Sleeping Dogs

by Ed Gorman

  I went back up front. The black woman at the register said, “Help you, sir?”

  “I hope so.”

  She had a sweet smile. “Well, I’ll try, anyway.”

  The first thing I did was give her the physical description of the makeup woman. I didn’t bother giving her the name, because the name was a phony. “She might be or have been a hairdresser who knew something about makeup. For TV. A lot of local newspeople get makeup advice when they get their hair cut.”

  She had a button with a photo of her granddaughter on it. Cute little two- or three-year-old. She touched it as she squinted her eyes, furrowed her brow, trying to shape all the words I’d given her into a picture.

  She didn’t address me. She called another cashier over. “Nikki, this gentleman is trying to find a woman he thinks may come in here. I can’t place her, but you work nights half the time. Maybe she comes in then.”

  Nikki was white, thirty-something going on sixteen what with the nose ring, the tongue stud, the goth eye makeup, the spiky bottle-blond hair. If her face was hard, her body was soft in an extremely pleasing way.

  She started shaking her head before I got halfway through my description. “That could be several of our customers. Is there anything weird about her?”

  “Weird?”

  “Yeah, you know. Like a sloe eye or big nose or a scar or something?”

  “Not really.”

  “Hmm.” Then, “You know who might know her? Janine in back. She’s tried just about every hair place in the neighborhood. She’s very, very picky. She probably knows everybody who works around here.”

  “Could I talk to her?”

  “Sure. C’mon, I’ll take you back.”

  “Thank you,” I said to the black woman.

  Janine was indeed a fan of hair salons. She had a cast-iron hairdo that had last been seen in the known universe around 1960, a kind of modified reddish hair helmet that was a perfect complement to the wild makeup that gave her the look of a sinister doll. I put her age at fifty-five or so.

  Nikki did the introductions and left me alone with Janine, whose job, apparently, was going through the warehouse part of the store and matching the numbers on her clipboard with the numbers on the boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. They’d damned well better tally.

  “Makeup, huh? Those are the hardest ones to find. Just because a gal knows hair don’t mean she knows squat about makeup. And I’ve tried ’em all. And you know what? I do my own makeup now. I used to tell them how I wanted it to look—just the way it is now—and they’d try and talk me out of it. Every single time. Hey, who knows what I want better than I do? That’s what I finally decided, anyway.”

  “So nobody comes to mind?”

  “Sort of—vaguely, I mean. I mean, there was somebody who was supposed to be a real pro with makeup—and I’m sure I tried her, too—but right now I can’t get a name or a face. You got a phone?”

  “Why don’t I give you my cell phone number?”

  “You ever read those things can give you brain cancer?”

  “I’ve read that. Some studies say yes, some studies say no.”

  I wrote my number out and handed it to her.

  “If I come up with anybody, I’ll call you.”

  “I’d really appreciate it.”

  She patted her hair helmet. “I just wish my hair gal knew about makeup. If I had the time, I’d sit her down and explain it to her.”

  She was deranged but oddly likable. But then I realized that this description could probably apply to me, too. “I’m sure she’d appreciate that,” I said and got out of there.

  Abreast, a thigh, a buttock, a young woman easing herself down on a man’s penis. Breath coming in bursts, gasps. She has a fine, tight, lithe body. A couple very clear shots of her face. Surprisingly pretty.

  The man—our own Senator Warren Nichols—is also seen very clearly at least three times in the eight-minute videotape. He looks a lot better with his clothes on. He is also less than an ardent lover. He just wants to get off. He could be having sex with an inflatable woman. He just keeps wrenching her into whatever position is best for him at any given moment. A few of the positions are obviously painful for her and she mutters protests. Not that he gives a damn. Not that he tries to be any more considerate. Not that he treats her like any kind of equal.

  His cry is almost savage when he comes. Her expression is almost comic in the disgust and contempt it conveys as she watches him fall off her, sated and out of breath, flinging his arms out and lying on his back.

  “You’re quite the lover.”

  But he doesn’t catch the sarcasm. Through gasps, he says, “Thank you. You’re not bad yourself.”

  If he notices her slipping from the bed, tugging on her thong, combing her hair with her fingers, you can’t tell it from what the camera eye sees. He still seems to be riding the wave of his orgasm.

  “See you,” she says, a slight figure moving swiftly to the door.

  “You take care of yourself now,” Warren says from the bed.

  R. D. Greaves’s laugh was harsh. “Your man is some lover. Shit, I’ve treated whores better than that. Even the ones that gave me crabs.”

  His hotel room apartment was a nice one. Too nice for somebody like good old R.D. There were two Renoir prints, a massive TV, and a screened fireplace with an imposing natural stone hearth with rough edges. I would have been even more appreciative of the living room if I hadn’t been brooding over the videotape.

  “So, Sport, now you know I’m not bullshitting you, right?”

  We sat in chairs side by side in front of the TV set. Curtains drawn. Day for night.

  “I guess.”

  “You guess my ass. This is the real thing and you know it.”

  “A million dollars—we can’t come up with it.”

  “Listen, man, I had my accountant check him out. That much cash is always a hassle, but it’s there to be had. And if I don’t get it by tomorrow noon—”

  “I get sick of your threats.”

  “Well, I get sick of your bullshit.”

  “How about opening the drapes?”

  “Scared of the dark?”

  The sunlight was so stark it made me wince. This was one of those Midwestern turnaround days that would be unimaginable anywhere else. A near blizzard last night. Forty-two degrees this morning, the snow melting so fast it was flooding certain parts of the city.

  I was thinking about tomorrow, about what I had planned for it when I came back to this room just before noon. It was crude but it would work. It had damned well better work, anyway.

  “So what’s it going to be?”

  “We don’t have much choice, do we? Tomorrow noon, you’ll have your money. Where do I bring it?”

  “Right here.”

  “There’s no point in asking you if this is the only copy. I’m sure you’ve made several dupes of it. And I’m also sure you’re going to come back for more.”

  “Not unless I blow through that million awful fast.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  “I don’t get the full million tomorrow, asshole, I’m going to feed you to the rats. I don’t like people who waste my time.”

  I walked over and picked up my coat and slid my arms into it. “What happens if Lake ever finds out that you didn’t turn the tape over to him?”

  “What happens? Nothing happens, because he’ll never find out. You sure as hell won’t tell him, because then he’ll know your secret. And I sure as hell won’t tell him, because then he’d tell everybody what I did, and that wouldn’t exactly be good for my business rep, now, would it?”

  “Nothing’s ever that easy, Greaves. You should know that by now. You’ve convinced yourself that this is the easiest money you’ve ever made. But you know how things can happen, things you don’t expect at all.”

  A sneer. “If you’re trying to scare me, man, it won’t work. I want a million in hundred-dollar bills, just the way I told you. Then I’ll worry
about the rest.”

  At the door, I said, “I’m still going to nail your ass for drugging the senator’s drink last night.”

  He smiled. “You never quit, do you?”

  “Not when I’m after a scumbag like you.”

  “Aw, there you go again, Sport. Hurting my feelings. I guess you just don’t know how sensitive I am. You get me?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said, “I get you all right.”

  “I didn’t have jack to do with putting anything in his drink. And neither did Lake. If he had, I would’ve known about it. He would’ve asked me to do it.”

  The sunlight highlighted the coarseness of his face. The old pockmarks, the furious redness of the booze over the years. Once again I didn’t want to believe him, but I did. Nothing to do with rigging Warren’s drink.

  “You got some nice pussy working for you. Don’t suppose you’d line me up.”

  “Only way they’d ever go out with you, ‘Sport,’ is if they could wear biohazard suits.”

  “You’re forgettin’ how sensitive I am.”

  I got out of there without him winking at me. A small victory.

  CHAPTER 11

  When I got back to headquarters, I found Teresa Nichols, Kate, Laura, Gabe, and Billy sitting in Warren’s office drinking coffee and looking glum. They were like seven-year-olds who’d just been told they couldn’t go outside and play in the tornado.

  Billy said, “Have you heard the radio in the last five minutes?”

  “I just listen to the oldies station. The eighties was my decade. You know, when I was still innocent.”

  Laura dredged up a smile. “You were never innocent, Dev.”

  “All right, but I was at least semi-innocent.”

  “That I can live with.”

  “I’m afraid to ask, but what was on the radio?”

  “Oh, Dev,” Teresa said. “It was awful.”

  “Okay, which one of you is going to give me the first clue?”

  “They didn’t spend much time on Senator Nichols at all,” Kate said. “Most of it was about how heroic and manly and family values Jim Lake looked walking across the stage last night to help his opponent.”

  “They of course mentioned that he led us in prayer?”

  “Of course, Dev. They mentioned that twice, in fact.”

  Billy said, “They even mentioned the American flag he had stuck up his ass. Forgive my crudity, Teresa.”

  “Be my guest,” Teresa said.

  “God, can you imagine what the overnight polling is going to look like?” Laura said.

  “Where’s Warren?” I asked.

  Laura said, “I got him another big radio interview.”

  They were all here. “He’s down there alone?”

  “I thought I’d leave pretty soon.”

  “You leave right now,” I snapped at Laura. “Dammit, you’re communications director, remember? Get going.”

  “There’s no need for that, Dev,” Teresa said. “I was planning on going with her. Sometimes you treat my husband like a helpless child.”

  “No offense, Teresa, but sometimes he is a helpless child. He gets overwhelmed and says the wrong thing. That’s why he’s hired all of us here. To save him.”

  She decided to let me live. She sighed and said, “I suppose Dev’s right, Laura. We’d better get down there.”

  “It’s only ten minutes on the Dan Ryan,” Billy said helpfully.

  Before the door closed, and spoken so loudly that I couldn’t possibly miss it, Laura said, “I see Dev’s on the rag again.” And Teresa laughed, of course.

  “You could have handled that a little better, Bunny,” Kate said, standing up and walking over to get her coat from the rack. Bunny was her nickname for me. I’d never understood why exactly.

  “I suppose I could have.”

  “Technically, you were right. I don’t know what the hell Laura was thinking. She said she’d meet him at the studio. But I was starting to wonder when she was going to leave. But still—we don’t need the stress of you losing your temper.”

  “You can’t see it, but I’m actually groveling, Kate. I’ll apologize to Laura first chance I get. And was the radio really that bad?”

  “I’ve monitored five different stations,” Billy said. “Every one of them leads with how noble Lake was before they even mention the senator’s name. And since the senator is now up and around, the rest of the time is spent on how voters may now take a fresh look at Jim Lake, who the Nichols campaign and a lot of newspapers have tended to turn into a nut job who’s in the pocket of every crooked corporation in the United States.”

  “The poor baby,” Kate said as she left.

  Gabe, pouring himself some coffee, said, “This too shall pass, Dev.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Look who we’re dealing with here,” Gabe went on. “The guy who said that any Catholic who votes Democrat should be excommunicated.”

  “Lake took it back.”

  “But it shows that he’ll self-destruct. He probably would’ve done it at the debate the other night if somebody hadn’t fixed Warren’s Diet Pepsi.”

  “Maybe Gabe’s right, Dev. Lake does tend to self-destruct.”

  “Yeah, Billy, and maybe Warren can fly without needing a plane.”

  “Lake always ends up saying the wrong thing,” Gabe said.

  “Will you guarantee that in writing?”

  He appreciated the humor. “Sure. If I don’t have to sign my real name.”

  That afternoon, despite being pretty much drained from last night, I played handball for an hour. I was hoping to find a pickup opponent in the gym somewhere in the age range of eighty to ninety or who was legally blind. Unfortunately, the only guy I could find was about twenty-five and looked as if he bench-pressed Buicks to impress his girlfriends.

  He did me the favor of reviving me. I forgot everything but the game. If I hadn’t paid attention, he would have literally run over me. He saw what we were doing as mortal combat. He was a video-game star come to psychotic life. I don’t think he chuckled the word “pussy” more than four or five times when I missed plays. I was about fifteen years and many muscle groups older than he was. Afterward he congratulated me in the manner of an invading general patting the loser on the back. “You gave it your best, man.” I wondered how many times I could hit him in the face before he broke me in half. Well, “Pussy” was at least better than “Pops.”

  After showering, I found a deli that served Heineken and had myself a corned beef sandwich. I was playing hooky and I knew it. But finally the work ethic snuck up on me and dragged me back to headquarters. The press was gone. Phones, faxes, copiers, deliveries, minor crises—we were back to serious work again. And people of all ages, colors, religions, and degrees of power dreams ran about the place like the Japanese in those old Mothra monster movies cable can buy for cheap on Halloween.

  “I think you need a cup of coffee,” I said when I walked into the office in the back. Warren was alone, staring off with a frown making him look older than he was.

  “I need a lot more than that, Dev. Friend of mine says the Trib is going to run a big piece on Jim Lake tomorrow. Family, friends, the whole nine yards. He’s our new hero.” He snorted and shook his head. “Let us now all bow our heads and pray. Shit, if I’da known it was that simple I woulda brought some holy water along and blessed everybody in the audience. I was an altar boy, you know—and, no, I didn’t get buggered by a priest. You can’t say you were an altar boy anymore without somebody asking if some priest slipped you the sausage.”

  “Elegantly put. Now, c’mon. We’re going down the street for coffee.”

  When the waitress brought us our Danish along with our coffee, Warren said, “So you saw the video?”

  “I saw the video.” We had to speak much more softly this afternoon. The place was only half full. Words carried.

  “It’s legit?”

  I nodded. “I’m done the day after the election.”<
br />
  I took some pleasure in his startled reaction. “What the hell’s this all about?”

  “Just what I said it was about. I’m quitting the day after the election. Win or lose.”

  “I see. You’re getting sanctimonious on me. Thanks a lot. My ass is on the line here and you’re leaving.”

  “Not till it’s over.”

  “This is really bullshit, Dev.”

  “You lied to me. When I signed on, I said no lies.”

  “Well, you sleep around as much as I do and—” He stopped. “Before you give me a sermon, Monsignor Dev, let me correct that statement. When you sleep around as much as I used to—”

  “It’s all bullshit, Warren.”

  “What is?”

  “You’ve never stopped sleeping around. You’ve just figured out a way to hide it better.”

  “Here comes the sanctimony.”

  “The tape is for real. And so is his demand.”

  “He wants a million in hundred-dollar bills. We’re taking him the three hundred thousand. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “What if he wants more?”

  “He won’t.”

  “But what if he does?”

  “Don’t worry. I can handle it. As much as I don’t want to.”

  “And here I thought people in Congress were sleazy. This Greaves is something else, isn’t he?”

  “Both sides have got people like him.”

  “Oh, I forgot what you always say. That it’s a matter of degrees. Well, thank God we don’t have anybody as bad as Greaves.”

  “I need to know when the money will be ready.”

  “Tomorrow morning. I should be in the office by ten o’clock.”

  “Fine.”

  “Just don’t do anything crazy, Dev. Sometimes you worry me. You’ve got a dark side, my friend. You need to watch yourself.”

  “Do something crazy like sleep around on camera when I’m up for reelection, you mean?”

  “I was hungover. I’ve told you that. Different men react to being hungover in different ways. I always get this incredible hard-on.”

  “You could always abuse yourself.”