Buried In Buttercream

an important ingredient in what goes on here,” Dirk said. “What were you expecting?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. With a name like Monique’s Ranch, I guess I was picturing something with some French flavor. A bit of New Orleans charm, balconies with fancy wrought iron. Beautiful ladies standing on them, wearing feather boas and revealing evening gowns, beckoning ‘come hither’ to passersby.”
    Dirk shook his head and laughed. “You’ve read way too many of those romance novels, gal. Let’s go inside and get a taste of the real world ... distasteful though it may be.”
    They left the car and walked across the hard-packed dirt to the door of the trailer that was front and center in the haphazard complex. Over the door hung a hand-painted black sign with the name of the place spelled out in hot pink. On either side of the name was a pink circle with a red dot in the center.
    “Are those supposed to be boobs?” she said.
    “I reckon,” he replied. “I drew better ones than that when I was nine.”
    “You drew boobs when you were nine?”
    He grinned and glanced down at her ample chest. “I became a boob man very early in life and never looked back.”
    “Apparently so.”
    Dirk tried the doorknob, but found it locked. He rang the bell and a loud, annoying buzz like an electric shock sounded throughout the property.
    A few moments later, the door was opened by a large, Slavic-looking man. With his blond hair and light blue eyes, he might have been handsome, had it not been for the coldness in those icy eyes and the numerous scars on his face.
    Savannah had seen scars from accidents and scars from fights. And she knew, this was not the face of a peace-loving man.
    He glanced quickly from Dirk to Savannah and back. “Yes,” he said in a heavy Russian accent. “What can I help you with?”
    Dirk showed him his badge, though Savannah noticed that he flashed it a bit faster than he normally did.
    No point in advertising the fact that he was out of his jurisdiction.
    “I need to talk to the madam of this establishment.”
    The guy’s eyes flickered over Dirk like a prize fighter checking out the competition before a bout. “You talk to me,” he replied.
    “Inside,” Dirk replied, matching his gruff tone. “Now.”
    The doorman didn’t exactly jump to obey. He stood there for several long, tense moments before he finally stepped backward just enough to allow them entrance.
    Once inside, Savannah glanced around at Monique’s reception area and saw that this legal brothel looked like every other cheap, illegal establishment that she and Dirk had rousted when she was a cop. The cliché, dim, red lighting, crushed red velvet, dirty chandeliers, and pictures on the walls of nude or scantily clad females set the mood.
    The place smelled like it could use a good airing out, Savannah thought. She would bet that it hadn’t seen a beam of sunlight or a whiff of fresh air in years.
    “I need to talk to Monique,” Dirk said as he walked over to a small counter in the left-rear corner of the room and picked up a piece of paper that said “Menu” at the top.
    “You talk to me,” the iceman repeated.
    Dirk scanned the paper, then handed it to Savannah. She glanced over it and was mildly surprised at the simplicity of the choices. For the most part, there wasn’t anything on it that didn’t routinely occur in bedrooms of regular old married folks the world over.
    It was hard to imagine what the big deal was.
    “Are you telling me that this is your place?” Dirk asked him.
    “It is.”
    “Ah, well, then ... in that case, Monique, you’re the one I need some answers from.”
    “My name is Vadim. You will call me Vadim, not Monique. That woman’s name.”
    “Okay, Vadim. I would have guessed Boris, but ... whatever.”
    Savannah stifled a grin when Vadim the Terrible’s nostrils flared.
    At times like this, she often thought that maybe someday she could break Dirk out of his unfortunate habit of pissing off nearly everyone he met. It was a pleasant fantasy, a civil Dirk, brought into being under her gentle tutelage.
    But Granny had warned all of her granddaughters, “Don’t marry a man expecting to change him. It’ll just annoy the daylights outta him, and wear you to a frazzle.”
    No, she would probably never be able to change Dirk. She was lucky if she could get him to keep his feet off her coffee table.
    “What you want with me?” Vadim barked, crossing his burly arms over his even burlier