—Turn 'em all inside out.
On the desk is a pile much like the one he made on the floor of the Niagara's bathroom a few nights ago: baggie of pills, some scraps of paper covered in phone numbers, a creased discount admission card for New York Dolls, his tin of Nu Nile, some change and about ten bucks.
—See, Joe? Nothin'.
—Come here.
—Uh . . .
—Just come a step closer, Phil, I'm not gonna hit you.
He takes a step closer and I slap him across the face, grab the back of his neck, bend him over the desk and pat him down. Nothing. I let go of his neck. He stands up and takes a step back, rubbing the spot where I slapped him.
—Jeez, Joe.
__I'm gonna make you strip you don't come clean.
He holds his arms out to the sides. Christ on his cross.
—Joe, nothin', I swear.
—Strip.
He shakes his head.
—-Uh-uh. I know what you think, Joe, you think I'm a coward, and sure, sure I am. But even a coward, even a coward has limits. Even a coward has pride, Joe.
He juts his chin at me. I take a step toward him. He starts to unbutton his shirt.
—I'm doin' it, I'm doin' it.
He strips to a dingy pair of boxers and points at them.
—Skivvies?
—God no.
I go through every article of clothing, run my fingers over seams and under flaps. I find a bindle of crank rolled and slipped into the stay slot on the underside of his shirt collar, but that's it.
—OK, put 'em back on.
He's wiggling his skinny ass back into those impossibly tight 501s when I remember his shoes.
—Let me see the wingtips.
—Huh?
—The shoes.
—Yeah, shoes.
He tries to dip his hand inside the right one before he passes it over and I grab his wrist and twist. A card drops out of his fingers and flips to the floor. It lands faceup. A Chase bank card: Amanda Marilee Horde.
Phil stares at the card.
__Wow, where the hell that come from?
—Where's the girl, Philip?
—I don't—
—Where?
—I don't—
—Phil, don't make the mistake of thinking I give a crap about you. I don't. At the best of times I don't like you. And right now I'm pissed. Pissed and really fucking hungry. Where's the girl?
—I don't—
I stuff Dobbs's toupee in his mouth.
—Mlumph. Mlph.
I reach in my back pocket, pull out my switchblade and thumb it open.
—I'm gonna do it old school, Phil. Poke one of your arteries, cover the hole with my mouth. It's like hitting from a beer bong.
My mouth starts to water as I talk about it. I don't want to suck on a scumbag like Philip, but I'm getting hungry enough to seriously consider it.
—Or I could haul you up to the roof, dangle you over the side and if I don't like the answers I get, I can just drop you. Let some bottomfeeder lick you off the sidewalk. You get the picture, Phil? —Ylmph.
—So where's the girl?
I pull out the now slimy toupee.
—I swear, Joe, I swear!
I start to shove the toupee back in his mouth.
—No! Mlph. Nlmph. I swearmph.
He's trying to keep his lips pressed together so I can't get the toupee all the way in.
—Didn'tmph. No onemph. Said. Mph. About. Girlmph!
I yank it out.
—Who said what?
—They didn't say nothing about no girl!
—What did they say, Phil?
—Nothing. They said take a look, take a look around is all.
—Who, Phil?
—I don't—
—Predo?
He jumps like a cat with a cherry bomb up its ass.
—Yeah, Phil, that's what I thought.
He gets dressed and I toss the rest of the office and find nothing that helps. Dobbs was an old-timer, probably had his prime back when I was hanging with Terry and the Society. I've heard of the guy in the way you hear about people that are in similar lines of work. Dobbs was mostly a straight-up skip tracer and window peeper, but he did a little rough stuff; push a guy around, collect a debt, that kind of thing. There's no reason to think he knew much about what goes on, and no reason why the Hordes would have hired him in the first place. Take it a step further, when I look in his file cabinet there's no Horde file at all. And while Dobbs may have been old school, there's an extra phone line sticking out of the wall that's not attached to anything, and an empty laptop case in the closet. Figure whoever did the choke job took his laptop so they wouldn't have to worry about any files on the hard drive, along with whatever hard copies were in the cabinet. But the asshole missed the bank card. Or didn't know about it.
—Phil.
He sticks his head out of the bathroom where he is once again resurrecting his pomp.
—Yeah?
—What say I buy you a drink?
We go across 14th to the Beauty Bar.
We needed to get out of that office, never a good idea to hang around too long with a dead body.
A corpse in an office is going to lead to cops sooner or later. And cops are a problem. Cops get ahold of you and you're in their system: go where they tell you to go, when they tell you to go. Cops nab you and it's impossible to control your environment. Try telling a cop you're allergic to the sun and he'll make you stand outside at high noon with a tanning reflector held up to your face just to teach you a lesson about smarting off. More to the point, try getting some blood from another con in a holding cell and that's it, game over. So no cops. Ever.
At the Beauty, I take the double bourbon and the fancy Scotch to where Phil is sitting in one of the chairs with the old-fashioned hair dryers mounted on the back. I pass him his drink and sit on a stool in front of him.
—Thanks, Joe. Sure I can't have my stash back? I could sure use a little boost right about now.
Stash. We'd all like our stash back. I got his in my pocket. God knows when and where I'm gonna get to take care of mine.
—Later.
—Whatever you say, Joe.
He takes a sip of his whiskey and I take a gulp of mine.
—So what's the deal, Phil?
—Deal?
I reach in my pocket and pull out Phil's baggie of pills and the bindle of crank. I fish out one of the pills, a little white tablet stamped with a number. It'll be Dexi-something, pharmaceutical grade from the look of it. Definitely a step up from the cheap black beauties he was carrying the other night.
I show him the pill.
—Yeah, Phil, what's the deal, as in what did Predo tell you?
He jumps again.
—Jeez, Joe, you know better than to use that name. 'Specially down here where the man ain't so popular.
I squeeze the pill between my thumb and forefinger and it pops into dust. Philip's eyes bug.
—Joe!
I hold up another pill.
—I'm going cold turkey, Phil, courtesy of Mr. Dexter Predo. I thought you might want to join me.
I pop the pill. He bounces in the seat.
—Joe! Joe, God, ya ain't even askin' me any questions.
I pop another one.
—Joe! I! Whaddya?
Pop.
—Ohhhhh, maaaaan.
He slumps back in the seat, his head ducked under the hair dryer.
—Said, Go take a look. That's it, man.
I hold another pill before his sad eyes.
—When?
—Morning. Morning for me, Joe. Like four this afternoon. Got a call. Man said, Go to this place, take a look, don't touch nothing.
—Then what?
—Then what, nothing. Take a look. Period, Joe. Peer-e-ud.
—When you supposed to report?
—Said they'd call me.
—When?
—Soon.
I drop the pill back in the baggie.
—Well you better go to ground, Phil.
I stand up, drop the baggie in his lap.
—You can keep those.
He grabs the baggie and goes to stand up, but bonks his head on the dryer. He plops back into the seat and rubs his forehead.
—I gotta be home when he calls, Joe. Worth my life if I ain't home when he calls.
—Find a hole, Phil. Find a hole, crawl in and pull it in after you. If you don't? I find out you been talking with Predo about this? I'll get you a hole. I'll dig it myself.
On the walk home I look over the ATM receipts from Dobbs's wallet. The four digits of the card number printed on the receipt match the last four on Amanda Horde's card. I look at the withdrawal amounts and I get it. Cagey kid.
With my face stuffed in the receipts I don't see the limo in front of my place until I'm right next to it. I look up. She's standing there next to my front door.
—Good evening, Joseph. May I speak with you for a moment?
I stay where I am on the sidewalk.
—I think that might be a bad idea.
—What would be a bad idea?
—You and me talking.
—Where did you get a silly idea like that?
—From your husband.
She smiles.
—All the more reason for you to invite me in.
She puts a hand alongside her mouth and stage-whispers.
—So as to avoid prying eyes.
I open the door. She follows me in.
Marilee Horde has been drinking. And she doesn't want to stop.
—Are you going to offer me a drink, Joseph?
—Bourbon's all I have.
She smiles.
—Of course it is.
She wanders around the apartment while I get the bottle and pour the drinks. We're on the ground floor. The trap that leads to my real digs is sealed. She's peeking in the bedroom. I leave dirty laundry strewn about and the bed unmade; everything meant to look lived in and well used. I hand her a drink.
—Thank you.
My senses are dull, but I can smell that she's not wearing the lavender oil she had on when we first met. She's scrubbed and clean, wearing a low-cut, sleeveless black blouse, short black skirt, and knee-high black leather boots. The uptowner's uniform for a trip to the East Village. Her bare arms are lean, cut muscle. She's not just toned by yoga classes, but hard, conditioned by hours of weight lifting. A sharp vein rides the edge of her right bicep. I can almost see the blood pumping through it. She walks to the secondhand couch and drops onto it, some of the whiskey sloshing onto her leg.
She wipes her finger through the dribble of bourbon on the bare patch of skin between the hem of her skirt and the top of her boots. She licks the finger.
—Not bad, Joseph. What is it?
—Old Grand-Dad.
—Excellent. And I should know.
—Whatever you say.
I sit in the chair across from the couch. She leans to the side and lifts the edge of a curtain to look out at the street. Her limo is gone. I asked her to send it away. Limos aren't all that rare around here, but I don't need one sitting out front collecting eyeballs. She gestures at the window.
—Aren't these a bit of a hazard?
—How so?
—You know.
She makes a little burning noise at the back of her throat and dances her fingers like flames.
I shrug.
She exhales loudly through her nostrils.
—Joseph, you are being positively . . . reticent. I'm trying to make conversation and you're being reticent.
—Sorry.
She laughs.
—Oh, you are droll.
—That's what my friends tell me.
She leans forward, elbows on knees. Her skirt creeps up a couple inches and I see the lace edge of a black silk half-slip.
—You have friends?
I shrug. She scoots farther forward. The skirt edges up another inch.
—A girlfriend?
I shrug. She shakes her head, reclines back into the seat.
—Positively reticent. So much for my morbid curiosity. I imagine you would prefer to talk professionally.
—I assume that's why you're here.
She rolls her eyes.
—Yes, I suppose it is. Well?
—Well?
—Have you found anything?
—This.
I take the ATM card out of my pocket and offer it to her. She leans forward and reaches, deep cleavage is exposed by several undone buttons on her blouse. She looks at the card. Her face shows nothing.
—So you found her?
—Just the card.
—Where was it?
—Chester Dobbs had it.
—And how did he get it.
I take a drink.
—I'm guessing she gave it to him.
She furrows her brow. I point at the card.
—You said you called him when she first went missing. He said he'd look for her, then called the next day and bailed. Figure he found her on that one day, but she didn't want to be found. She offered him a bribe. The card and her code. Two hundred a day for as long as she wasn't found. Damn sight better than the one-day fee he was gonna get if he turned her right over. Least that's what he thought.
I take out the sheaf of ATM receipts, about a week's worth. All of them telling him the maximum had already been drawn for that day.
She looks at them, starts to giggle and covers her mouth.
—Oh no. Amanda.
—Yeah. She must have been going into the bank right when it opened and getting the max from a teller.
She's looking at the last one.
—But why didn't he just go to an ATM right after midnight?
—The real question is why he didn't stay on the job and collect from both you and your daughter. Looks like Dobbs had a couple holes in his game.
She drops the slips and the card on the couch, holds her glass between her thighs and claps.
—Well done, Joseph.
She takes the glass in her hand again, drains it.
—How much does he want to tell us where she is?
—Couldn't say. He's dead.
Not a flicker.
—Oh, my.
She holds out her empty glass.
—Would you mind?
I take the glass to the kitchen counter, toss in a couple ice cubes and fill it. When I pass it back our fingers graze.
—Thank you.
She drinks.
—How did he?
—Strangled.
She lifts her glass and presses it against her neck.
—Why?
I point at the card.
—For that.
—Did you . . . ?
—No.
—Is there reason to be concerned for Amanda's well-being?
I finish my drink.
—Yeah, there's plenty of that.
I'm fixing our fifth round. I tell myself the drunker she gets the more she'll talk. And that's true. But it's also true that the drunker I get the more I peek up her skirt.
I walk over to the couch, hand Marilee her drink. She has to try twice before she can get her fingers around it. Reclined on the couch, she props her head up with her hand and takes a sip.
—They're getting better. Why is that?
—I'm pouring more in the glass.
She laughs and a little bourbon sprays from her lips.
—A joke! Excellent, you're loosening up, getting into the spirit of things.
—Yeah, life of the party, that's me.
She gives a seal bark of a laugh.
—Another one!
She squirms around on the cushions so she can look at me.
The skirt has climbed all the way to her hips and her blouse has twisted around so that I can see most of her right breast through the translucent material of her bra.
—Are you getting tipsy, Joseph?
I shrug.
—Back to that, are we?
She shrugs several times, making little grunting noises. Her breast peeks further from her blouse. The edge of a nipple appears.
—Like my daughter. Where are you going, Amanda?
She does the shrugging grunting thing again.
—When will you he hack, Amanda?
Shrug. Grunt.
—Who's your new friend, Amanda?
More of the same.
—You know many of her friends?
—Hmmn? Why? Oh right, work. Trying to find my daughter. I know some. She brings them around to raid the kitchen from time to time.
—Ever meet a girl named Whitney Vale?
She barks again.
—Oh, God. Her! Whitney.
She takes a drink, spills some down her cheek and wipes it away.
—Amanda's little idol. God save us.
—Watch the news lately, Ms. Horde?
She looks at a movie poster thumbtacked to the wall above my head, They Drive by Night.
—Yes.
—So you heard about what happened to Whitney?
—Of course.
—You know it happened in the same school where your daughter was squatting last summer?
Her eyes move from the poster to my face.
—Yes, I believe I made that connection.
—And it never occurred to you to mention to me that your daughter knew her?
—Joseph.
She drains her drink.
—Trust me when I tell you that what happened to Whitney Vale was only a matter of time. As for the rest. You were recommended to me as a detective of sorts. I suppose I assumed that if any of this were important, you'd detect it.
I look at the ice melting in my glass.
—Uh-huh. Your husband know Whitney Vale?
—My husband? Oh, God, yes. Dr. Dale Edward Horde makes a special point of meeting all his daughter's friends whenever possible.
—Why's that?
She looks at me, levers her upper body up from the couch. I can see the entire breast now. It's perfect.
—Josephs. I was sixteen when I first met Dale, and he was thirty-four. Why do you think he wants to meet the friends of his teenage daughter? God, didn't you know that's why Amanda ran away?
She drops flat again.
—And if you're going to fuck me you better do it now before I pass out.
She's staring at me, perfect tit hanging out, skirt so high I can see the lower lip of a black thong that probably cost a hundred dollars. My dick is hard. I shift in my seat. I rub a hand over my unshaven face. The patch of sunburned skin is still tender. I swallow the last of my drink and stand up. I walk to the bottle on the counter.
Already Dead Page 13
