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RJ guffawed and then groaned. “Asia, quit that, sweetheart. You’re only making him madder.” RJ hesitated as Asia’s voice mumbled in retort. “What do you mean he’s the wrong giant?” RJ asked. “He’s green, right?”
    I growled into the phone. Stupid RJ. We were talking about me now. But no, it’s always RJ, RJ, RJ. Even as a kid RJ could never focus on my problems.
    “Yeah, I can see he’s not jolly,” RJ was saying to his bride. “But who’d be jolly when being chased by a villain with toenail clippers?”
    “RJ!” I screamed into the phone. “Pay attention! This is a matter of life and death.”
    “Oh, sorry, Jean-Michel. Forgot you were there.” RJ gave a trifling chuckle. “So you think you hired an assassin to kill your fiancée, but you don’t remember any of it. Is that what you’re saying?”
    “I remember . . . a rose and grape lollipops.” My voice went cold. “That and my new tattoo. Remind me to thank you for it. A lot.”
    “Well, there’s your answer.”
    “What?”
    “Sorry, mate. You’ll have to figure it out all on your own.” RJ laughed and then quickly sobered. “I gotta go. A husband’s work is never done,” he said and hung up the phone.
    Damn villain. I’d show him. I’d find Beauty’s assassin and stop her impending murder. I didn’t need his help. I didn’t need anyone’s help.
    “Karl, I need your help!”
    “Sir?”
    I replayed my conversation with RJ to Karl. When I finished, Karl bit his bottom lip and scratched his chin. His eyes grew distant; the pupils shrank as his mind wandered.
    We could be here a while, I thought, cracking open a window. A rush of hot air slipped into the air-conditioned limo. It smelled of stripper sweat and desperation. I took another whiff and grimaced. The stench wasn’t coming from the outside air.
    “Well, sir,” Karl said with a sigh. “If we apply logic—”
    “Are you mad? When has logic ever worked before? What I need is a miracle!” I pounded on the leather seat. Just then my miracle fell from my pocket in the form of my credit card. We still had two charges left to check.
    I squinted at my credit card receipt and frowned as a voice-over sounded in my head.

    Hangover from hell—$257
Multiple lap dances—$3,542
Tramp-stamped tattoo—$200
Bridal assassin—Priceless

    The last two charges were to a business called the Rose. A flicker of recognition buzzed in my head. Could it be that easy? Then again, what self-respecting assassin named his business something as girly as the Rose? Hell, the Three Guys in a Tub nightclub sounded less gay.
    Unfortunately, name aside, I didn’t have a clue where to find the Rose, and the receipt didn’t help; it bore no address, only a smiley face after the neatly printed name.
    “Now what?” I asked Karl.
    “Try Wish Upon Star.” Karl pointed to the bright blue button on the dashboard of the limo with a large white star emblazoned across it.
    I grinned and scrambled into the front seat, slamming my finger against the button. Instantly, a perky female voice responded, “Wish Upon Star, how can we help you tonight?”
    “This might sound like an odd request,” I began.
    “At Wish Upon Star no request is too anomalous, sir.”
    “Right.” I cleared my throat. “Here’s the thing—”
    “Why, just last week,” the chick on the other end of the button broke in, “I had to find a prostitute for one of our big, bad, and furrier clients.”
    Big deal. This was Cin City, after all. Hookers were a dime a baker’s dozen. They came in all shapes and sizes, from Thumbelina to Jack Sprat’s overweight wife.
    Ms. Perky added with a laugh, “The client wanted her to eat a basket of pastries while he watched. And I’m like, ‘hello, what self-respecting hooker eats carbs?’ ” She paused, as if gathering steam for another long-winded tale of debauchery and diet tips.
    “Anyway,” I interrupted. “I need to find a business named,” my cheeks heated, “the