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big-screen plasma TV hanging on the opposite wall. It was festooned in red velvet, too. Mr. Race’s clients were obviously immune to dangerous hostage situations. On the other hand, some very amorous bedroom gymnastics were going on between Victor and some blonde young enough to be his great-granddaughter, maybe even great-great-granddaughter. And she looked pretty great, too. Not that I watch that soap, but I remember being titillated a time or two during my college days at LSU. I watched for a moment, in spite of myself. Victor was quite the Casanova, bending the gal backward over a couch and trying to kiss her. She was responding and all, but then again, he was holding a gun to her temple as incentive, so there you go.
    Bud decided to take time to kiss Brianna’s cheek and comfort her with a full-fledged body hug. Seemed like everyone was taking Race’s dilemma in stride. Bud didn’t seem particularly intent on letting go of Finn any time soon, so I decided that was my cue to get involved.
    I said, “Okay, now, let’s all get a grip here. Bring it down a notch.” I addressed the irate red-haired young twenty-something holding the weapon. “What seems to be the problem, ma’am? Surely whatever it is, it’s not worth all this commotion.”
    â€œMaybe not to you.” She commenced with a severe blinking thing going on, holding back a flood of distraught tears, I presumed. I inched toward her, watching the white plastic bowl of caustic-smelling liquid she gripped in one hand. I sure as hell didn’t want that stuff on my favorite black Remington T-shirt. She sobbed a couple of times then said to me, “Just look at it, my hair. Look what he did to me! There’s no way I can compete now, and the pageant’s getting ready to start! I’ve been rehearsing my baton-twirling routine for a good six weeks.” More boo-hooing commenced.
    I observed her hair. True, it was extremely frizzy on one side, and all broken off, and not a shade of red that was easy on the eyes. Maybe more like a bright shade of orangey pumpkin. Actually, she was sporting a do and hue closely akin to a Halloween Ronald McDonald after a drunken binge.
    Always the diplomat, I said, “I think you look just fine, ma’am.”
    â€œAre you freakin’ serious? It looks like a freakin’ jack-o’-lantern and he burned the hell out of one side of it. It’s not even two inches long!”
    True, alas, all true. While I tried to come up with a comforting word or two, Bud managed to get over Brianna’s lush curves long enough to join the negotiations. “It doesn’t look that bad to me, either, uh, what’s your name again, miss?”
    â€œCorkie.”
    â€œCorkie? Seriously?” To give Bud credit, he didn’t even grin.
    â€œYeah, so what?”
    I knew a Corkie once, but he was a dog. I didn’t mention that observation, either. I said, “Know what? I think you might be overreacting just a tad, Corkie. Put down that stinky stuff, whatever it is, and let’s talk about this in a calm, adult manner. That smell’s making people nauseous.”
    Corkie hesitated, thought about things a second or two. She said, “You just don’t get it, do you? Just look at you. You look pretty without a dab of makeup on, and you obviously didn’t take time to do a thing with your hair either.” She eyed me critically with fierce beauty contestant acumen. “You’d look a lot better if you got some highlights, you know. Probably not ash, but not too gold, either, though. It’d really bring out that honey color. Really, you oughta consider it.” Then she remembered her plight. Her grip tightened on her weapon. “But not here. Not with him doing it. Look at me, I’m ruined!”
    â€œMaybe Mr. Race can fix your hair. Bud told me on the way over that he’s a genius with hair and nails.”
    â€œEvil genius, you