“He said that was fine and you were beautiful enough for both you and him. And that’s when I knew.” My mother smiled. “True beauty isn’t in how big your breasts are, or how large your eyes are, or how pretty your nose is. All that is temporary. Breasts sag, skin gets wrinkles, waists become wider, and strong backs stoop. I tried to teach you this when you were younger, but I must’ve done a bad job, because you never learned it. True beauty is in how that person makes you feel. When a man truly loves you, the longer you are together, the more beautiful you will be to him. When he looks at you and you look at him, you won’t just see the surface. You will see everything you shared, everything you’ve been through, and every happy moment you hope for.”
Her eyes teared. “Your father died a middle-aged man, balding, with a round belly and when I looked at him, he was more beautiful to me than when we first met and he was twenty and all the girls panted after him.” Her voice trembled. “After thirty-two years, we were more than lovers. We were family.”
I swiped tears from my eyes.
“You either have that bond or you don’t,” my mother said. “If the bond isn’t there, no matter how pretty the two of you are, you’ll go your separate ways. You’ve changed, sweetheart, since the two of you started going out. You don’t lose your temper as often. It used to be one wrong word, and you had all your claws out. He must make you happy. So. If you like him, I like him. If you hate him, I hate him. But I think he loves you and that’s all any mother could hope for.”
My mother got up and left.
For a while I sat at the table crying and I didn’t even know why. About five minutes after the door closed Jim came down from upstairs and put his arms around me. I leaned against him and let him hold me.
MAGIC flooded during the night, but the phone rang anyway. It wasn’t for me. It was for Jim. He listened to it for a long time, while I made us breakfast and wondered why I wasn’t freaking out about the fact that someone in the Pack clearly knew Jim was spending his nights with me.
“Wait a minute.” Jim pulled the phone from his ear. “Dali? I’ve got a guy at the courthouse. Want to hear what he’s found?”
“Yes!” I waved the kitchen towel at him.
“The law firm that sent the letters only exists on paper,” Jim said. “It was active about eight years ago but Shirley retired from law practice five years ago and moved away, Sadlowski died shortly after, and Abbot died about a year ago. But the firm still exists as a legal corporation. It’s registered with the Georgia Bar Association under John Abbot.”
“The one who died?”
“No, different bar number.” Jim frowned. “This is where it gets interesting. I also had them check into the building. It’s old, pre-Shift. The records are sketchy, but apparently it used to be a strip joint.”
“I don’t see why it’s so valuable.” Strip clubs sprang up in Atlanta like mushrooms.
“It was a full-nudity strip club,” Jim said.
“And?”
Jim shrugged. “I don’t understand what the deal is either. A full-nudity license is more expensive, but that’s about it.”
“What was the name of the club?” I asked.
Jim repeated the question into the phone. “The Dirty Martini.”
“Is the license still active? Can they pull up prior owners?”
“Good idea. Check if that license is still active and see about the last owner,” Jim said. “Oh and, Tamra? Check the alcohol permit for me.”
“Why alcohol permit?” I asked.
“A place with the name Dirty Martini is likely to serve alcohol.” Jim tapped his fingers on the table. He was thinking about something. I could see it in his eyes.
Minutes passed by.
“Okay,” Jim said. “Thanks.”
He hung up and looked at me.
“Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“The club owner’s name was Chad Toole. He was indicted twelve years ago on money-laundering charges, convicted, and sentenced to thirty years in prison,” Jim said. “He died while incarcerated. Guess who represented him?”
“Abbot, Sadlowski, and Shirley?”
He nodded. “You were right. License is still active. The strip club hasn’t been open for eleven years, but apparently John Abbot has paid that license every year.”
“That had to cost a fortune.”
“Oh it did.” Jim nodded.
“So let me get this straight. Chad Toole owns a strip club. He gets in trouble, hires John Abbot to represent him and turns the club over to him as payment for legal services. Chad goes to prison and dies. John Abbot’s firm divides the club into five shops and sells it as retail space?”
“Looks that way.”
“I am confused. If John Abbot sold the club, what’s the point of paying for the permit?” I thought out loud. “Permits are tied to the address. John Abbot must’ve only sold four shops and held on to one. He still owns a chunk of the original building. That’s the only way his permit would be valid.”
Jim grinned. “Exactly. There is more. The club also has an up-to-date liquor permit, paid in full again by John Abbot.”
He looked at me.
“Why is that significant?” I asked.
“Because it is illegal for a full-nude bar to serve alcohol in Atlanta’s city limits. Topless bars can serve it, but the dancers have to wear a G-string.”
I crossed my arms. “How do you know that?”
Jim gave me a look. “It’s my business to know.”
Aha. “So if it’s illegal . . .”
“It’s not. This law was relaxed after the Shift and then tightened again, but Dirty Martini must’ve been grandfathered in. It is the only wet full-nudity strip club in Atlanta. In the right hands, it would be a gold mine.”