Buried In Buttercream

it.”
    “Oookay,” Dirk replied. “More than I wanted to know.”
    Once inside the establishment, Savannah’s fears were not allayed. Willy’s was just as clean and luxurious as she remembered, with spit- and beer-saturated sawdust on the floor, torn leatherette booths that had once been red but were now a suspicious shade of dirty maroon, and a bar that looked like it was cleaned every ten years whether it needed it or not.
    Even the strippers’ pole on a small stage in the center of the room looked grimy and sticky.
    Savannah didn’t dare give that too much consideration.
    Francie Di Napoli was clinging to that pole in all of her sequined-string-bikini splendor. Her long hair was in serious need of a washing, she had a bit of a paunch in the belly area, and her makeup looked like she had applied it in the dark without a mirror. But she was a blonde, and she was taking her top off. And apparently that was enough for Willy and his faithful customers, who were hooting and hollering like a bunch of coyotes high on mescaline.
    “I told you that you didn’t have to come in,” Dirk told Savannah when Francie whipped off her bottom as well.
    “Eh, whatever,” Savannah said, giving the dancer a quick once-over. “She ain’t got nothin’ I ain’t got ... and more of it.”
    Having completed her display, Francie pranced off the makeshift stage and donned a negligee that did little to cover what she had already exposed. Then she sidled up to the bar and downed a drink that Willy had waiting for her. Willy flashed her a big, flirty smile that was missing two front teeth. Francie returned the grin, gazing up at him as though he were the sexiest, most devastatingly handsome male walking the planet.
    Savannah wasn’t sure which appealed to her more, Sir William’s hit-and-miss smile or his black leather vest that showed off his fat, pasty chest and gut. Both were covered with tattoos of more “Girls, Girls, Girls!!!”
    The dirty, thin, gray ponytail trailing down his back and tied with a bunch of greasy-looking feathers and leather strips was a nice touch, too.
    Yeah, Willy’s a hottie, she thought to herself, trying not to gag.
    “Reckon that’s our girl?” Savannah said, nodding in the woman’s direction.
    Dirk gave her a quick head-to-toe appraisal. “The neighbor said she was short with long, frizzy blond hair, too much makeup, and an overdone boob job. Looks like she fits the description.”
    “Plus she’s the only floozy in the place,” Savannah said, looking around. Only males as far as the eye could see.
    And that wasn’t far, because the patrons at Willy’s Rendezvous weren’t observing the smoke-free work environment laws of the State of California.
    “Miss Francie there could get cancer or emphysema from all the smoke in this place,” Dirk said. “I should bust ’em all right here and now.”
    Savannah smiled, amused by what an antismoking crusader he had become ... of course, only after he had quit. Former smokers were always the most zealous when it came to enforcing the antismoking rules.
    “Don’t worry about her,” Savannah said, leading the way across the room to the dancer at the bar. “She’s more likely to come down with pneumonia, wearing a get-up like that one.”
    “Are you Francie Di Napoli?” Dirk asked when they reached the dancer.
    She put her empty shot glass down on the bar and turned to him, a look that was, undoubtedly, intended to be lusty on her face.
    The look might have worked better if she had cleaned last night’s mascara off first.
    A hair brushing might have helped, too, Savannah thought.
    “Actually,” she said, “I’m Candie Kisses when I’m working.” She leaned closer to Dirk, her nose only a few inches from his. “I’m very sweet ... and yummy.”
    Dirk leaned back. “Yeah, well ... I’m on a low-carb diet.” He pulled his badge out of his pocket and stuck it between their noses. “You and us gotta talk.”
    “Oh, she’s with you?” Francie tossed her blond hair in Savannah’s direction.
    “He’s so with me that it ain’t even funny,” Savannah told her.
    “That explains a lot.” Francie shot Dirk an ah-okay-gotcha look.
    “No, it doesn’t,” he told her. He reached across the bar and grabbed a dirty bartender’s apron. “There,” he said, tossing it to her. “Put that on.”
    “Why?” She struck a chest-expanding pose. “Are you uncomfortable around exotic dancers?”
    “Nope. I was fascinated by strippers