Deep Dish by Mary Kay Andrews Read Free Book Online

soon. Some dudes from New York are coming in, and Val said—”
    A few notes of banjo music filled the air. He glanced down at his lap, rolled to one side, and took a cell phone from his right hip pocket.
    “Hey,” he said abruptly.
    Gina glanced at D’John and raised one eyebrow. D’John shook his head.
    Her own cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen and saw that it was Scott calling again. Quickly, she shut the phone off.
    D’John busied himself with her hair, removing the hot rollers, fluffing, teasing, spraying. They both worked hard at pretending not to listen to Tate Moody’s telephone conversation.
    “So what’s the word?” Moody demanded. “I thought you were gonna call yesterday. You said we’d hear something by five o’clock, no later.”
    He listened but didn’t like what he was hearing. He frowned and rubbed his forehead.
    “No. No! That’s impossible. I don’t have that kind of money. I thought you understood that.”
    He listened, then interrupted. “Wait, dammit! No, you listen. There is no way. Okay? That’s not even close to what I can afford. Anyway, I happen to know another parcel, just down the road, sold six weeks ago, for fifty thousand less than they’re asking. And that piece has deep-water access. Yeah. That’s right. I am watching all the local transactions. You tell them that. This ain’t some dumb hillbilly they’re dealing with.”
    He shook his head violently. “No. I’m through. I mean it. Tell them I’m walking away from the deal. Yeah. Well, you tell ’em what you want. I’m done.”
    Tate Moody snapped his phone shut. He inhaled deeply. “Shit.”
    Glancing over at D’John, his mood seemed to worsen. “Look, man, I gotta go.”
    “Wait,” the stylist said. He gave Regina’s hair a final touch. “We’re done.”
    He stepped over to Tate Moody’s chair and whisked another plastic cape out of the drawer in the makeup table.
    When Regina made no attempt to leave, D’John gave her a questioning look.
    She held up the magazine she’d been pretending to read. “Don’t worry about me. I just want to finish this article about sunscreens. Go ahead with him.” She turned and smiled sweetly at Tate Moody, who gave her a sour look. “You don’t mind, do you?”
    “How long’s this gonna take?” Tate asked, turning toward the stylist.
    Instead of answering, D’John spun Tate around in the chair. He bent low at the waist and peered into his subject’s face. He lightly touched Moody’s face, lifted a lock of his hair, sighed, clucked his tongue in disapproval.
    “Hmmm,” D’John said. “Yes. Your producer is absolutely right. You do need me.”
    Tate’s face flushed. “Now, uh, listen. I don’t really want—”
    “What have you been doing to this skin of yours?” D’John asked.
    “My skin?” Tate leaned in toward the mirror. “Nothing. I mean, I wash it. And I shaved this morning—”
    “With what?” D’John asked. “A dull butter knife?”
    “A razor, of course,” Tate said. “Shaving cream. Barbasol. Like that.”
    D’John turned to Regina. “Will you listen to that? Barbasol? Who knew they still made that mess?”
    “What’s wrong with Barbasol?” Tate demanded.
    “What’s wrong with Barbasol?” D’John’s voice was mocking. “Why not just wipe a piece of sandpaper across your jaw? Why not throw rubbing alcohol on your face while you’re at it?”
    “Huh?” Tate rubbed his hand across his chin.
    Regina stifled a laugh. “I think maybe what D’John is trying to say is that he doesn’t think Barbasol is an appropriate product for you to use.”
    “Appropriate?” D’John cried. He grabbed Tate’s hand and dragged it across his own smooth brown cheek.
    “Do you feel that?” D’John asked. “That’s what a well-groomed man’s face should feel like. Moist. Firm. Healthy.”
    “Healthy?” Tate seemed unconvinced.
    “Now. Feel that skin of yours,” D’John ordered.
    Tate shrugged and did as he was