Savannah Reid 06 - Sour Grapes Read online

  Sour Grapes

  by

  G.A. McKevett

  When her self-centered younger sister Atlanta arrives on her doorstep demanding to participate in the Miss Gold Coast Beauty Pageant, Savannah Reid is hurled into a world of backstabbing beauties who will stop at nothing--even murder--to be crowned.

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  G.A.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

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  New York, NY 10022

  Copyright Š 2001 by Kensington Publishing Corp. and

  G.A. McKevett

  All rights reserved. No part of diis book may be reproduced

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  Kensington and the Klogo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Hardcover Printing: February 2001

  First Paperback Printing: December 2001

  10 98765432

  For Elizabeth Harris

  New York's skyscrapers to the blue grasses of Kentucky,

  'we done it all, 'Lizbeth, with beauty, style and class.

  There's a bit of you in every heroine I write.

  Chapter

  Standing at the counter of Burger Bonanza, the tantalizing

  aroma of stale cooking oil tickling her nostrils,

  the sight of sandwiches in greasy wrappers setting

  her taste buds atwitter, Savannah Reid considered herself

  lucky to be within reach of food ... any food. It had

  been a long night.

  "Sure you can afford this cornucopia of culinary delights,

  big boy?" she asked her buddy, Dirk Coulter, who

  stood beside her, studying the backlit menu on the

  wall--specifically, the price column--with the discriminating

  eye of a first-rate cheapskate.

  "I can afford it if you don't get carried away," he

  grumbled. Spotting a poster that dangled on a string

  from the ceiling, he brightened. "Hey, they've got a special

  ... a Junior Deluxe with fries and a drink for

  ninety-nine cents! Let's get a couple of those!"

  "Let's don't. I'm starved, and that measly kiddy meal

  10 G.A. McKevett

  wouldn't fill a chipmunk's cheeks," she said, her

  Southern drawl becoming more pronounced, as it always

  did when she was irritated and hungry. And

  Savannah was frequently one or the other.

  She stepped up to the counter and motioned to the

  skinny girl in the baggy, red-and-blue polyester pantsuit.

  As the Burger Bonanza hostess sauntered to the

  cash register, Savannah noted the plastic name tag on

  the breast pocket of her shirt "Good evening... ah ...

  Jeanette. I would like to order a--"

  "I ain't Jeanette," the girl said as she slid an enormous

  wad of gum from one side of her mouth to the

  other and chomped on it. "Whaddaya want? We're

  closin' in a couple ' minutes."

  Savannah forced a weak smile and resisted the urge

  to relocate the gum to some other orifice ... like the

  left nostril or right ear. Both of which bore multiple

  piercings. Beside her, Dirk snickered, and she elbowed

  him in the ribs. "Well, Miss Scrawny-Assed, illmanered

  Person Wearing Jeanette's Uniform, I want a

  double chili-cheeseburger with a superlarge fries and

  about a quart of Coke and--

  "Hey, stop right there!" Dirk held up one hand in his

  best traffic-directing mode. "I'm not made of money,

  you know. Cops don't exactly knock down the bucks."

  "I know. I was one. But private detectives don't make

  a killin' either. And I just spent half the night, keeping

  you company on a duller-than-dirt stakeout for free."

  "I thought the joy of hangin' out with me would be

  payment enough."

  Savannah looked him up and down, taking in the

  tousled, thinning hair, the decrepit bomber jacket,

  the ratty T-shirt with a faded Harley-Davidson logo,

  the nearly kneeless jeans, and the smirk on a face that

  SOUR GRAPES

  showed the wear and tear of more than twenty years as a

  street cop.

  In a weak moment, she might have admitted that

  she joined him on midnight stakeouts for the pleasure

  of his company. They had been partners on the San

  Carmelita police force for seven years, before she and

  the department had experienced a parting of the

  ways. And she missed Dirk. If nothing else, she missed

  the daily opportunities to yank his chain; he was just so

  "yankable."

  She gave him one of her deep-dimpled smiles, then

  sniffed. "Eh .. . get real, Fart Face. You promised me food. Now, fork over for a double chili cheese and the

  works before I pitch a fit."

  Dirk groaned--a beaten man. He turned to the girl

  behind the register. "Get her what she ordered, before

  she decides she wants onion rings and a strawberry sundae,

  too."

  A few minutes later, they were sitting on miserably

  hard booth seats, their feast spread across the table between

  them. Dirk was pouting, and the expression

  looked ridiculous on a forty-plus guy wearing a Harley

  shirt.

  "Geez, you didn't have to go ahead and order the

  rings and--"

  "Oh, hush and stuff your jaws." She shoved the oil

  soaked bag of onion rings over to him and grabbed her

  own burger from the tray. Chili ran from both sides of

  the sandwich and dripped onto the wrapper as she bit

  into it. The spicy sauce filled her senses, and she closed

  her eyes as she chewed, savoring the moment. Ah...

  food, nourishment, highly saturated fat calories. Once

  again, all was right with the world.

  1 :4 G.A. McKevett

  slightly dimmed by the thought that tomorrow morning,

  this burger would be riding around on her butt or elsewhere on her body, along with about thirty extra pounds of Winchell's Donuts, Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey, Yukon Gold potato chips--drowned in French onion dip--and chocolate-dunked, peanut butter cheesecake. But, as always, these depressing thoughts had
a short shelf life in Savannah's mental archives.

  Long ago, she had decided to live comfortably with those thirty pounds. She liked the extra sixteen that had settled on her chest. And she figured a pound or two on her face filled out any fortysomething wrinkles. A pound on each foot and another for both hands

  weren't something she worried about. That only left nine unwanted pounds, which she assumed had wound up on her rear, and since she carefully avoided wraparound dressing-room mirrors, she hardly ever saw her backside. Outta sight, outta mind--it was a motto to live by.

  Yes. . . after a bit of rationalization, Savannah had conjured a healthy self-image. Nine unseen pounds certainly wasn't enough to cause her to take drastic measures.

  . . like dieting or jogging.

  "You'd think," Dirk said around a mouthful of burger, "that for the prices they charge, they'd install a decent sound system in here." He nodded toward the speaker mounted on the wall behind a potted plant

  with brown, crispy leaves.

  Savannah squirted a glob of ketchup onto her fries

  as she listened to the scratchy version of "Hotel California."

  "Glenn Frey sounds good no matter what," she said.

  "Eh, you've just had a crush on him since he was on Miami Vice a million years ago," Dirk said, sounding

  al/ U l71(/-11-r. 1 3

  slightly miffed. Although they had never been romantically linked, Dirk sulked when she said anything good about another guy. And Savannah had to admit that she bristled when he made "Cindy Crawford-hot-bod" comments. But she wasn't about to admit that those minor irritations were indicators of anything other than a

  long-standing, completely blasé friendship.

  "Are you goin' out with me again tomorrow night?" he asked, reaching for her soda. "That guy's bound to show up at his mama's house sooner or later, and then I'll nab his ass and stick it back in jail where it belongs."

  "Yeah, I'll hang out with you again. But only because I have a special feeling in my heart for kid beaters like

  that one. I think it's called loathing. Get your hands off my Coke. Buy your own."

  "What are you talkin' about? It's all-you-can-drink. When it runs out, you just go fill it up again. Why should I pay for two?"

  She snatched the Coke out of his hand and returned

  it to her side of the table. "Because I don't want to swap slobber with you."

  "I wouldn't slobber in it. Geez, Van.. . . for a chick you can be really gross sometimes. I--"

  "Sh-h-h. Heads up," she said, looking over his shoulder toward the front of the dining room, where a motley entourage was filing in, wearing the baseball jackets and caps, and red-kerchief bandannas that identified them as members of one of Los Angeles's more vicious

  gangs.

  "What is it?" Dirk asked, instantly serious. They had worked together so long that they read each other well, and even though a half smile was pasted on her face, her blue eyes registered definite concern.

  "Looks like we've got some big-city gang activity," she

  I

  said, "right here in the sleepy little beach town, tourist trap called San Carmelita."

  "How many?"

  She turned back to him but watched them in her peipheral

  vision as they spread out across the front of the

  -estaurant. "We've got five males and a female. The cirl's walking up to the counter. Looks like she's going order."

  "And the others?"

  "We've got one very big, older and very mean-looking Jude standing in the doorway, eyeing the parking lot. le's wearing a black-leather raincoat."

  "It ain't rained since April."

  "Exactly. Oversize, and he's got one hand inside." Dirk winced. "Oh, shit. That there's bad news. What Jo you figure he's carryin'?"

  "Whatever he ripped off in his last burglary. Could te an Uzi."

  "Do you think it's them?"

  Savannah didn't have to ask who he meant; the same hought had occurred to her the moment the crew had

  ntered. An APB had been issued about a group of eenage gangsters, led by a guy in his early twenties, who had been holding up fast-food joints on the coast if California, north of Los Angeles. They picked spotsike Burger Bonanza--that were near a freeway enrance and hit them late at night, just before closing, tabbing the day's receipts. As soon as they robbed the )lace, they headed down the highway and were lost in he traffic.

  So far, they hadn't killed anyone, but during the last toldup they had shot a cashier and destroyed the kid's

  ight arm. Definitely bad guys. . . quickly getting bad-ter.

  SOUR GRAPES 15

  "Oh yeah," she said. "I'd bet they're our buddies. And us here with I-Ain't-Jeanette and the salad bar

  cleaner-upper. ."

  Her voice trailed away as one of the males, carrying an enormous boom box, walked by their table on his way to a booth in the back corner of the room. He sat down, facing forward, set the box on the table in front of him, and turned on what Savannah called "rap crap," drowning out Glenn Frey and causing Savannah to hate

  him with all her being.

  "He's mad-doggin' me, big time," Dirk said. "Sizin' me up."

  "Yeah, the guy at the door is checking us both out and keeping an eye peeled on the parking lot. What do you wanna do?"

  "Bust 'em?"

  "Yeah, right. Duh . . . six to two are pretty lousy odds. I don't mind getting you and me killed, but if anything happened to sweet little Ain't-Jeanette, I'd never forgive myself."

  "I guess you're right. Maybe if I just whip out my badge, it'll scare 'em away."

  Savannah raised one eyebrow. "Hey, that's a possibility. Not you pullin' it out, but me. Remember what we did to distract those yahoos in Chat-n-Chew Café a few years

  back?"

  "Yeah, but there were only three of 'em, not a roomful."

  Savannah saw two of the other guys take seats in the

  front corner booths. The girl sat down beside one of them, a soft drink in her hand. She gave Savannah an icy, bitter look that belied the softness of her youthful face.

  Savannah's anxiety barometer rose a couple of notches;

  L ALLG1IJGC,G14

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  1

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  she and Dirk were now effectively surrounded. "Well, we gotta do something fast," she said. "They've taken positions. It's going down."

  She reached under the table and tapped him discretely

  on the knee. "Pass me your badge."

  "Ah, man . . . how come you get to be the cop?" "Cause I'm the girl, and they won't get as shook up fit's me. Now give me the tin."

  Reluctantly, he slipped his hand inside his jacket, hen handed her the badge under the table. "It's not in; it's gold. . . and you'd better not get any bullet toles in it."

  She glanced around warily as she slid the thin, eather folder inside her sweater. "I'll try not to." Then, ouder, she added, "I'm gonna make a trip to the salad mt.. Want anything?"

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the leader of he entourage tense and lift his left hand slightly. The )thers froze, their eyes darting between him and the iooth where she and Dirk were sitting.

  Dirk used the opportunity to glance over his shouller

  at the front of the restaurant, the salad bar, and the )layers in their drama. "Yeah," he said with studied tonchalance, "nab me some breadsticks."

  "Breadsticks comin' up."

  Slowly, she stood and strolled up to the stainless-steel )ar with its fake stained-glass canopy. The teenage, nale employee had just finished covering the last metal

  :anister and loading it on a cart with the others. All that .emained was melting ice, strewn with bits of lettuce Lnd other veggie castaways. He didn't look happy to see ter.

  "I've got everything put away," he said. "We're closrig, you know."

  LI 1 %._TV,C1.1. 1.1m3 .1

  "No, I didn't know," she replied, walking up to him and standing as close as she could without arousing the


  suspicions of the gangsters nearest her, about twenty feet away. "And I want some chocolate pudding."

  "We don't have no pudding," he said, swabbing at the stainless-steel edge of the bar with a soggy rag. "And even if we did, I told you, we're closing."

  Savannah took a couple more steps toward him, until they were nearly nose to nose. "I said . . . I want pudding. And I know you've got some in the kitchen." She jabbed his chest with her forefinger for emphasis. "You get back there and fetch it for me. I'm suffering from PMS and I need my friggin' chocolate fix. You hear me?"

  The kid's eyes bugged slightly. "Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I'll see if we've got some."

  As he started to walk away she whispered, "Stay back there. Both of you." He looked confused. She raised her voice. "And if you come out here without that pudding, mister, you're takin' your life in your hands!"

  She lingered at the salad bar, checking out a shriveled radish, floating in the watery ice, until she could see that the boy had taken the clerk by her elbow and

  led her into the back of the kitchen out of sight.

  Like cigarettes burning holes in an old sofa's cushions,

  Savannah could feel the gangsters' eyes boring into her as they watched her every movement.

  Her mind racing, mentally rehearsing her next sequence of maneuvers, she meandered back to the table where Dirk sat. A thought raced through her brain, This is a dumb idea. You're gonna get yourself and Dirk killed.

  She quickly retorted with a silent, Oh, yeah . . . can you think of anything better?

  Predictably, there was no reply, silent or otherwise.

  tr.11. 1V1C11eVeT4

  What she had in mind probably wouldn't work. But she couldn't think of anything else, and she'd much prefer to be active than wait and react to a roomful of armed

  kids with hardened, criminal mind-sets.

  "Did you get me those breadsticks?" Dirk asked, loudly, rudely as she reached the table. He, too, was "getting into character" for their little drama, sitting there in the booth looking grouchy. Fortunately, for Dirk, acting grouchy wasn't exactly a stretch.