Chapter
1

Her chips were definitely down. . . .

The scent of salt water always made her sick.

Which was really unfortunate for Veronica Jinkowsky, because not only was she being sucked into a venture that would place her on the high seas, but also here she stood on the boardwalk in freakin' Atlantic City, the saltwater-taffy capital of the world. On a sucky scale of one to ten, her day was hitting about fifteen. And it was not yet over.

The rhythmic click of her high-heeled Christian Louboutin pumps on the boardwalk planks vibrated throughout her body and up to her head, which, not surprisingly, throbbed with a killer headache. Swinging through the back beachside door into the Taj Mahal, she blinked against the assault of cigarette smoke, raucous music, flashing lights, and the ching-ching-ching of slot machines. It was midnight, and the gamblers were out in full force. In the midst of all this "splendor," she stood out like a sore thumb in her beige silk designer suit.

Distracted, Veronica bumped into a short, elderly woman with red curly hair carrying a purse the size of Idaho. The jolt forced the woman against a slot machine, which began to make loud noises: "Wheel . . . of . . . Fortune. Wheel . . . of . . . Fortune . . ."

Yikes!

At first, Veronica was alarmed. The woman, a combination of Sophia Petrillo from The Golden Girls and Granny Clampett from The Beverly Hillbillies, had to be at least seventy years old. That's all she needed—to knock down some old lady in a casino.

But the old lady righted herself and asked in a heavy Southern accent, "You gots any idea where the Chippenduds is dancin'?" She was so short she had to crane her neck to peer up at Veronica.

Huh? Ohmigod, she must think I work here.

Then the old lady asked, "Are you a hooker?"

"I beg your pardon! Why would you ask such an absurd question?"

"You doan look like the other folks here. No offense. Some of my best friends is hookers down on Bourbon Street. Well, okay, one of them was . . . back in 1952. Marie Boudreaux, bless her heart. Anyhow, you look like yer high class, and I heard they has lotsa hookers here in Atlantic City, and I figgered you mus' be one them call gals or sumpin'. You know, high-priced ladies of the night. Ain't you ever seen that Elizabeth Taylor movie Butterfield 8?"

Veronica clicked her jaw shut. She hadn't realized she'd been gaping. Me? A hooker? Is she blind as well as batty? Veronica refused to answer such a ridiculous question. "Back to your question—your other question. I've never heard of Chippendudes. Do you mean Chippendales?"

The lady furrowed her already-wrinkled brow. In fact, she had so many wrinkles she could probably screw a hat on.

"No. They's definitely dudes, not dales."

Veronica had to smile, despite her foul mood. "Are you looking for male strippers?"

"Tsk-tsk-tsk! Do I look like I could do anything with a nekkid boy toy?"

Not in a million years was Veronica going to answer that question.

"Now, Richard Simmons, thass another story. Hubba-hubba, that boy is ten kinds of sexy! Betcha he's got a real nice hiney. Betcha it's an onion butt. My niece Charmaine says an onion butt is a butt that's so nice it brings tears to yer eyes."

Good grief!

"Nope. I come all the way from Looz-ee-anna to rescue my great-nephew. He jist grad-je-ated from college and got hisself a summer job flashing his bee-hind in front of a bunch of horny wimmen. Talk about!"

Oh, boy! Leave it to me to find myself a looney bird after only five minutes in a casino. Why me? "Sorry. I don't know where there are any male strip shows. You might try asking at the front desk."

"The rascal's prob'ly hidin' from me. That Tee-John allus was slicker 'n hog spit. But I'll find him, guaranteed."

"I've got to be going." Veronica backed away. But her innate sense of kindness wouldn't let her abandon the woman, who was clearly lost or, worse, stranded here. "Are you alone?" Please, God, don't let her be. I can't solve my own problems, let alone someone else's.

"I came with Henri Pinot. He said he'd be back quicker 'n a gator kin blink. That means in a minute. Henri is my third cousin. A widower. But his dead wife, Margie, talks to 'im all the time. Margie was a voodoo priestess. Henri went to the restroom. Between you and me, he has a little prostate trouble."

Way more information than I need. Time to make a getaway. "Uh, nice meeting you. Good luck."

Granny Clampett had already turned around and was putting a paper voucher in a slot machine.

Copyright © 2006 by Sandra Hill.