After three gut-it-out, high-impact investigations, I decided to work our local GIW tip line for my next lead. Oh, and, of course, my boss, Jim Donovan, being the mahatma he is, insisted that I do it since he’d heard I’d been suffering from perpetual PMS ever since my last investigation ended.
And, since I’m a good girl, I did what I was told, until…
Okay, so here’s the deal, I got a call from someone working in a little courthouse about three hours south of Chicago. She said a guy named Tyson Jenkins had been railroaded by a judge, and he was going to sit in the county lockup for the next six months. She said he didn’t deserve it and hung up.
Now, something that you need to know about me, I’m an addict with a huge freaking orangutan on my back. I’m certifiably hooked on the big leads, and even when I don’t look for them, they always seem to find me. I can feel it when they’re lurking nearby, and I don’t even know why or how. I just can.
See where I’m going with this?
Long story short, I go to a town in central Illinois called Nepal (a place where the locals pronounce it “Nee-pale,” no less). I’m on my own at first, but Jerome decides to join me because I kind of injure his prized possession, his car, on my way there. Together, along with the help of another colleague, Sydney Collins, we discover that corruption is alive and well in small-town, fly-over America. Chicago may be the place where cadavers vote for presidents and governors retire to penitentiaries, but in Dunkirk County, the criminals administer justice.
– Charles-Louis de Secondat –
“Relax, Timothy, I’m a judge, remember?” Judge Slinger said, reclining in the back seat of Officer Flaggert’s cruiser as it sped down a two-lane county road.
The officer often chauffeured His Honor around, hoping to curry favor. Driving the Judge for a Friday or Saturday night out or playing taxi after a drunken binge was one thing. But picking him up at 9:00 a.m. after canceling his entire docket and heading straight to a strip club was another. Still, when Judge Slinger asked for a favor, Flaggert wasn’t inclined to refuse.
At the southern border of Dunkirk County, at the intersection of two state highways, stood a massive navy-blue pole barn with a sprawling parking lot on three sides. Surrounded by endless corn and soybean fields, the windowless building stretched at least fifty yards along the East-West highway. In bold Old English script, its name, Joy Ride Gentleman’s Club, sprawled across the front. Larger-than-life painted women posed seductively among the letters, their cherry-red lips pouting and fingers beckoning to passersby.
“Do you want me to wait?” Flaggert asked, pulling into the lot.
“Wait?” Slinger scoffed.
“Come on, quit being such a Boy Scout. Live a little, Timothy. A drink, some eye candy, maybe even a happy ending—it’s not a bad way to start the day, is it? Sheena will take care of me, and you can pick another fine lady for yourself. I’ve got connections.”
Flaggert thought, “Not bad for you, maybe. But I bet there are security cameras everywhere in there.” Instead, he said, “I think I’ll just wait in the car. I’m on duty.”
Slinger sighed theatrically. “Suit yourself.”
Pulling under a red awning at the rear entrance, Flaggert stopped the car, and Slinger climbed out with a practiced swagger. As the door slammed shut, Flaggert backed out, parking along the shoulder of the highway to feign watching for speeders until the Judge was done.
Inside, the club catered to all tastes. Most patrons parked brazenly in plain view, their presence a badge of honor. The west lot, large enough for semis, farm trucks, and even the occasional cowboys on tractors was bustling. For the more discreet clientele, the red awning and carefully placed evergreen bushes provided anonymity.
Joy Ride operated around the clock, famous not only for its dancers but also for its gourmet meals. Patrons often excused their visits as innocent stops for the food—a story their wives rarely believed. Marco DeSalvio, the club’s owner, had perfected the formula. A childhood friend of Slinger’s and a veteran in the “gentlemen’s banquet facility” business, DeSalvio had relocated to Dunkirk County after his Saint Louis establishments were shuttered during a narcotics sting. Though never charged, he’d reinvented himself and his brand of indulgence with Joy Ride, now a magnet for high rollers in the Midwest.
Slinger entered with a grand flourish, the smoked-glass doors swinging open to reveal a statuesque blonde in a short, clinging dress that emphasized her curves. She greeted him with a practiced smile and led him behind a purple curtain to a private room. The dimly lit space was walled with mirrors, perfumed with incense, and centered by a red leather circular couch beneath a slowly spinning glass sphere.
As a deep bassline thumped through the walls, Slinger found the rhythm, clapping and snapping his fingers. He strutted to the couch, dropped into its center with legs spread, and leaned back, tapping his fingers to the beat while biting his lip.
Rolling her eyes, the blonde stifled a laugh. “Would you like a drink?”
“A double Grey Goose bloody mary,” Slinger ordered, his voice practically purring.
The Judge pressed a button on the remote, dimming the lights and revealing the club’s main floor through a one-way glass panel. He observed the dancers, their moves designed to entice and extract cash. Patrons lined the stages, entranced, tipping liberally. Some held bills between their teeth, a challenge the dancers met with playful nibbles or more creative retrievals if the amount impressed them.
Moments later, a statuesque woman with deep umber skin and gold heels entered, wearing only a thin string around her waist. Her every movement exuded sensual confidence as she approached. Bending over to retrieve the remote, her pendulous breasts swayed tantalizingly close to Slinger’s face. She grinned and whispered, “Not today, big boy,” before straddling him and pressing herself against him in a slow, rhythmic grind.
Sheena.
Slinger’s exclusive arrangement with DeSalvio ensured Sheena worked privately with him alone. She was his queen, his fantasy made flesh.
The Judge lost himself in her movements, his flushed face tilted upward as she whispered moans against his ear. His hands slid to her thighs, but Sheena pushed them firmly back, keeping him on edge.
Five minutes in, Slinger heard a sound that broke his reverie—ice rattling in a glass. His drink, he thought. “Just set it there,” he muttered, gesturing lazily. But as the noise grew closer, he peeked through one eye.
It wasn’t the hostess, and his drink hadn’t arrived. Now, neither would he.
Flaggert stood awkwardly inside the room, fidgeting and avoiding eye contact.
“Why, Timothy,” Slinger said with a laugh, “I’m glad you changed your mind. Unfortunately, Sheena here is off-limits. I’ll call another for you.”
Sheena smirked and continued her work, her hips undeterred.
“Your Honor, uh…” Flaggert stammered. “Judge Balzac’s wife was rushed to the hospital. They need someone to cover his docket immediately.”
Sheena stopped, pouting theatrically.
Slinger sighed, taking the bloody mary from the hostess, who’d arrived just behind Flaggert. “For God’s sake, Timothy, turn around. These pretty things don’t bite.”
Flaggert stared resolutely at the curtain.
Slinger downed a sip of his drink, then signaled for another. “Call Balzac’s clerk. Tell her you found me sick at home, still in my pajamas. I’ll be there shortly.” Turning to Sheena, he stroked her cheek with a $100 bill. “My sweetest Sheena, our time was short, but unforgettable, as always. While I wait for my second drink, can we continue?”
Sheena grinned, leaning in. “You know me, Judge,” she whispered, her voice dripping with allure. “I always aim to please.”
Flaggert bolted for the door as Slinger chuckled, reclining back for another moment in his queen’s domain.
