by Dick Lochte
‘People forget the Rita thing came first. What that didn’t wipe clean, Katrina took care of. And then came the BP oil spread.’
‘Jesus. Bet you wished you’d been back high and dry inside Pel, huh?’
‘Not really,’ Mace said. ‘You’d know if you’d ever been inside.’
Abe’s face registered embarrassment. A fleeting gesture. ‘How can a humble whoremonger be of help?’ he asked.
‘I’m hoping you’re still the go-to guy when it comes to what’s going down in the city.’
‘A living, breathing Google on El Lay, that’s me. Enjoying the fruits of the age of information.’
‘I need some background on a woman.’
‘Ah, romance.’
‘Not exactly,’ Mace said.
‘If she works the city I’ll know her.’
‘She’s no pro. At least, I don’t think so. Her name is Angela Lowell. Blonde, twenties, trim. Lady exec type.’
‘Tits?’ Abe asked.
For some reason the question annoyed Mace. ‘A pair, would be my guess,’ he said.
Abe furrowed his brow and stared at the cup of coffee in front of him. After a few beats, he unfurrowed and shook his head. ‘Don’t think I know the lady. Sorry.’
Mace took Wylie’s pad from his pocket. ‘You familiar with these places: The Leather Derby, The Honeymoon Court Drugs, The Inpost?’
‘Dress shops, shoe shops, a drug store. What about ’em?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me,’ Mace said, pocketing the pad. ‘Legit? Fronts? Connected in any way?’
‘It’d help if you told me what’s on your mind.’
‘Only confusion,’ Mace said.
A waitress in short skirt, black stockings and a baggy sweater approached their table.
‘Something to drink, Mace?’ Abe asked. ‘Coffee, cider, Perrier?’
Mace shook his head, no.
‘Nothing for us, honey,’ Abe said to the waitress. ‘But ask Teddy to keep an eye out for Jerry Monte. He’s late as usual.’
‘Who’s this Monte?’
‘Jerry Monte? Jesus, Mace, welcome to the world. He’s the new Justin Timberlake.’
‘Who?’
Abe blinked. ‘Let’s try the new, white, hetero Michael Jackson, may God rest his soul. Jerry Monte’s music gets millions of downloads. His movies top the lists and his computer games are everywhere you look. He created Captain Combat.’
‘That Jerry Monte,’ Mace said. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Well, he’s why this place is packed. The kids don’t come out to hear Miss Dirty Knickers over there.’
Mace looked at the poetess who was carefully enunciating every word of an excruciatingly amateurish piece of poetic self-exploration. Buried in her doughy face was his faint memory of a rosebud-mouthed starlet.
‘If this Monte guy is so big time, what draws him here? The girls?’
‘Most of the showbiz cretins come in to read because it makes them feel intelligent,’ Abe said. ‘But Jerry’s got money in the club, not that that removes him from the cretin list.
‘So, do you want me to try and turn something up on Miz Lowell?’
‘You get a line on her, you can reach me at The Florian. I’m registered there under Wylie.’
‘You still on Paulie Lacotta’s team?’ Abe said.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘The rumor was you took your fall for him.’
‘You know how rumors are,’ Mace said.
Abe had a comment but forgot it when the club went suddenly silent. His eyes shifted to the entrance where two very black walking slabs of beef had just moved past the bouncer. ‘And heeeeere’s Jerry,’ Abe said, standing. ‘I gotta go meet and greet. Stick around for the show. He’ll probably be reading from Charles Bkowski or maybe Rod McKuen. One of the greats.’
‘I’ve gotta run anyway,’ Mace said. ‘I’m susceptible to frostbite.’
‘Mind leaving by the rear?’ Abe asked, pointing to a back door. ‘Jerry sees you walking out, he’ll take it personally.’
‘What’ll he do? Cry?’
‘No. He’ll probably get his two associates to make you cry.’
Mace glanced at the two bodyguards.
‘Actually, he’s not that big an asshole. But it’ll probably piss him off and he’ll vent out on me.’
‘Rear door it is,’ Mace said. ‘If Paulie or anybody else asks, you haven’t seen me. OK?’
‘You can trust me, Mace. Honest Abe,’ he said as he moved off to meet the new pop wonderboy.
Mace had a vague feeling that he’d made a mistake coming to Abe. He’d always been a stand-up guy, but people changed. He watched the lanky aging entrepreneur approach the shorter, younger newcomer and do that hand-slap bullshit.
What the hell. If he had been stupid to seek Abe’s help, it was too late to do anything about that now. And what was the worst that could come of it?
He made his exit through the club’s rear door.
FIVE
Abe’s mind was spinning as fast and erratically as a Tijuana roulette wheel. Had he kept a game face or had Mace been able to read a reaction to the bitch’s name?
No. He’d been cool. He was Abe, for Christ’s sake.
He put on his fixed grin and moved in past Jerry Monte’s two beasts of burden to high five the tanned, diminutive superstar who was dressed in the tattered, soiled style known as homeless chic.
‘Jesus, it’s like a meat locker in here,’ Jerry Monte said. ‘I can see my breath.’
‘I’ll bring it up a few degrees,’ Abe said, though he had no intention of doing so. He liked it cold.
‘Some crowd, huh?’ Jerry Monte said. His spiked jet-black hair had been given a blueberry tint since their last meeting. ‘My net geeks got everything goin’?’
‘We’ll be blasting broadband in exactly fifteen minutes,’ Abe said, hoping it was true. He left that end of things up to the Geek Chorus, the two sullen men and one sullen woman who worked for Monte and handled the Empourium’s web site and its accoutrements. They usually got the job done.
‘There’s this freaking incredible poem this broad works at the Hyatt in Orlando tipped me to. It’s called ‘Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright.’ That’s t-y-g-e-r. By this dude named William Blake.’
‘Bobby’s dad?’ Abe asked, and was immediately annoyed with himself for snarking at the wrong time and at definitely the wrong person.
But he need not have been concerned.
Jerry Monte was oblivious to the sarcastic nature of the question. ‘I kinda doubt it,’ he said. ‘This Blake’s from, like, ancient times. A, what do you call it, an ancestor of Bobby’s, maybe. Anyway, he’s written this mind-blowin’ masterpiece. I got Blaine and Richards workin’ on a melody. But I’m giving it a lyrics-only try-out tonight.’
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Abe said.
Monte scanned the room. ‘Angie pull a no-show again?’
‘She left word saying she was sorry,’ Abe said, wondering if Mace’s ignorance of Monte had been a put-on. ‘She promised to tune in, though.’
Monte shrugged. He winked at a brunette at a table to their right. ‘I think I see a stand-in,’ he said.
The brunette looked to be possibly twenty-one, pretty in a semi-Goth way. Black blouse and short skirt. Black lipstick and fingernails. But no piercing or tattoos that Abe could see. She was sitting with two other girls, also attractive, but not quite as promising.
‘Hi, ladies,’ he said, approaching their table. ‘I’m Honest Abe, proprietor and master of revels. Welcome to the Empourium.’
The brunette’s name was Katie. Her two friends were Joanie and Tess. They seemed friendly enough to bring the category ‘new meat’ to mind.
‘Jerry likes to have the most beautiful ladies present right in front of the stage,’ he said. ‘It inspires him to . . . greatness. So, allow me to invite you to the numero uno table.’
‘We’re fine here,’ Katie said, surprising him.
> ‘Oh, Katie,’ Tess said. ‘It’ll be fun.’
‘Fun it will be,’ Abe said. ‘And you’ll get to meet Jerry.’
Katie raised an eyebrow. ‘Do Jerry’s “inspirations” usually pay a cover charge?’ she asked.
Abe felt a little frisson at the bitchy and yet flirtatious way she asked the question. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Nor will they have to pay for drinks or . . . anything that may please their fancies.’
‘Well, hell, girls,’ Katie said, ‘what have we got to lose?’
Abe led them to the empty front table where he introduced them to Jerry. In his practiced manner, the entertainer made a big thing about meeting Joanie and Tess, but turned the charisma ray on full for Katie who seemed to be wearing her invisible shield.
That wasn’t terrible, Abe thought. Jerry liked a little fight. Still, if Katie didn’t succumb to the celebrity’s dubious charm, there was no sense in his sticking around to take Jerry’s inevitable abuse. He wished the ladies well, mentioned to Jerry that it was five minutes to showtime, and departed to the relative quiet of his upstairs office.
The Geek Chorus had installed a cutting-edge entertainment center that included a large high-definition plasma screen covering the better part of one wall. Currently on display was the web site, featuring a still shot of the brightly lit stage below. The logo – a white coffee mug featuring an Al Hirschfeld-like pen and ink caricature of Abe – bounced in one corner of the screen, continually sloshing its caffeinated contents. An incessantly blinking Day-Glo green message implored net surfers to ‘Stick and Click here for Live From the Empourium Stage – Jerry Monte!’
There was a narrow drawer under his desktop that he slid toward him, exposing a white keyboard with black numerals and letters. He pressed the key numbered ‘F3’. The image on the plasma wall-screen changed slightly to a live feed of the stage area, complete with ambient noise. As the actress hired to introduce Jerry moved to the mike, the Empourium T-shirt stretched taut against her football-sized implants, Abe’s thumb began to play with the toggle switch the Geeks had been thoughtful enough to attach to the keyboard. It moved the room camera in a side-to-side pan and activated its zoom lens.
At his bidding, the image on the monitor closed in on Katie. She was watching Jerry leap onstage. Abe couldn’t read the expression on her face, but it did not seem to be adoration. This lifted his mood, but only temporarily. He continued to focus on the woman, ignoring Jerry’s stirring rendition of ‘Tyger, Tyger.’
He was worried about Mace. Dropping in out of the fucking blue, asking about Angie. The man was a wild card and Abe was not a fan of wild cards.
On the big screen, Katie smiled. Her show of disinterest seemed to be shifting. Blake’s poetry? Probably not. Score another for Jerry.
Abe sighed. This was not going to be one of his better nights.
SIX
Heading down the corridor at the Florian, Mace heard a moan coming from his and Wylie’s room.
He paused at the door with the key in his hand, straining to listen.
Another moan. A grunt. Rustling.
Mace stepped away from the door. He located the switch for the overhead hall lights and clicked them off.
In darkness now, he pulled the gun from his belt and returned to their door. He carefully inserted his key in the lock, turning it quietly and easing the door open.
There was enough moonlight for him to see Wylie and a plump woman banging away on the cot.
The woman’s bloodshot eyes popped open and she saw him standing there with the gun. She didn’t say a word, but she stopped writhing under the skinny boy.
Wylie didn’t seem to notice her sudden passivity. More likely, he simply didn’t care.
Temporarily ignoring them, Mace moved to the window. The drapes were blocking the view into the Lowell apartment, but he could see a shadow indicating movement in the room. He turned back to the couple.
The plump woman watched his armed approach fretfully.
She still said nothing.
Mace wondered if she were mute.
Wylie’s snake tattoo stretched from his neck down his back, curving at his waist and disappearing toward his lower stomach. Mace pressed the gun to a spot just above the snake’s tongue and below Wylie’s left ear and said, ‘Bang, you’re dead.’
Wylie made a noise like ‘Gah,’ and pushed in on the woman.
‘Feeling better now?’ Mace crooned. He grabbed Wylie’s left ear and gave it a nasty twist. Then, continuing to twist, he forced the screaming boy off the woman.
‘Lemme go, you fuckhead.’
Mace obeyed the request, pushing him on to the foot of the bed. He tucked his gun behind his belt and said to the naked woman, ‘Out.’
‘But I . . .’ she began, not mute after all.
‘But nothing.’ He picked up her discarded clothes and six-inch pumps. Gripping her by a fleshy arm, he yanked her from the cot.
‘Hey, wait a goddamn min—’
Before she could get to her feet, he was dragging her across the carpet to the open doorway. She tried to kick and bite as he pushed her into the darkened hall. ‘Be good, or there’ll be cops here,’ he said. ‘You’d like that, right?’ He threw her clothes and shoes to her and slammed the door.
Wylie was sitting on the roiled cot rubbing his ear. ‘You’re a real asshole,’ he grumbled.
‘And you’re a real pro,’ Mace said. ‘Yes you are.’
There was a soft knock at the door. ‘My money,’ the plump hooker whined.
Mace picked up Wylie’s pants and found his wallet. ‘How much do you owe her?’
‘Fifty.’
There were two fifties and several twenties in the wallet. Mace took a fifty and a twenty, opened the door and held the bills out to the woman who already was back in her working girl outfit. She snatched them from his fingers.
‘Keep the change,’ he said and closed the door on her.
When he heard her mumbles fading in the direction of the stairs, he relaxed a little and left the door. He sat down at the table by the windows and stared at Wylie who was slipping on his rumpled khaki pants over bright red boxer shorts with giant mosquitoes on them.
Trying to ignore the shorts, Mace said, ‘I don’t suppose you noticed when the subject closed her curtains?’
Wylie didn’t reply. He stared at Mace, rubbing his ear.
Mace picked up the binoculars and aimed them at the Lowell apartment.
‘She was over there painting, last I looked,’ Wylie said.
‘When was that? A half hour ago?’
Wylie didn’t answer.
The light was out in the Lowell living room, but there was shadowy activity in the other room now.
‘The broad’s probably making Z’s,’ Wylie said.
‘Not quite,’ Mace said, resting the binoculars on the table. ‘How much did you tell your whore?’
‘What?’ Wylie was deeply offended. ‘Nothing. Jesus, what do you think I am?’
Mace stared at him.
Withering, Wylie said, ‘It’s this place. Everybody was getting off but me. For all I know you were out layin’ pipe.’
A glob of plastic on the rug emitted a light that caught Mace’s eye. ‘What the hell’s that?’ he asked.
Wylie scooped up the glob. ‘My Crackberry,’ he said. ‘Musta fallen out of my pocket.’ He pressed a button that extinguished the light. ‘Don’t tell me you never seen a Blackberry?’
Mace didn’t answer.
‘What kinda cellular you use?’ Wylie asked, zipping up his pants.
‘I don’t.’
‘No shit? How do you fucking . . . communicate?’
‘I use those,’ Mace said, pointing to the wall phone. He moved to the window and sat down, staring at Angela Lowell’s now dark apartment.
Wylie picked up his shirt and put it on, leaving it unbuttoned over his concave, hairless, snake-tattooed chest. ‘You, ah, gonna tell Mr Lacotta about the hooker?’
‘Where�
�s the percentage in that?’
Wylie nodded. He moved to the kitchenette counter where a bottle of Jack Daniels rested beside a couple of tumblers. He cracked the bottle. ‘Thirsty?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’
Wylie put a couple of inches of whiskey into each tumbler. He walked to the table and sat, shoving one of the tumblers toward Mace.
Mace shot his.
Wylie followed his lead. ‘Mr Lacotta says I got a future in the corporation.’
Mace said nothing. He raised his empty glass. Wylie hopped up and retrieved the bottle. He splashed more liquor into their tumblers. ‘I figure, guy’s gotta have a plan, you know,’ he said. ‘I mean, shit, this town’ll carve you up a hundred different ways you don’t have a plan.’
‘What’s your plan?’ Mace asked.
‘I figured it out in upper school. Hell, that musta been three years ago. Had a lot of time to sit around, figuring things out, while these assholes kept yakking away about world history, Shakespeare and shit like that. Mr Lacotta had already told me he wanted to do something for me when I finished up. On account of my old man. You know him? Leo Guriso?’
‘I met him once,’ Mace said.
‘He was OK. I mean he treated me and my mother OK. Just didn’t know what the fuck, you know? I mean, he bought his suits at Sears. Always smelled of garlic and Old Spice.’
‘Didn’t have a plan,’ Mace said.
‘Exactly,’ Wylie said. ‘He was like . . . strictly blue collar. Anyway, Mr Lacotta offered. He’s got a big firm, Mount Olympus Industries. Important contacts. And he needs a guy to do investigation stuff for him. Big-business private eye, right? It sounds fine to me.’
‘How long you been with Mount Olympus?’
‘Uh, eleven months, a couple weeks.’
‘You like it?’
‘Got me a title: Security Consultant. My own office. Check every other week. Free time to screw off. OK, so Mr Lacotta’s on my ass to go to a fucking hair stylist and he made me burn off most of my tats. Still a fucking good deal.’
‘What kind of work has he had you doing?’
Wylie thought about it. ‘Checking up on personnel, mainly. Looking at the daily reports from the hired guards. Some background checks, which bore the crap out of me.’
