Crisscross rj-8

by F. Paul Wilson

  "I know what you're thinking, Jack. That I'm more outrageous than I ever used to be, that I'm such a cliche. Well, you're right. I am. Deliberately. And do you know why? Because I love it. I… love … it. It's my way of thumbing my nose at all the uptight straights wandering this earth. But you know what? My clients, straight or gay, they love it too. They think a guy this flaming has to be a great interior designer. So allow me my fun, okay? Life should be fun. Although looking at you I can see you're not having much."

  Jack sighed. He was right.

  "You might say that. And soon I'm going to have even less. I've got to meet with a slimeball who might be expecting trouble from a stranger. I want to—How shall I say it?—put him at ease/'

  Pres put a hand on a hip. "And you think that if he thinks you're queer, he'll figure he's got nothing to fear."

  "That rhymes, you know, and yes, that's the way his kind of mind works."

  "But you know better, don't you."

  "Oh, yeah."

  Pres might be an interior designer and might look like a featherweight pushover, but Jack had trained with him; the guy had lightning reflexes and was a nunchuck wizard.

  "Okay, then." Pres clapped his hands and looked around. "Let's get started, shall we." He pointed to the right. "There. Shirts. Always a good place to start."

  Jack followed him to a rack and watched him fan through a rainbow of shirts. He stopped and pulled out something Jack could only describe as turquoise.

  "Look at this. Isn't it scrumptious?"

  "What's that stuff up and down the front? Looks like someone spilled spaghetti on it."

  "It's embroidery, dearie. Embroidery is always fun."

  "Never thought of clothes as fun."

  "Oh, you'll never change: functional, functional, functional. Clothing should be an expression of the inner you."

  Jack spread his arms. "And what do my clothes say about the inner me?"

  "You really want to know, Jack? I mean, I don't want to hurt your feelings or anything."

  "Don't worry. You can't."

  "All right, then: The way you dress, it's like… it's like there is no inner you."

  Jack allowed himself a smile. "Cool."

  "How can you say 'cool'? That was not a compliment. I offered it with only the best intentions, but some—myself included—might consider it an insult."

  "Don't worry about it. Empty is exactly how I like to look."

  "Jack, dearest, you do know that you're a very odd man, don't you. I mean very, very odd."

  "So I've been told."

  He handed Jack the shirt. "Okay. We'll keep this as a possibility. I'll pick out some others and…"

  He was staring at Jack's hair.

  "What's wrong?"

  "With the way you look? Everything. But especially that hair." He pulled a phone from his bag and hit a button. "Christophe? I need you, baby… No, not for me. It's for a friend… I know you're busy"—he looked at Jack and rolled his eyes as he made a chitterchatter sign with his free hand—"but you've just got to squeeze him in. It's an emergency… I never exaggerate!" A quick glance at Jack's hair. "You'll understand when you see him… Okay, we'll be over in half an hour."

  "Who's Christophe?"

  "He does my hair."

  "You have your barber on speed dial?"

  "He's not a barber.'" Pres pulled at his curly mop. "Do I look like I go to a barber? Christophe is an artiste, an architect with hair. He's agreed to see you as a personal favor to me."

  "I don't have much time, Pres. Supposed to meet this creep—"

  "Christophe can't give you much time. Sunday is one of his busiest days. But I understand." He started fanning through the shirts again. "Come over here. We haven't a moment to lose."

  9

  Richie sat at his office desk studying his horoscopes for the day. He'd been too dazed this morning to pick up the paper. But he'd fixed that and now he was staring at the readings with pure wonder. He'd read and reread them and could find no way to doubt that he'd made the right choice about meeting Gorcey.

  First came Gemini: Brighter financial horizons can only be met with diligent planning. Do what it takes to keep work fresh and surprising. Be enthusiastic about how much you appreciate your current position, and it only gets better.

  Could anything be better or clearer than that?

  And then Cancer: Engaging conversations improve your financial status. Focus intently on your communication skills.

  This was just too much. One mentioned "brighter financial horizons" while the other said "conversations improve your financial status." And here he was, waiting to take money from a guy just to listen to him talk.

  How could Neva keep on saying astrology was junk?

  Richie heard the expected knock on the outer door. That would be Gorcey.

  As soon as he'd got in the office he'd looked up Dobbins's number and called to check on this guy. But Dobbins wasn't around. Too bad. He would have felt better if he'd been able to talk to him, have him vouch for Gorcey. But since that wasn't gonna happen, Richie would just have to take some precautions.

  As he pulled his .38 from its shoulder holster, he called out, "Come on in! It's open!"

  The pistol gave him comfort and he'd have liked to keep a hold on it, but he was going to have to shake hands. So he slipped it under the newspaper on his desk and pushed himself to his feet.

  "Hello?" said a voice from the outer office.

  "Back here!"

  A guy of average height and build stepped through the door. He was maybe twenty years younger than Richie and wore black-rimmed sunglasses. He had a newspaper folded under his arm, and that was the last normal thing about him.

  His spiky brown hair was just too perfect and he had this dainty little mustache crawling along his upper lip. The nun hadn't said anything about no mustache on Jack. As for the rest of him, well, queer was the only way Richie knew how to describe the coat and pants he was wearing. And he was carrying a fucking pocketbook to boot.

  Shit, the guy looked even faggier than he'd sounded on the phone.

  "Mr. Cordova?" He extended his hand over the desk. "Louis Gorcey. Thanks so much for seeing me."

  "My pleasure, Mr. Gorcey."

  Yeah, right, he thought as he got a dead-fish handshake.

  "Call me Louis."

  This guy looked about as dangerous as somebody's crippled grandmother, but that didn't mean he couldn't be carrying. A couple of times, Richie had learned the hard way how looks could deceive.

  "Fine. But before we go any further, I'll need you to take off that fancy coat."

  Goreey's brows knitted under his perfect hairdo. "1 don't understand.'"

  "Humor me, Lou. I'm in a business where you can't be too careful. You call me up on a Sunday and you've just gotta see me, can't wait till tomorrow, and I start to wonder. I ain't no whacko paranoid, but I ain't no fool neither."

  "Really, I don't think—"

  "Don't get all huffy with me, Lou. It's a simple thing: You gonna take the coat off or ain't you?"

  For a second or two, when Richie thought he wasn't going to do it, he tensed and slid his hand toward the newspaper. His fingers were almost to the gun when Gorcey let out this big sigh.

  "Oh, very well. If you insist."

  He untied the belt, shrugged out of the coat, folded it, then draped it over the back of the client chair. He raised his arms and did a slow, graceful turn.

  Richie gaped at Goreey's shirt. What the hell was it made of? It looked like the tablecloth his mother had brought back from her trip to Venice about three hundred years ago, the one she picked up on some island called Burano or something like that. Except this one looked like it had been dunked in blueberry Kool-Aid. The guy was wearing a fucking tablecloth.

  But what he was not wearing was lots more important—no shoulder or SOB holster. Richie let himself relax a little.

  "There. Satisfied?"

  "Almost," Richie said. "One more thing: Empty your bag on the desk
."

  "Really, Mr. Cor—"

  "Do that and we can get down to business."

  Another sigh. "This is very unusual, and if I didn't need your help I'd refuse. But I guess it doesn't matter."

  He upended the bag and out tumbled a set of keys, a cell phone, two eyeglass cases, and a couple of legal-sized envelopes.

  Richie took the bag from him and shook it.

  Gorcey gasped. "Careful! That's a Marc Jacobs!"

  Like I care, Richie thought as he checked the inside. Nothing hiding in there. He handed it back to Gorcey.

  "That's it? You carry that big thing around and that's all that's in it?"

  With floppy wrists and raised pinkies, Gorcey started putting the stuff back into his bag. "Sometimes there's more. But even so, I don't like to distort the lines of my clothing with bulging pockets."

  "What? Afraid someone'll think you're glad to see them?"

  Richie thought that was a good one but Gorcey didn't even smile. Instead he slid one of the envelopes across the desk.

  "As promised."

  Richie casually picked it up with his left hand. He didn't want to look too eager but he wasn't about to get suckered either. It wasn't sealed. He flipped up the flap with a thumb and glanced inside. He quick-counted a sufficient number of hundreds.

  He relaxed. Okay. Louis Gorcey seemed like the real deal. He'd passed up a chance to go for a gun and his envelope contained the right stuff. The only thing that would remove the last suspicion was if he could see the guy's eyes. You can tell a lot from eyes. But he was keeping his shades on.

  Richie shoved the envelope into his top drawer and gestured to the chair on the far side of his desk.

  "Have a seat, Lou." When they both had their butts settled, he said, "What can I do for you?"

  Gorcey pushed his newspaper across the desk. A copy of The Light, opened to page three. He jabbed at a photo of a middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar—jabbed him right in the eye. Richie noticed that his finger was trembling. He also noticed that Gorcey was wearing nail polish. Clear nail polish, yeah, but still polish. These queers…

  "Do you know who that is?" Gorcey said.

  Richie did a quick read of the caption and reworded it.

  "That's Luther Brady, isn't it? The head of that crazy Dormentalist Church?"

  Maybe he shouldn't have called it crazy. This guy could be some sort of Dormentalist holy roller.

  "Crazy?" Gorcey's manicured finger shook worse as his voice rose. "I wish that were the only thing wrong with the Dormentalist Church! It's worse than crazy! It's destructive and conniving and vicious and malicious and it's all this man's fault! He's… he's…"

  He sputtered to a stop.

  "He's what, Lou?"

  Gorcey's hands flapped in the air. "He's a monster. He stole a small fortune from me, but worse than that, he stole years from my life. Years! I can always earn more money, I'm good at earning money, but how do I get back those years?"

  "I don't know, Lou. You tell me."

  Richie had found this to be the best approach with upset clients. Let them talk till they ran out of steam.

  Gorcey slumped back in the chair. "It's impossible, of course." His brow furrowed. "But I can get even."

  Again Richie wished he could see Gorcey's eyes.

  "How do you plan to do that?*'

  "With your help, I hope."

  This was getting interesting. A faggot like this Louis Gorcey thinking he could get even with an international figure like Luther Brady. Richie had expected a deadly dull hour, but this was kind of fun. Like getting paid for being entertained.

  "Why tell me this?"

  "Because I want to hire you."

  "To do what?"

  "Lee told me you're a wizard with a camera."

  Richie fought the smile that wanted to bust out on his face. Dobbins said that, huh? Well, why not. Richie did know his way around a camera, and was good at low-light photography. Damn good. Just ask the cows he was milking.

  He gave a little laugh and did the modesty thing. "Well, I don't know about the wizard part, but—"

  "He told me all about how you caught his partner dead to rights, and I want you to do that for me. I want you to catch Luther Brady in the act."

  "In what act?"

  Gorcey's shoulders slumped. "I'm not sure. But I know he sneaks off every Sunday night and heads upstate into the hills. He lives at the temple on Lexington Avenue. Every other time he leaves the temple, on every other day of the week, he has a driver. But not on his Sunday night trips."

  Richie smiled. "You've had him under surveillance, then."

  "Well, yes. I've even followed him a few nights but I've lost him every time."

  "Tailing should be left to a professional."

  "That's why I've come to you."

  "But what makes you think these trips involve anything wrong?"

  "Because it's the only time he ventures out alone. That tells me he's up to something he doesn't want anyone to know about."

  "Could be," Richie said. "Could also mean he just wants to be alone."

  The hands fluttered again. "That's always a possibility, but with a man as ruthless as Luther Brady, I doubt it. And if he's involved in something that will not stand the light of day, I want pictures of it."

  … will not stand the light of day… Was this guy for real? No, of course he wasn't. He was a queer.

  "All right, Lou. Let's just say he is. And let's just say I do get pictures. What do you intend to do with them?" He shot up a hand in a stop gesture. "Don't tell me anything illegal, like blackmail. I can't be a party to blackmail. It's against the NYAPI code of ethics."

  Gorcey blinked. "Ny-ya—?"

  "The New York Association of Private Investigators."

  Richie had joined NYAPI when he opened his office, paid dues for one year—just long enough to earn a membership certificate to hang on his wall—then tossed all further mailings into the circular file. But claiming to follow a professional organization's code of ethics never failed to impress prospective clients. It assured them that they were dealing with a man of principle.

  Gorcey mumbled, "That's good to know…"

  "If you're planning to use these photos—assuming there's something worth photographing—to expose this man as a fraud and a charlatan, then that's fine. That's performing a public service. But blackmail? No, count me out."

  That was the speech, and convincing as usual. Should be. Richie had given it enough times.

  "No… no, I'm not looking to blackmail him. I want to, as you say, expose him for the money-grubbing mountebank he really is."

  Mountebank? What the hell was a mountebank? Some kind of a queer word or something?

  Gorcey leaned forward. "Will you help me? Tonight?"

  Richie thought about that. Yeah, he wanted the work, but he preferred not to rush things. He liked to max the billable hours. And he had a feeling it wouldn't hurt to play hard to get.

  "Why's it got to be tonight? What's wrong with next Sunday?"

  "Because I want him now." Gorcey was looking a little agitated, his sissy voice growing louder. "I don't want to allow him another whole week of defrauding people like me. I want to bring him down now. Do you hear me?" He slammed both fists on Richie's desk. "Now!"

  Richie held up his hands. "Okay, okay. I get the picture."

  This guy was really steamed. Richie fought back a smile. How'd that saying go? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? Or something like that.

  Gorcey leaned back. "Sorry. It's just… look, I'll pay you another two thousand just to follow him tonight and see what he's up to. Is that fair?"

  Fair? For four, five hours work? Damn-fuck right it was fair. This must be one rich queer.

  Richie had heard they tended to have bucks. No kids and all that…

  He put his head back and rotated it a little to the left and a little to the right, trying to look like a man wrestling with a decision. He'd already made up his mind, but he wasn't
ready to say yes. Who knew? If he stalled, maybe Gorcey would up the ante to three thousand.

  The act worked. Gorcey piped up and said, "I'll add another thousand if you get pictures I can use."

  You mean, Richie thought, photos you think you can use.

  By all rights he should tell the dumb schmuck that catching Luther Brady meeting with a girlfriend or even a boyfriend wasn't going to put much of a dent in his reputation. Not these days.

  Damn shame too. It made Richie long for the fifties. He'd been just a little kid at the time, but he remembered how uptight everyone had been back then. Those were the days when even a so-called breath of scandal could sink a career or a reputation. His sideline business would be so much easier and more profitable now if America hadn't changed. But it had. The new attitude was pretty much anything goes. Damn hard to shock people these days.

  He sure as shit wasn't telling Gorcey that, though.

  But if he did come up with something juicy—really juicy—he could always snap some extra shots—innocent ones—and tell Gorcey that all Brady did up there in the woods was sit alone and meditate.

  He'd keep the real deals to himself… and add Luther Brady to his herd of cows. Brady controlled millions. His milk would be extra rich and creamy.

  "Okay, Lou," Richie said. "I'll do it. Normally I lay a lot of groundwork—you know, thorough backgrounding and such—before I make a move, but I sense your urgency, Lou. I feel your pain, and so I'll make an exception in your case."

  Gorcey beamed and fluttered his hands again—higher this time. He looked genuinely delighted.

  "That's wonderful. I'll meet you tonight at—"

  Richie waved a hand. "Wait, wait. What do you mean, you'll meet me?"

  "I'm going with you."

  "Ohhhh, no. I work alone."

  Gorcey's lips tightened into a thin line. "Perhaps, but I expect you to make an exception this time. Especially considering the amount of money I'll be paying you."

  "Sorry. Can't allow it. You've got no experience in this sort of thing. You could blow the whole operation. And why would you want to come along anyway? That's what you're hiring me for."

  And besides, I don't want to be sitting in some car half the night with a queer.

  "I want to see for myself."