Baited Read Free

bona-fide case this week.  
    As I sat smoking, reflecting on everything I’d just heard I looked down at my ragged cuticles and bitten-to-the-quick nails. Since business was slow, this seemed like an ideal day to get a manicure.
     
    ****
     
    Hot Tips was located in one of those 1980s low-slung shopping plazas. It was nestled between a travel agency and a chiropractor’s office. The sign, once painted a trendy mauve, had faded into the grayish pink of a dead jellyfish. A brass bell tinkled as I pushed open the glass door.
    The heavy scent of acetone greeted me, as well as the sounds of classic rock. High and low murmured tones of unrecognizable female conversation added to the background noise. I leaned on a kidney-shaped reception desk and expected to wait. I’d barely begun drumming my fingers on the desk when a peroxide blonde bounded from behind the burgundy privacy screen separating the waiting area from the main shop.
    “Can I help you?”
    “I’m here to see Cindy Jo.”
    She snatched up my right hand and scrutinized it. “I’ll say. Sweet Lord in heaven look at this mess! And here I thought they’d outlawed pickin’ cotton the same time as slavery. Girl,” she drawled in her thick southern accent, “what have you been doin’ to these poor things?”
    Embarrassed, I tried to pull my unsightly hands away but it was impossible to fight against Miss Texarkana’s firm grip. “I’ve never much been into the whole nail routine, so I thought I’d give it a shot.”
    “Then you’ve come to the right place, sugar, and from the looks of it not a minute too soon.” Over her shoulder she yelled, “Cindy Jo? Your three o’clock is here.”
    I didn’t bother to correct her.
    Just then, the tiny woman I assumed was Cindy Jo strolled into view.  
    She had wide brown eyes framed by false eyelashes; deep-set wrinkles reached into her hairline. Against her tanned face, her black hair shone as bright as her capped teeth.  
    “One of these days, Mandy, you’ll actually use that intercom instead of your lungs.”  
    Mandy snorted indelicately.  
    Cindy Jo’s gaze flicked over me before she zeroed in on my hands. Mandy checked out the backs, sweeping her thumb across my knuckles and the callused tips of my fingers.
    “Good Lord,” Mandy gasped when she flipped my hands over. “How did you get all those scars?” Gently, she traced a lavender nail over the puckered skin crisscrossing my palms. Her eyes locked with Cindy Jo’s. “Maybe you oughta show her how the hot wax treatment is helping you, since your hands look just like this.”
    “Hush,” Cindy Jo snapped, hiding her hands from view. “Get back to your station.”
    Once Mandy sauntered away, Cindy Jo smiled tightly. “Sorry. She’s got more heart than brains. Hope she didn’t offend you.”  
    “Takes more than that to offend me.”
    “Good. Let’s get started.” She motioned for me to follow her. We didn’t settle into one of the mirrored nail stations, but passed through a doorway in the back and entered a small paneled office with a tanning bed shoved in the corner. Cindy Jo shut the door and seated herself behind the desk, pointing to an orange easy chair across from her.  
    I discreetly suppressed a shudder at the chair covered in dog hair, perching on a barstool against the wall instead.
    She crossed her arms over her flat chest and studied me coolly.  
    My nervous smile wasn’t entirely fake. “Is this is some kind of consultation because I didn’t have an appointment—”
    “Cut the crap. You’re not here for a manicure. What do you want?” From the pack on her desk, she extracted a Pall Mall and placed it between her frosted lips. “The insurance company sent you, didn’t they?”
    I shrugged. Good a cover as any. I pulled out my own smokes and miniature notebook. She clicked open her silver butane lighter and held the flame across the desk. When that blessed nicotine filled my lungs, I decided it was a pity that so