matters worse, Paulie could smell those nasty Gummies four feet away. He barely nodded, ignoring Hernán’s phony attempt at friendliness.

You turn in your cash? he asked as Paulie fell into place beside him.

Yup. Gave it to Lena before I came in here. Paulie shifted on his feet and unzipped his pants. What kind of idiot did Hernán think he was? Paulie would never leave the cash box unattended and would certainly not enter the men’s room stuffed with door money, ready to be sliced like a Christmas goose. He kept his eyes forward, clutched his dick, and tried to think about anything besides the fruit-scented douche bag planted a foot away.

This dump had been so nice before Hernán showed up. Paulie had been an occasional patron, which was how he’d met Lena and convinced her to go out with him. After she became his girlfriend, he’d continued to frequent the club but only to keep an eye on Lena while she worked. He turned into a rock—one of those guys who sits in one place all night nursing the two-drink minimum, though she never griped if he happened to turn his barstool to catch a dance or two. That was one of the things he loved about the girl—her confidence and independent spirit. Her sassy Spanish backtalk was another matter entirely.

At the time, he’d deemed her the perfect no-strings sweetheart. But then, like every other Betty, she had to start making noises about getting married, saying she wanted to settle down and have a family. They both knew Paulie wasn’t marriage material, having lived through some of the worst crap humanity had to offer. Lena needed someone stable, she’d said. She loved Paulie, she stressed, but love didn’t put food on the table or clothes on your kids’ backs. She wanted to marry someone established, so she could quit working to raise said kids. She’d long ago concluded that Paulie would never get a decent-paying job with a future. Not as long as he had his brother, Lloyd, picking up the slack.

It hurt like hell when she’d broken up with him. Could anyone blame him for taking up with Gigi when, just a few months later, Lloyd was fatally shot?

Much as Paulie hated Lena’s nervy mouth, he considered the woman a bona fide saint for offering him the bouncer gig after he’d lost his sketchy job at the Speedy Tune-Up, when there was no other work to be found. Seeing as how by then they were no longer an item and he’d already begun sticking it to Giselle, she could just as easily have cut a break to one of her own. She’d remained a loyal and caring friend even after they’d broken up—and true friends weren’t easy to come by.

"Lena and I want you to know how much we appreciate the work you do here, Paulo," Hernán said in a condescending tone. Lost in his own head, Paulie had unleashed a satisfying torrent. But at the sound of Hernán’s syrupy voice, Paulie’s equipment faltered. His jet slowed to a trickle midstream before petering out altogether. Though he could easily have let loose another several ounces, Paulie milked a few final drips and zipped up while Hernán simultaneously shook himself off with one self-assured jerk.

Interesting choice of words, Paulie muttered, still not facing Hernán.

How so?

"You know, ‘Lena and I.’ Lumped together like Brangelina, TomKat, or Kimye." Now Paulie looked pointedly at Hernán and noticed the white powder dusting his mustache.

Lena and I are getting engaged, Hernán said, puffing his chest. The girl’s about to turn thirty-one and feels it’s high time she settles down. I plan to propose here on Christmas Eve.

Paulie felt himself shrivel in his pants. So that was it—Lena had been seeing Hernán right under his nose! When had that happened, and how hadn’t Paulie noticed? He was supposed to observe every Goddamned thing that went on in this shithole.

Paulie’s mind began to race. Now that he thought about it, she had adopted a subtle yet unmistakable distance toward Paulie ever since Hernán started hanging around. He realized that he’d been in denial, ignoring the now-obvious signs.

Aren’t you going to offer congratulations? Hernán persisted.

What for? She ain’t accepted yet. And I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I was you. You bein’ a lawyer and all, you might see Lena as some good-lookin’ arm candy. But you’re old enough to be her father, and that hot little number expects a man to do her right, if you get my meaning.

Well, we shall see, my friend, Hernán answered smugly. In the meantime, tuck your shirt in, he ordered. We have a dress code.

So? The bouncer’s gotta be ready for a fight, Paulie shot back. Maybe you can get away with lookin’ like a jacked-up South American runway model, but I can’t.

And with that, Paulie yanked his collared Insanidád staff tee fully out of his pants, shoved the lever, and left an open-mouthed Hernán by the porcelain bowl with the water still flushing.

CHAPTER 3

BROTHERS TO ASHES

Paulie crept his truck down the gravel drive, now more potholes than pebbles. By five a.m., he was bone weary from making sure men didn’t lay hands on Insanidád’s House Girls and then driving two of said dancers home in his 1999 Ford F-150. On top of tips and Lena’s cash under the table, he got twenty bucks per improvised cab ride; sometimes, the girls even tipped on top of that.

On this particular night, Giselle had gone home with her roommate. Still distracted by Hernán’s little pronouncement, he’d driven Vixen, a beautiful Brazilian, a few miles in his direction to nearby Waterford. Then he’d gone about twenty miles out of his way to Manteca to drop Shaunta, another dark-skinned hottie from Trinidad or some such island nation.

Vix had squeezed in the middle, her legs spread-eagled so he could maneuver his stick shift. One titillating thigh had remained squished against his while the other welded itself to Shaunta’s torn fishnet stockings, making it easy to fantasize a threesome, tired as he was. A comforting phenomenon after a long night on his feet, and fodder to occupy his thoughts through the lonely hours ahead.

Bobbing down the dirt road, Paulie was reminded he needed to confront his weirdo neighbor about maintaining their unpaved access way. Overweight by fifty pounds and pushing that same age if she was a day, Yolanda Murphy lived alone in the old cabin uphill from his camper. She was the one who ought to drop fresh gravel on this damned right-of-way every now and again. It was her road, after all. She’d made that clear when Paulie first came down to check out the land he’d inherited, to his great surprise, after his younger brother died. All he’d asked was permission to clear and widen the narrow footpath from her cabin down to his place, since the easement had been completely overrun by manzanita. But this Murphy broad had nothing better to do than give him grief. If she’d had her way, he would’ve spent thousands of dollars cutting a new road through thick brush farther up the hill so her end-of-the-road privacy wouldn’t be disturbed. Why the hell did she need privacy? She was an old cow who probably hadn’t been fucked proper in years. The sight of a young stud coming and going would do her good!

When he came to the makeshift gate about fifty yards from Yolanda’s place, he grabbed a flashlight from his glove box and cut the headlights, which pointed squarely at her kitchen window. He jumped out, taking care so his door wouldn’t squeak, and unlocked the chain he’d installed. Then he hopped back in and rolled his pickup a few feet downhill in neutral, wedging his foot in the open door. Then he once again jumped out into the darkness, holding his breath against the exhaust fumes, and re-locked the chain behind him.

This routine was admittedly a pain in the ass, but he’d long tired of revving his engine, slamming his door, spinning his tires, and kicking up as much dirt as possible to deliberately awaken Yolanda and throw her into one of her predictable tizzies. Even as he tried to be considerate, he wondered where she got off acting all high and mighty just because she’d inherited a shack on twenty acres whereas he lived in a rusted out piece-of-shit trailer on his acre-and-a-half. She apparently considered him a fringe dweller, even out here in the middle of nowhere, because he didn’t have electricity or hot water. His camper ran off a noisy generator that needed refueling every few days—without running the small fridge and rarely using the two-burner electric stove. His property did have a well in a battered pump house that would soon need replacing, so he had cold running water, at least. On nice days, he ate outside on a wooden picnic table and showered under the trees with a hose. It was a tough life, but Paulie didn’t need much and knew how to make do. He would have loved a dog for company, but he was away too much to look after one.

Driving toward Yolanda’s place as quietly as possible, he recalled how he’d gotten the scoop on her from the town’s one realtor, a sun-baked cowgirl with long curly hair. He had taken Marianne out for breakfast at the little café across from the realty office when he’d run into her washing her panties and Century-21 garb at the Laundromat next door. Wearing a sundress and cowboy boots, Marianne told him that Yolanda wasn’t technically a local. She’d been coming around for years to tend to her father before he’d died but only moved into the secluded place full-time a few months before Paulie. He also learned from Marianne that his land had belonged to Yolanda’s dad, Garrett Murphy, who’d lived in Stillwater Crest for years before