Taming a Sea Horse

by Robert B. Parker

  Lehman said, "That will be fine, Brutus. I'll call if I need you." The black man nodded, about-faced, and marched out. Lehman took the champagne from the ice bucket and poured some into his glass, carefully, a little at a time, letting the bubbles settle. The champagne was Taittinger Blanc de Blancs. When he had filled his glass he took a mouthful, and closed his eyes and tipped his head back and let the wine trickle down his throat. When he had swallowed he opened his eyes and looked at me and said, "Ah, nectar of the gods."

  "Actually that's a tautology," I said.

  "Excuse me?" Lehman said.

  "Nectar is the drink of the gods, no need to say nectar of the gods. It's like saying ambrosia of the gods. Better simply to say, `Ah, nectar.' "

  Lehman looked at Gretchen Coolidge. "This gentleman says he is from Tony Marcus," she said. "He told Virgil that Mr. Marcus told him you would, ah, fix him up."

  "You an English teacher, pal?" Lehman drank more champagne.

  "Pal," I said. "I always love guys that call me pal."

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the regimental beastie reappear near one of the palm trees, by the far edge of the pool.

  Lehman stared at me.

  Gretchen said, "Mr. Lehman is very busy, perhaps you could tell us exactly what you had in mind?"

  "And why you think a recommendation from Tony Marcus means a piss hole in the snow to me?" Lehman said.

  "Ah, the lilt of your imagery, Perry."

  Lehman flicked a glance at the big black man.

  "If Gunga Din assaults me, Perry, you'll never find out what I want and the place will get all messy."

  He glanced at the Rolex watch on his left wrist.

  "You got one minute from now," he said, "to tell me what you want." He drank the rest of the champagne, pulled the bottle from the bucket and carefully poured some more.

  "I'm backtracking a kid named Ginger Buckey. Art Floyd picked her up at a massage parlor in Portland, Maine, and brought her down here and put her in your club. I want to know where she went from here."

  "I don't know any Art Floyd, or Ginger whatever."

  "And you, Ms. Coolidge?" I said.

  "I'm afraid I can't help either."

  I turned my head and looked at the black man. He stared at me without expression. "Et tu, Brutus," I said.

  "Any other questions?" Lehman said.

  "You haven't run across a woman named April Kyle, have you?"

  Lehman shook his head. Gretchen shook her head. Brutus simply gazed at me.

  "I thought this was a palace of pleasure," I aid. "I'm not having any fun here at all."

  Lehman drank more of his champagne. "That's 'cause you're not asking for the right things, cowboy." He put the champagne glass down, picked up his cigar and puffed on it. I thought a duck might come down from the ceiling but nothing happened. "And because you're just talking, you follow my meaning? You're not giving me anything."

  "What would you like?" I said.

  Lehman shrugged and took the cigar out of üs mouth and looked at the end of it and smiled.

  "Hey," he said. "I'm easy. How about your name, for instance? How about your connecion with Marcus? How 'bout why you want o know all this shit? Stuff like that." He had wother swig of the champagne and put the cigar back in his mouth and puffed on it and shifted in his seat and folded his hands on his small belly. Behind him against the far wall here was a bright red and blue parrot in a big gold cage. The parrot was eating a sunflower seed.

  I fished a business card out of my shirt pocket and held it out. Gretchen took it and put it on Lehman's desk. He didn't look at it.

  "It's a nice card," I said. "New design. Crossed blackjacks."

  Lehman didn't change expression. "Name's Spenser," I said. "With an's. I'm a private detective and I'm doing two things. I'm looking for a kid named April Kyle, and I'm investigating the murder, in New York, of a kid named Ginger Buckey. I think they're connected."

  "And why come to me?" Lehman said. "And what's this Tony Marcus shit."

  "I came to you because I know Ginger Buckey ended up working downstairs, and the Tony Marcus"-I looked at Gretchen-"ah, doo doo, is because I figured his clout would get me in."

  "Marcus got no clout with me," Lehman said. "I got the clout."

  "Sure," I said. "But here I am."

  "And how do you know that Ginger Fuckey or whatever her name is ended up here?"

  "Buckey," I said. I winked at Gretchen Coolidge. "I have my sources," I said, Gretchen seemed frozen. She sat with her hands folded, her knees together, reading a spot about halfway between me and Lehman.

  "I want to know," Lehman said.

  "So here we are," I said. "I know something you want to know, and you know something I want to know."

  "Maybe I'll just have Brutus shake it out of you," Lehman said.

  "Maybe Brutus can't," I said.

  I could hear Gretchen Coolidge breathing a little fast next to me. Lehman smoked his cigar and drank some champagne and smoked his cigar some more. There was a short furrow between his eyebrows. Probably trying to think. He looked at Brutus again. Immobile by the pool, still half shadowed by the palm fronds. He looked back at me.

  "Okay," he said. "I can deal. Ginger Buckey worked for me for a while here and then later on at one of the other clubs, I don't remember which one, but Fetchin' Gretchen will be able to give you dates and places."

  "I can check the files, Mr. Lehman," she said.

  Lehman looked at me. "I keep telling Fetchin' she should get in the other end of the business." He nodded toward her hips. "She's sitting on a million bucks there."

  Gretchen looked at her folded hands. "You'd pay a few bucks for a ride on that, wouldn't you, Spence?"

  "Even better than pal," I said, "I like guys that call me Spence. Especially pimps and guys that sell dirty pictures."

  Lehman snorted. "Shit," he said, "aren't you a touchy bastard." He looked at his champagne glass. It was empty. He said, "Wanna pour me a little more, sweets."

  Gretchen stopped looking at her hands and stood up and got the bottle and poured. Lehman said, "I gave you what I had, let's hear yours."

  "Art Floyd," I said.

  "Sleazy little Ivy League prick," Lehman said.

  Gretchen finished filling the glass and sat down. Lehman drank some.

  "How'd you find Artie?" Lehman said.

  "Usual way," I said. "I asked people, they told me."

  "What's your connection with Marcus?"

  "I know him, I talked with him. He doesn't like you."

  Lehman laughed, "Tough shit for him."

  "He said you were wired."

  "He was right," Lehman said. "Connected, solid. Keep it in mind."

  "Floyd told me he was connected too," I said.

  Lehman laughed. "Yeah, he's connected all right. To me. I'm his fucking connection." He drank more champagne. He wasn't sipping anymore. "Connected." Lehman laughed again. "What a hot shit." He shook his head. He emptied the champagne glass and gestured at Gretchen. She poured out the rest of the bottle. Lehman saw the bottle was empty. He nodded at Brutus.

  "We got anything else to talk about?" he said.

  "Not this minute," I said. "But maybe we could get together again soon. I'd like to get your philosophy on things."

  Lehman's face had a slight flush beneath the deep tan.

  "If it's for sale buy it," he said. "If it's female fuck it. That's my philosophy, pal."

  "Perhaps I should take Mr. Spenser to my office," Gretchen said, "and help him find out where Miss Buckey went."

  Brutus appeared with a new bottle of champagne and put it in the ice bucket.

  "Pour me a little more nectar, Miss Efficient Sufficient," Lehman said. "Then you can go."

  Gretchen poured his champagne. I stood.

  "Remember," Lehman said. "Buy it or fuck it-sometimes both."

  "Words to live by," I said. And followed Gretchen out.

  21

  Gretchen's office was two floors do
wn. Mauve walls, pale mint moldings, a gray lacquered desk with a mauve wash, purple silk flowers in a chrome vase on the desk. There was a computer on a black worktable coupled to a word processor. Against one wall were two black file cabinets. The window was covered in chrome-colored Levolor blinds, the kind with the narrow slats. A low marble table stood in front of the window. On it was a chrome water carafe and two violet-colored water glasses. There was a gray-and-black striped couch opposite her desk.

  "Please sit down, Mr. Spenser, while I see what I have on Ginger Buckey."

  I sat. "Must be a real treat," I said, "working for Perry Lehman."

  "This is a very challenging opportunity," she said.

  "Um," I said.

  "The marketing schemata is one of the most energetic conceptualizations I've ever implemented."

  She was thumbing through folders in the second drawer of one of the file cabinets.

  "Um."

  She paused. And turned toward me. "Mr. Spenser, I have an MBA from the Wharton School. The women in my graduating class are averaging thirteen thousand a year less than the men." She glanced at the label on one file folder and put it back, "I'm earning eight thousand more than the men."

  "Liberation," I said.

  "Whatever Mr. Lehman's attitudes are, he pays me what I'm worth. It's a kind of liberation that translates directly."

  "What exactly is the conceptual schemata of this operation other than smut peddling, so to speak?"

  Gretchen turned holding a folder in her right hand and looked at me. "You're incredible," she said. "That's like saying what's the marketing strategy for Coca-Cola other than selling soft drinks."

  She closed the file drawer and stepped to her desk and sat down. She put the folder on the desk before her and straightened it carefully so all four corners aligned with the four corners of her blotter.

  "There's a classic phrase in marketing," she said. She put both elbows on her desk and placed her hands together as if she were praying and rested her chin on the tips of her fingers. "Sell the sizzle, not the steak."

  "Classic," I said.

  "We're not, as you put it, peddling smut. We're selling self-image. We're selling realized fantasy. We are marketing fully realized lifestyle-masculine, sexually fulfilled, powerful, solid, complete, energized by a sense of the permanent in clothing and wines, in dining and entertainment. We're saying simply every man is a crown prince."

  "And you're making eight thousand a year more than your male classmates."

  "And implementing the whole concept," she said. "It's not just the money, Spenser." She dropped her hands onto the desk and leaned forward. "I'm in charge."

  "Until Perry tells you to get undressed and you say no."

  She shook her head. "He talks a little rough, but there's nothing like that." She shook her head again. "Nothing. I find it offensive that you'd suggest it."

  "At least I assumed you'd say no," I said.

  "And if I said yes?"

  "I'd figure you had a cast-iron stomach," I said.

  "I have no relationship with Mr. Lehman beyond a business relationship." She opened the file folder and studied it. She frowned slightly.

  "Ginger Buckey came to us in August last year. She remained here as a hostess until this May, when she resigned."

  "To do what?" I said.

  Gretchen shook her head. "I don't know. The girls come and go. There was nothing outstanding about Ginger. There's no reason we should remember her, and quite frankly I don't."

  "Lehman did," I said.

  "Mr. Lehman has a remarkable memory."

  "May I see the file?"

  "No, I'm sorry, but it is confidential. All our files are." I thought about taking it. She must have sensed, that because she got up briskly and put it back in the file and locked it. "Perhaps you'd like to see some of the facilities here?" she said, and opened her office door. Another of the King's African Rifles was standing at parade rest.

  "Place looks like the Grambling locker room," I said.

  Gretchen smiled and we went along the corridor past the sentry and into the elevator. "First floor is health club and screening," she said.

  "Nicely done," I said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You were afraid I might snatch the file on you so you locked it up and walked me out into the corridor past the footman without even hinting at distress. Very smooth."

  "I had no such fear," Gretchen said.

  "You should have," I said. "The minute you said it was confidential I wanted to see it"

  "There's nothing in that file, Mr. Spenser. Confidentiality is simply our policy."

  "Sure," I said.

  We got off the elevator and walked a short paneled corridor and into the health club. It was carpeted and mirrored and staffed with female training assistants in white short shorts and yellow halter tops. To the left a waterfall cascaded down a marble wall into a full-size Olympic pool. There were two men in Speedo racing suits swimming laps. To the right was a bar that sold beer, wine coolers, Perrier, yogurt shakes, and fruit juice. There were also health sandwiches listed on a blackboard. Today's special was jack cheese, avocado slices, sunflower seeds, and alfalfa sprouts on seven-grain bread. The rest of the room was devoted to Nautilus equipment, a profusion of it in chrome and colors. Several men in state-of-the-art sweats were working out, while a training assistant stood by with their chart, offering water after each exercise and cheering them on.

  "We have the most complete Nautilus setup in Massachusetts," Gretchen said. "We also have massage rooms, whirlpool, steam, sauna, inhalant and tanning rooms, each staffed by a highly trained professional."

  I opened a door marked MASSAGE. There was a plump guy getting a massage, a towel draped across his butt. The masseuse was dressed like the training assistant except that she had on yellow high-heeled backless shoes.

  We moved on and looked at the racquetball courts. We went into the screening room, a small movie theater, attended by a young woman dressed like an old-time movie usher. "We run a continuous program of adult entertainment," Gretchen said, "rather like the old newsreel theaters in train stations."

  The current feature showed a woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses and white stockings having intercourse with a skinny black-haired guy on the banister of a flight of stairs.

  "Precarious," I said.

  "We have a library of several thousand adult film classics," Gretchen said.

  The woman on the screen told her lover in an excited way that she wanted "more, more, more."

  "Classics,"' I said.

  We went back in the elevator and went up a flight.

  "This is the lounge and library," Gretchen said.

  It was a big room lined on three walls with books. Along the fourth wall was a bar. There were leather chairs and reading lamps and a cocktail waitress dressed like Hollywood's idea of a prim librarian stood near the bar with her round tray. No one else was there. The titles were mostly simple pornography with a scattering of works like The Decameron, to make the readers feel less like perverts. We moved on.

  There was a restaurant staffed with waitresses dressed like French maids, a nightclub that opened after nine. I didn't ask what the waitresses wore.

  "What's on the fourth floor?" I said.

  "Guest rooms for the members."

  "Complete with hostesses?" I said.

  Gretchen smiled. "All of our girls are hostesses," she said.

  "Which kind of hostess was Ginger Buckey?" I said.

  "I'm not sure, I think she was assigned to the guest floor."

  "What are the duties of a guest floor hostess?" I said.

  "Maid service, butlery. There's a pantry there, they are a bit like a concierge, and there are enough so that the members get immediate personal attention at any hour."

  "Turn-down service, two chocolate mints on the pillow, that sort of thing," I said.

  "Among many others," Gretchen said. "The girls are there to serve the needs of the members."


  "Including sexual service," I said.

  "We are not a house of prostitution, Mr. Spenser. Nor are we a college dormitory. The girls are free to form relationships with the guests, should they choose to."

  "And if they don't choose to?"

  "Our policy is very simple and it's part of our success. The member is always right. If there's a complaint about a girl, she is disciplined."

  "What kind of discipline?"

  "It depends on the complaint, fines, dismissal, other things."

  "What other things?"

  "I'm sorry again, Mr. Spenser. Specific company policy is confidential. I'm sure you understand."

  "Any complaints about Ginger Buckey?"

  "None," Gretchen said.

  "How nice," I said. She seemed to remember Ginger after all.

  We were back on the first floor, in the Edwardian foyer.

  "So what do you think of our operation," Gretchen said.

  "I think that if Walt Disney had been obsessed with sex and dominance, and was uncertain of his manhood and had grown up reading the novels of H. Rider Haggard and had the sensibility of a dung beetle he'd have founded a chain of clubs just tike this."

  The bones in Gretchen's face seemed more prominent. "I see," she said. "Have you any further questions?"

  "No," I said. "I'm going home and take a shower."

  22

  It was Tuesday and an unassertive spring rain was coming straight down. I had picked up two corn muffins and an extra large coffee, black, no sugar, at the Dunkin' Donuts shop near the corner of Exeter Street and walked down Boylston to my office on the corner of Berkeley. I had eaten the muffins at my desk and I was standing at my office window looking down at the street and drinking the rest of the coffee when the door opened. I turned. In came Brutus.