Palindrome

by E. Z. Rinsky

  “Alright, alright. Forget it. Thoughtfulness, subtlety, whatever.”

  For a moment we are each preoccupied with our respective drinks.

  “Seems like there’s no reason not to spend a few days checking it out, right?” I finally say delicately. “If the trail is too cold, or we get a bad feeling, just have to let her know. Maybe even give her five grand back so she doesn’t smear us around town. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have anything better to work on right now. I closed out my last active case two nights ago.”

  Courtney fiddles with a long raggedy hair protruding from his chin. He’s clearly still trying to talk himself out of this.

  “I don’t generally like to jump into something with so many questions still up in the air. For one, why did she wait five years to hire someone?”

  I don’t want to admit it, but that thought never occurred to me.

  “Maybe we’re not the first.”

  “Why is this worth three hundred fifty thousand to this woman?” Courtney fires back.

  “Obviously, money is no object to her.”

  Courtney polishes off his lentils.

  “But you’re right,” I say. “I guess we should probably speak to Orange. That’s how she got my number. Try to figure out what the hell Greta’s deal is—­what he knows about her—­before we get too deep into this.”

  Courtney flinches at the mention of Orange. He points a knobby index finger at me, his face stone. “I refuse to deal with that hunk of human excrement again. If you think—­”

  “That doesn’t sound very patient, Courtney.”

  He exhales loudly through his nostrils. I can imagine the conflict waging behind his pale half-­moon forehead as he replays our last encounter with Orange.

  After my schmooze with Orange in the back of his Escalade, I called another PI I knew, asked if he could recommend a good tracker to help me find these Italian forgers. He gave me Courtney’s email and assured me that he was the absolute best he’d ever worked with. When I explained the job to Courtney, I was totally honest: I didn’t know exactly what was going on behind the iron grate of Midtown Fitness, but I suspected two of the usual suspects: gambling or drugs.

  It was only after we found the two Italians and delivered them—­duct taped and not in the best spirits—­to Orange’s place of business that we understood exactly what we were dealing with: Orange was a pimp. Worse than a pimp, actually. He ran a sex dungeon in Midtown, and all of the poor girls were Korean and Chinese immigrants who’d undoubtedly been brought to the States under false pretenses. The reason I never saw women coming or going? They were never allowed to leave. They lived down there.

  Courtney had been so horrified at discovering the true nature of our employer that he’d refused to accept any payment for our seven weeks of work. Drug dens were one thing, he said, but he didn’t do business with men who kept girls in cages. I didn’t feel great about it either and apologized profusely for my naiveté, but I couldn’t end up working seven weeks for free, dirty money or not.

  “Court. We need to know what he knows about Greta.” I’m by no means an Orange apologist; he’s an unequivocal piece of garbage. But pieces of garbage won’t open up if you’re going to ride in on your high horse, making demands.

  Law of interrogation: Prisoner is infinitely more likely to talk if he trusts you. Surest way to earn his trust is to have an actual open mind, to not prejudge. So when I’m dealing with a scumbag, I try to fixate on one positive aspect about them.

  In Orange’s case, it’s that I feel a little sorry for the guy. Last time we saw him, I realized he is totally miserable. Intensely lonely, horribly bored, his only passion is the art and artifacts that he collects to class-­up his palatial sex dungeon. Crazy as it sounds, I felt like he really wanted to be friends with me. And when Courtney refused payment, he seemed weirdly betrayed.

  “I am not dealing with him,” Courtney repeats, shaking his head into his tea, again trying to convince himself, not me.

  “But if anything, doesn’t that experience reinforce how important it is to do our due diligence on clients?”

  Courtney frowns into the grain of the wood tabletop. Then looks up at me.

  “Didn’t you promise Greta confidentiality?” he says. “That you wouldn’t tell anyone she hired us?”

  I pick up my coffee to hide a smirk. Courtney’s will is weakening. I can hear the airy resignation in his voice. It’s just too much money to walk away from. It’s like throwing away a lottery ticket before scratching it. Get in that habit and you won’t be in this line of work for long.

  “Yeah but . . .” I say. “We gotta figure out what her connection to Orange is. If we take this case, we gotta talk to him.”

  “Ugh . . .” Courtney rubs his temples with the pads of his index fingers. Too much money, and I’m making too much sense. He wants to say yes so bad. Though truth is, I knew I had him once he started talking about mummies. “You’re right. There’s too much that’s weird about this whole thing. What’s with the gloves? And the cash? Even if her family is fabulously wealthy . . . She walks around with fifteen grand in her purse?”

  “She knew that cold, hard cash was what it would take to get us on board.” I smile. “I mean, you’re on board, right?”

  Courtney flares his nostrils and polishes off his tea.

  “Yes. I suppose I am.”

  I DROP SADIE off with the Feinsods, a sweet family who lives right down Grand Street in a co-­op building. Sadie and I met Tammy Feinsod and their son Ben six years ago at some kind of toddler convention in a Lower East Side community center. Sadie and Ben have had playdates scheduled weekly ever since, and they really hit it off. It’s gonna get weird when they hit puberty.

  I tell Tammy I’ll be gone at least a week and try to pay her. She refuses adamantly. I insist, telling her at least take two hundred for food and stuff. She won’t take it.

  “I’ll try to call every night,” I tell Sadie at the doorway.

  “You still haven’t said where you’re going!” she says.

  I can feel my lips squirming. It’s my body expressing how much it hates having to lie to her. I’ll actually be in the city at least another day, while we find Orange and ask him about Greta. But things might get involved, messy. Don’t want Sadie waiting outside school for a dead-­beat that’s too busy getting some complimentary chiropractic work from Orange’s pet gorillas to pick her up.

  “Courtney and I need to check some stuff out up in Maine.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  Tammy’s expression is a little expectant—­like she’s curious to hear the answer too.

  This is why I don’t have many friends. The ­people I work with are generally idiosyncratic loners, and the ­people I don’t work with I have nothing in common with.

  Tammy is a manager at some skin-­care products company, and her husband, Greg, is a programmer. When they first asked me what I do for a living, I told them I was just doing a few freelance projects—­technically not a lie. It would be too much of a production to explain the whole thing; I work and live in a world they don’t even know exists. I kept answering in vague half-­truths until Tammy and Greg got the idea and stopped asking about my professional life.

  “A freelance insurance investigation.” I smile sadly. “Boring stuff. But really I’ll call whenever I can, okay? And you can call me, too, whenever Mr. and Mrs. Feinsod say it’s okay.”

  Sadie crosses her arms and puffs out her chest. “You and Courtney weren’t talking about insurance.”

  I sigh and shrug at Tammy like kids, what can you do?

  “I’ll give you two a minute,” Tammy says and disappears back into the apartment.

  I take a knee and look Sadie directly in the eyes. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back, okay, sweetheart?”

  “Are you working for that tall lady
?”

  I grimace. “Yes.”

  “She was a bitch.”

  I scratch my neck. “I didn’t really like her either, to be honest. But don’t use that word.”

  “You think she’s pretty, huh?”

  Do I have it written in pen on my forehead?

  “Yeah. She’s pretty.” I sigh.

  “Don’t be stupid, Dad. You don’t have to work for everyone that asks you.”

  “I have to try on this one, sweetie. She’s paying me a lot. We can go on a long vacation if I can figure this one out.”

  Sadie eyes me dubiously. “You’re bringing Courtney with you, right?”

  I nod.

  “You should do whatever he says. He’s smarter than you.”

  I kiss her on the cheek and hug her.

  “I know,” I say. “Much smarter.”

  A HALF HOUR later I meet Courtney down the street in Seward Park. I’ve got Orange’s number cued up but try to get in the right state of mind before I dial. Every client deals with a slightly different Frank Lamb, depending on their needs. With Orange I err on the side of aggressive and no-­nonsense; show any weakness to Orange and he’ll exploit it.

  “Just call, it won’t get any easier,” says Courtney.

  “Respect my methods,” I say. “Unless you’d like to call yourself?”

  He grimaces at the phone like it’s some kind of bomb.

  “That’s what I thought,” I say. Take a few more deep breaths then hit call.

  The phone rings only once.

  “Midtown Fitness.”

  The words are low and muddy. I can just tell the guy on the other end is four times my size.

  “I wanna talk to Orange,” I say, trying to match his baritone and sprinkling in a little Brooklyn accent for flavor. Next to me on the park bench, Courtney rolls his eyes.

  Orange goes through these charades like making you arrange an appointment through one of his cronies—­as if he doesn’t have time to take calls himself. Best I can figure, he rarely leaves his dungeon. And he’s running a brothel and gambling den, not a hotel; it’s not like he’s burdened with paperwork and managerial tasks.

  Why the games? I’m guessing because Orange’s whole operation is a lie, in the sense that he’s not the kind of guy who should be a pimp. After combing around a bit, I found out he inherited the biz after his dad died in an ice fishing accident over a decade ago. Orange’s natural curiosity, haughty eye for culture and propensity for sitting would have served him well as a film or food critic. But circumstance has thrust this hideous specimen into life as a crime lord, so he wastes away playing the part.

  I suspect that in some tiny corner of his psyche he feels guilty about the girls. But what can he do? Can’t ever show that weakness to his employees. Problem is, his insecurities don’t make him less dangerous. Quite the opposite really. Never fuck with someone who feels like they have something to prove. I’ve heard stories of him beating his girls to the brink of death and of having one of his goons dismembered for doing a side job for a competitor. Probably the only reason Courtney was spared the same fate after insulting him by refusing payment was because Orange didn’t want the reputation of hurting private contractors, whose ser­vices he employs occasionally to hunt down debtors.

  A pregnant pause on the phone.

  “Who is this?”

  Gotta play his stupid goddamn game.

  “Tell him it’s Frankie. Lamb.”

  A click as the phone is set down. I breathe on my hands to keep warm. Courtney is wearing a bright red duck-­hunting hat, a ratty grey scarf over a thick flannel shirt, and tight blue jeans that hug his tiny thighs, wrapping them up like blue taquitos.

  Little kids are everywhere. Running around with a basketball, no hoop in sight; crawling up and down the freezing metal slide; hanging on the monkey bars, T-­shirts pulled up to reveal their tiny midriffs. Lots of giggling and screaming—­next time I’ll choose a tougher-­sounding location to call a gangbanger from.

  I snap to attention as the goon picks the phone back up.

  “Orange wants to know if you’re still working with the skinny-­ass guido.”

  I glance up at Courtney, and we lock eyes. He can tell something’s up.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Hold on.” The phone is set down again.

  “What is it?” Courtney whispers, concerned.

  I put my hand over the receiver. “Your lucky day. I think I’m gonna have to go there alone.”

  He looks relieved.

  The dude picks the phone back up. “Orange says he’ll talk to you, but you gotta bring your guido friend in with you. Orange wants an apology from him. Come at six today. Bring a towel. We don’t have them here.”

  Then he hangs up.

  “So?” Courtney asks eagerly. “I’m off the hook?”

  I stare at the cold pavement and click my tongue.

  “No. I misunderstood. You gotta come too. Sounds like Orange won’t talk to me unless you come with and apologize first.”

  Courtney’s frown extends until the edges of his lips are nearly touching his neck. I think I see a vein popping in his forehead.

  “We gotta talk to him, Courtney,” I say.

  “He probably wants to lure me there so he can kill me.”

  “If he was gonna kill you, he would have done it last time you were there. He’s just prideful. Wants you to grovel.”

  “Can’t you do this over the phone?”

  I hand him my cell. “You’re welcome to try.”

  He shakes his head emphatically and then, with an air of resignation, stands up from the bench. He has absolutely no hips or butt; his pants are held up only by a fading rawhide belt that clings desperately to his concave stomach, like it’s terrified that if Courtney misses one more meal, it will tumble into the abyss.

  “Will you come with?” I ask.

  Courtney shakes his head slowly in disbelief, staring distantly at the kids on the jungle gym.

  “Seems that if we’re working together on this, I don’t have a choice.”

  “Good man,” I say, standing and clapping him on his boney back.

  “Words won’t be enough,” Courtney says, watching some kids squeal, coasting down a twisty metal slide. “We gotta bring him something if we want him to talk. A token of goodwill.”

  “Best Buy gift certificate?”

  “How long do we have?”

  “We gotta get there at six. So three hours. He likes artsy-­fartsy stuff. Something that flatters his intelligence and worldliness would be good. Maybe a painting or something?”

  Courtney scratches at his stubbly cheek.

  “Cake. Everybody likes cake.”

  IT’S ALREADY GETTING dark as I hit the Midtown Fitness buzzer. To our left, a waiter from the Polish diner next door is writing the dinner specials on a chalkboard. I think I catch him shooting us a disapproving look. He must see enough sleazy-­looking fellows buzzing in here to get the general idea.

  Courtney pulls his scarf tight around his pencil-­thin neck as I wave to the camera above the door. Five long seconds later there’s a buzz and the grated metal door clicks open. Courtney hesitates before stepping over the threshold.

  “Come on,” I say, starting down the metal staircase carrying a white Styrofoam box containing Orange’s present: a $40 slice of cake encased in a glass cube, with a phony certificate of authenticity from a guy Courtney knows in a Soho antique store. Case is sealed, so Orange won’t be able to inspect it closely enough to tell it’s fake; Courtney’s friend assured us no collector would ever open the case and risk the specimen disintegrating. “We’re already late. Orange hates tardiness.”

  “He’s so principled,” mutters Courtney as he comes in after me.

  Midtown Fitness is accessible only via a poor
ly lit metal staircase—­slippery and wet from ­people tracking in snow—­that takes us twenty feet below street level. The staircase turns right into a dank corridor, peppered with heavy doors marked only with rusty combination locks. Behind each door is at least one drugged-­up sex slave. The last time we were here, bringing Orange the forgers, I witnessed a client sheepishly ask the guy at the gym desk for a “personal training session” and slip him some cash. In return he received a slip of paper with a door number and combination, plus a hearty enjoinder to enjoy his “workout.”

  “I really could have died happy never coming back to this place,” sighs Courtney as we follow the weak light down the hallway. Orange keeps it dark. Maybe for mood lighting. Or maybe his clients don’t want anyone to see their wretched faces.

  “But you have to admire Orange’s entrepreneurial spirit,” I chuckle.

  “He’s truly loathsome.”

  On cue, a stifled moan echoes from behind one of the doors.

  “Loathsome, sure. But honorable in certain ways. Paid us on delivery. More than you can say for most.”

  Courtney snorts.

  “Honorable,” he repeats. “Yeah, that’s the first adjective that comes to mind when I think about doping up fifteen-­year-­old Korean girls too.”

  “Get it all out of your system now,” I say.

  The corridor terminates in a glass door: the entrance to the gym. Inside, it isn’t lit much better than the hallway. The bald guy at the front desk on the other side of the glass isn’t even bothering to keep up with the fitness charade today, just munching on a Snickers while he gazes blankly at a closed-­circuit TV. I knock on the door, and he looks up at us.

  “Open,” he yawns.

  Behind him is a dingy, whitewashed room housing a sorry collection of dumbbells, mats and benches. There’s a single stationary bike and a dusty treadmill that I don’t think is even plugged in. There’s one guy working out: a crew-­cut employee grunting in rhythm with his bicep curls, dark sweat stains on the chest of his Michigan State sweatshirt. We tread over water-­stained carpeting to the reception desk.

  “Welcome to Midtown Fitness,” the bald guy grunts in a thick Russian accent, seeming to resent the interruption.