Read Online Strip Tease by Carl Hiaasen - Free Book Online Page A

heart’s not in it, just say so.” He probed the yogurt with the spoon. “I want you to see this.”
    “Not necessary,” the lawyer protested. “I believe you.”
    Mordecai kicked with both feet, rolling the chair back from the conference table. He got up just as Shad struck paydirt.
    “Ha!”
    “My God,” said Mordecai.
    “Did I tell you? Is that a fucking roach or what?”
    The prehistoric pest filled the spoon. Shad raised it to the level of Mordecai’s eyes. The lawyer gaped in revulsion. Wings askew, the dead cockroach knelt in a creamy blue puddle. Its yogurt-flecked antennae drooped lifelessly.
    Shad was very proud. “Well?”
    “Put it back,” the lawyer rasped.
    “Just think,” Shad said, “sittin’ down to breakfast and—”
    “No!”
    “Makes you want to gag, don’t it?”
    “Yes,” Mordecai whispered. For balance he clutched the corner of the table. “Put it away now, please.”
    Shad carefully dropped the insect into the yogurt and stirred gently. Soon the crispy corpse disappeared from view. “There,” he said. “Now, where’s that fridge?”
    “I’ll get Beverly to show you.” The lawyer mopped his jowls with a handkerchief.
    “Does this mean we got a deal?”
    “It does,” said Mordecai.
    Times were tough, and a roach was a roach.

Chapter 6

    Monique Sr. announced that Alan Greenspan was drinking a beer at table fourteen.
    Orly clapped his fat hands together. “See! Another reason you gotta work.” He didn’t want Erin to take the night off. “Famous comedian in the audience, you shouldn’t miss the chance.”
    “Alan Greenspan,” Erin said pleasantly, “is an economist.”
    “That’s the one.” Monique Sr. stuck by her claim. “Check him out yourself. Corona from the bottle, no lime.”
    “Not to mention it’s Tuesday,” Orly carped. “Tuesday being oil wrestling. Only one of our busiest nights.”
    “I don’t wrestle,” Erin reminded him. “Not in oil, not in custard, not in mud. No wrestling for me.”
    Nude oil wrestling was a tradition at the Eager Beaver, but Erin declined to participate. In her view, professional dancers shouldn’t roll around in a wet tub with shirtless, semi-tumescent drunks. As a secondary issue, Erin didn’t like the looks of the oil. Orly was vague about the brand; one day he’d say it was Wesson, another day he’d swear it was Mazola. Erin had a hunch it was neither. Once a health inspector showed up for an on-site bacterial census. Amazingly, not a single living microbe was found in the wrestling vat. The mystery was explained later the same evening, when the health inspector returned with four of his civil-service buddies. They shared a front-row table and all the Amaretto they could drink, courtesy of Mr. Orly.
    “Tuesday is a big night,” Orly was saying. “Bottom line is, we need all our best dancers.”
    “Please, Mr. Orly. It’s personal.”
    “Tell me.”
    “I’m meeting my ex-husband,” Erin said, “to discuss future custody arrangements for our daughter.”
    Here Urbana Sprawl interjected her opinion of Darrell Grant, describing him so vividly that Mr. Orly immediately offered to have him killed.
    Erin said, “That’s not necessary.”
    “Beat up? Crippled? You gives the word.” Orly pantomimed dialing a telephone. “That’s how easy it is when you know the right people.”
    “Thanks, but I can handle it myself.” Erin played along with Mr. Orly’s Mafia routine as a matter of politeness. He looked about as Sicilian as David Letterman.
    Urbana Sprawl urged Orly to give Erin the night off for the sake of her lost little daughter. Orly wasn’t the least bit moved. He said, “Promise me this is really a domestic-type deal. Promise you’re not sneaking down the street for an audition.”
    “Oh right,” said Erin. “My lifelong dream is to work for those freaks.”
    Mr. Orly was paranoid about losing his best strippers to the Flesh Farm, which recruited aggressively with signing bonuses. The