“But not before more petitions, more hearings, more time spent without her.”
“And most likely not without involving Georgia.”
She glanced at him and their gazes held for several telling seconds. When he turned back, he gripped the steering wheel tightly. The lengths to which he would go to regain custody ended with Georgia being forced to choose between him and her grandparents. He would never put her through that.
He and Holly traveled the remainder of the way in silence, and soon a tacky neon sign signaled that they’d reached their destination. He made a hard left turn into the nightclub’s gravel parking lot and drove through it to the back of the building.
Knowing of the misdeeds committed on parking lots at places like Tickled Pink, inside and out of vehicles, Crawford thought it safer for Holly to come inside with him. He turned off the engine and opened his door. “I can’t leave you out here, but I warn you, this could be a shocking eye-opener.”
As though in defiance of the warning, she opened her own door and hopped down before he could come around and assist her out. They walked up to the metal door. He banged on it.
Smitty himself opened it. “‘Bout fucking time. I—” He drew up when he saw that Crawford wasn’t alone, and, in obvious recognition of Holly, flashed his rodent grin as he eyed her up and down. “This is a new look for you, isn’t it, sweetheart? You ought to ditch the black robe for good.”
Smitty’s leer had him questioning the decision to bring her inside. “Lay off her.”
“Don’t mind him, honey,” Smitty said as he stepped aside to admit them. Shooting Crawford a dirty look over his shoulder, he added. “He’s a buzzkill.”
He escorted them into his office, which was as disorganized as any of the others in which Crawford had met with him over the years. Oozing charm as oily as his hair, he held a chair out for Holly and offered her something to drink.
Crawford clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder and forcibly turned him around to face him. “Where’s the old man? I thought you’d have him here in your office.”
“Tried to. But he’s an ornery cuss. Short of having my bouncer get rough—and considering your daddy’s age, that wouldn’t look good to other customers—I left him where he’s at. Been there since about three thirty. He’s run up a tab to the tune of sixty-seven dollars and change. Said you’d cover it.”
Crawford ignored the hand Smitty held out, palm up. “Let’s go.” He motioned with his head for Smitty to lead the way. “Lock yourself in,” he said to Holly as he passed through the door, then waited until he heard the click.
He relied on Smitty’s familiarity with the layout as he followed him through a maze of dark corridors until they reached the club proper, where the music’s volume was physically assaulting. On stage, a girl was humping a brass pole. The clientele was rowdily encouraging her with whoops, whistles, and applause.
Smitty shouted above the racket, “Over there.” He pointed to a table in the darkest corner of the room where a bouncer was keeping close watch over a slumped and motionless form.
Conrad’s cheek was mashed against the sticky tabletop. A string of drool clung to his slack lower lip. He was barely conscious, but when Crawford took him by the arm to haul him out of his chair, he came up swinging. The uncoordinated uppercut missed Crawford’s chin by a mile. The momentum behind it would have sent Conrad sprawling if Crawford hadn’t caught him.
He really didn’t give a damn about how bad it looked to other customers for him to grapple with the old man. Within seconds, he had both Conrad’s hands behind his back and was holding his wrists together in an iron grip. With his other hand around the back of Conrad’s neck, he held him upright.
“How’d he get here?” he asked Smitty.
He jangled a set of car keys in front of Crawford’s face. “Bouncer found them in his pants pocket.”
The bouncer was a beefy guy with a shaved and tattooed head. “Bring his car around to the back door,” Crawford told him. “It won’t be hard to find. Bald tires, faded blue paint. And thanks.”
He propelled Conrad across the club toward the corridor through which they’d come. Conrad stumbled and weaved but Crawford somehow got him that far without him falling.
Smitty followed on Crawford’s heels, yapping about the outstanding tab.
“Shut the hell up,” Crawford said. “You’ll get your damn money.”
When they reached the door to the office, he called out to Holly, who unlocked and opened the door. Humiliated, he watched her face as she got her first look at the slobbering, reeking derelict who’d sired him. She didn’t register the repulsion he’d expected, but rather concern for the way Conrad’s head flopped forward when Crawford let go of his neck.
Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a money clip and handed it to her. “Pay him, please.”
She took a fifty and a twenty from the clip.