“What? Afraid someone’ll think you’re glad to see them?”
Richie thought that was a good one but Gorcey didn’t even smile. Instead he slid one of the envelopes across the desk.
“As promised.”
Richie casually picked it up with his left hand. He didn’t want to look too eager but he wasn’t about to get suckered either. It wasn’t sealed. He flipped up the flap with a thumb and glanced inside. He quick-counted a sufficient number of hundreds.
He relaxed. Okay. Louis Gorcey seemed like the real deal. He’d passed up a chance to go for a gun and his envelope contained the right stuff. The only thing that would remove the last suspicion was if he could see the guy’s eyes. You can tell a lot from eyes. But he was keeping his shades on.
Richie shoved the envelope into his top drawer and gestured to the chair on the far side of his desk.
“Have a seat, Lou.” When they both had their butts settled, he said, “What can I do for you?”
Gorcey pushed his newspaper across the desk. A copy of The Light, opened to page three. He jabbed at a photo of a middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar—jabbed him right in the eye. Richie noticed that his finger was trembling. He also noticed that Gorcey was wearing nail polish. Clear nail polish, yeah, but still polish. These queers…
“Do you know who that is?” Gorcey said.
Richie did a quick read of the caption and reworded it.
“That’s Luther Brady, isn’t it? The head of that crazy Dormentalist Church?”
Maybe he shouldn’t have called it crazy. This guy could be some sort of Dormentalist holy roller.
“Crazy?” Gorcey’s manicured finger shook worse as his voice rose. “I wish that were the only thing wrong with the Dormentalist Church! It’s worse than crazy! It’s destructive and conniving and vicious and malicious and it’s all this man’s fault! He’s…he’s…”
He sputtered to a stop.
“He’s what, Lou?”
Gorcey’s hands flapped in the air. “He’s a monster. He stole a small fortune from me, but worse than that, he stole years from my life. Years! I can always earn more money, I’m good at earning money, but how do I get back those years?”
“I don’t know, Lou. You tell me.”
Richie had found this to be the best approach with upset clients. Let them talk till they ran out of steam.
Gorcey slumped back in the chair. “It’s impossible, of course.” His brow furrowed. “But I can get even.”
Again Richie wished he could see Gorcey’s eyes.
“How do you plan to do that?”
“With your help, I hope.”
This was getting interesting. A faggot like this Louis Gorcey thinking he could get even with an international figure like Luther Brady. Richie had expected a deadly dull hour, but this was kind of fun. Like getting paid for being entertained.
“Why tell me this?”
“Because I want to hire you.”
“To do what?”
“Lee told me you’re a wizard with a camera.”
Richie fought the smile that wanted to bust out on his face. Dobbins said that, huh? Well, why not. Richie did know his way around a camera, and was good at low-light photography. Damn good. Just ask the cows he was milking.
He gave a little laugh and did the modesty thing. “Well, I don’t know about the wizard part, but—”
“He told me all about how you caught his partner dead to rights, and I want you to do that for me. I want you to catch Luther Brady in the act.”
“In what act?”
Gorcey’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not sure. But I know he sneaks off every Sunday night and heads upstate into the hills. He lives at the temple on Lexington Avenue. Every other time he leaves the temple, on every other day of the week, he has a driver. But not on his Sunday night trips.”
Richie smiled. “You’ve had him under surveillance, then.”
“Well, yes. I’ve even followed him a few nights but I’ve lost him every time.”
“Tailing should be left to a professional.”
“That’s why I’ve come to you.”
“But what makes you think these trips involve anything wrong?”
“Because it’s the only time he ventures out alone. That tells me he’s up to something he doesn’t want anyone to know about.”
“Could be,” Richie said. “Could also mean he just wants to be alone.”
The hands fluttered again. “That’s always a possibility, but with a man as ruthless as Luther Brady, I doubt it. And if he’s involved in something that will not stand the light of day, I want pictures of it.”
…will not stand the light of day…Was this guy for real? No, of course he wasn’t. He was a queer.
“All right, Lou. Let’s just say he is. And let’s just say I do get pictures. What do you intend to do with them?” He shot up a hand in a stop gesture. “Don’t tell me anything illegal, like blackmail. I can’t be a party to blackmail. It’s against the NYAPI code of ethics.”
Gorcey blinked. “Ny-ya—?”
“The New York Association of Private Investigators.”
Richie had joined NYAPI when he opened his office, paid dues for one year—just long enough to earn a membership certificate to hang on his wall—then tossed all further mailings into the circular file. But claiming to follow a professional organization’s code of ethics never failed to impress prospective clients. It assured them that they were dealing with a man of principle.
Gorcey mumbled, “That’s good to know…”
“If you’re planning to use these photos—assuming there’s something worth photographing—to expose this man as a fraud and a charlatan, then that’s fine. That’s performing a public service. But blackmail? No, count me out.”
That was the speech, and convincing as usual. Should be. Richie had given it enough times.
“No…no, I’m not looking to blackmail him. I want to, as you say, expose him for the money-grubbing mountebank he really is.”
Mountebank? What the hell was a mountebank? Some kind of a queer word or something?
Gorcey leaned forward. “Will you help me? Tonight?”
Richie thought about that. Yeah, he wanted the work, but he preferred not to rush things. He liked to max the billable hours. And he had a feeling it wouldn’t hurt to play hard to get.
“Why’s it got to be tonight? What’s wrong with next Sunday?”
“Because I want him now.” Gorcey was looking a little agitated, his sissy voice growing louder. “I don’t want to allow him another whole week of defrauding people like me. I want to bring him down now. Do you hear me?” He slammed both fists on Richie’s desk. “Now!”
Richie held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I get the picture.”
This guy was really steamed. Richie fought back a smile. How’d that saying go? Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? Or something like that.
Gorcey leaned back. “Sorry. It’s just…look, I’ll pay you another two thousand just to follow him tonight and see what he’s up to. Is that fair?”
Fair? For four, five hours work? Damn-fuck right it was fair. This must be one rich queer.
Richie had heard they tended to have bucks. No kids and all that…
He put his head back and rotated it a little to the left and a little to the right, trying to look like a man wrestling with a decision. He’d already made up his mind, but he wasn’t ready to say yes. Who knew? If he stalled, maybe Gorcey would up the ante to three thousand.
The act worked. Gorcey piped up and said, “I’ll add another thousand if you get pictures I can use.”
You mean, Richie thought, photos you think you can use.
By all rights he should tell the dumb schmuck that catching Luther Brady meeting with a girlfriend or even a boyfriend wasn’t going to put much of a dent in his reputation. Not these days.
Damn shame too. It made Richie long for the fifties. He’d been just a little kid at the time, but he remembered how u
ptight everyone had been back then. Those were the days when even a so-called breath of scandal could sink a career or a reputation. His sideline business would be so much easier and more profitable now if America hadn’t changed. But it had. The new attitude was pretty much anything goes. Damn hard to shock people these days.
He sure as shit wasn’t telling Gorcey that, though.
But if he did come up with something juicy—really juicy—he could always snap some extra shots—innocent ones—and tell Gorcey that all Brady did up there in the woods was sit alone and meditate.
He’d keep the real deals to himself…and add Luther Brady to his herd of cows. Brady controlled millions. His milk would be extra rich and creamy.
“Okay, Lou,” Richie said. “I’ll do it. Normally I lay a lot of groundwork—you know, thorough backgrounding and such—before I make a move, but I sense your urgency, Lou. I feel your pain, and so I’ll make an exception in your case.”
Gorcey beamed and fluttered his hands again—higher this time. He looked genuinely delighted.
“That’s wonderful. I’ll meet you tonight at—”
Richie waved a hand. “Wait, wait. What do you mean, you’ll meet me?”
“I’m going with you.”
“Ohhhh, no. I work alone.”
Gorcey’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Perhaps, but I expect you to make an exception this time. Especially considering the amount of money I’ll be paying you.”
“Sorry. Can’t allow it. You’ve got no experience in this sort of thing. You could blow the whole operation. And why would you want to come along anyway? That’s what you’re hiring me for.”
And besides, I don’t want to be sitting in some car half the night with a queer.
“I want to see for myself.”
“You will,” Richie told him. “In the photos.”
Gorcey shook his head and his lips tightened further. “I’m going along, Mr. Cordova, one way or another. Either in your car, or in my own, following you as you follow Brady.”
Richie recognized a note of unswayable finality in Gorcey’s voice. Shit. The last thing he wanted when he was working was a tag-along amateur. Especially if said amateur was queer. And double especially if it turned out Brady had a bona fide dirty little secret.
But it didn’t look like he was going to have much choice.
He sighed. “Okay, Lou. I’ll take you along. But I won’t be able to guarantee success. And I’ll want the money up front.”
Gorcey relaxed his rigid posture. “Of course. That’s only fair.”
“By the way, what’s your sign?”
Gorcey’s eyebrows rose as he smirked. “I’m usually in a bar when I’m asked that question.”
Richie felt heat in his cheeks. “Don’t be a wise ass. I want to check to see if our signs are going to be compatible tonight.”
“I’m a Taurus.” His smile changed. “And don’t worry, Mr. Cordova, I won’t get in the way. I promise.” Something strange about his new smile…unsettling. “You’ll hardly know I’m there.”
10
When Jack checked his voice mail outside Cordova’s and heard Abe’s message—“Your package has arrived”—he hopped a cab to Manhattan.
He entered the shop, locked the front door behind him, and headed for the rear.
“Did you really find one?” he said as he approached Abe in his customary spot.
Abe said nothing, merely stared.
“Abe?”
“Jack?” His gaze ranged from Jack’s hair to his glossy, wheat-brown loafers, to his man bag, then back to his hair. “This is you?”
“It’s part of a fix.”
“On Christopher Street you’re working maybe?”
“I’ll explain later. Did you get the gun?”
And still Abe stared. “Your hair…it’s wet?”
“Nah. Just some sort of gel. The Beretta, Abe?”
“And your coat. Like a robe it looks with that tie thing around the waist.”
All this scrutiny was making Jack uncomfortable.
“Earth to Abe. Did—?”
“Has Gia seen you like this?”
“No, and she’s not going to.” She might like it and want him to dress like this all the time. “I’ll spell it out for you: B-E-R-E—”
“Yes-yes.”
Abe shook himself out of whatever transported state he was in and reached under the counter. He came up with a brown paper lunch bag and slid it across the counter.
Jack slipped his hand inside and removed a stainless-steel 9mm Beretta 92. It was beautiful. It was perfect.
“Abe, you are amazing,” he said, turning the gleaming pistol over and over in his hands. “Truly amazing.”
“I am. Yes, I am.” When Jack glanced at him with a wry smile he added, “What? I should pretend to be humble? Hours on the phone I spent. No one else in this city could have found such a thing for you on a Sunday. No one.”
“I thank you for this, Abe. Really. If you hadn’t found it, this whole afternoon spent setting up the fix would have gone down the drain.” He looked around. “Where are your cotton gloves?”
Abe pulled an oil-smudged pair from under the counter and handed them across.
“Want some oil?”
“No. Just need to wipe it down. Don’t want our fingerprints on it.”
“Certainly not.”
He slipped on the gloves and polished the pistol’s shiny planes and bevels, its Brazilian walnut stocks. Then he pushed a release button, rotated the cam, and pulled the slide assembly off the frame in one piece. He wiped the barrel and underside of the slide.
“It’s used,” Abe said, “but well kept.”
“I see that. Used is better than new. I just want to double-check there’s no serial number on the slide.”
“With a Beretta, only on the frame.”
“Perfect.” He replaced the slide assembly, then ejected the empty magazine from the grip. “Got those Hydra-Shoks?”
Again Abe’s hand disappeared under the counter, returning this time with two boxes of 9mm rounds, each with the familiar red Federal across the top.
“Federal Classics, as requested. Grain-wise I’ve got one-twenty-four and one-forty-seven.”
“The one-twenty-fours should do.”
He intended to be up close and very personal when he pulled the trigger, so he preferred a lower muzzle velocity. Jack slipped open the box and removed ten rounds. He rubbed each carefully with his gloved fingers before pressing it into the magazine.
“A CSI team you’re expecting?”
“You betcha.”
“And you won’t tell me about it?”
“After I’m through, I’ll fill you in on every last detail.”
“The clothes too?”
“Everything.”
“So till then I must hang?”
“But you won’t be hanging alone,” Jack said. “Trust me on that.”
11
As he walked back toward his apartment Jack realized he had just enough time to pay a visit to the ersatz Mama Roselli. He dialed her on her cell.
A weak, raspy voice said, “Hello?”
“Mrs. Roselli? This is Jack. I stopped by last night but I heard you weren’t feeling well. Are you okay?”
“I’m better, thank you.”
“I was wondering if I could come over to give you an update. I found Johnny and—”
“Can this wait until tomorrow? I don’t think I’m well enough yet for company.”
Yes, it could wait till tomorrow, although Jack would have liked his questions answered tonight. But if she was feeling as bad as she sounded—if she was faking it she deserved an Oscar—then giving her more time to recover made sense.
“Tomorrow then. I’ll see you about noon or so?”
“I’ll be here.”
Jack cut the connection. Her sudden frailty bothered him. He’d suspected her of being kin to Anya, a tough old bird who looked like she hadn’t had a sick day in her li
fe. The only time he’d seen her not in control was when she’d had that sudden sharp pain in her back. Took her a day or so to get over it. And the next day he’d seen an oozing sore on her scarred-up back…on what she’d called “the map of my pain”…the map of where Brady was burying his pillars.
Could it be…?
He’d find out tomorrow. Tonight he had to share a car with Cordova and somehow keep himself from strangling him.
12
They sat parked east of Lexington, where Jack had waited Friday night. Cordova had insisted on using his aging, smelly Jeep Laredo, saying he had all his equipment stowed in the back, plus they might need the four-wheel drive.
So Jack had parked his rental a couple of blocks from Cordova’s Williamsbridge house and cabbed to Tremont Avenue. They’d met in front of Cordova’s office and driven downtown together.
“What’s with the gloves?” Cordova said. “It ain’t that cold.”
Jack looked down at his hands, tightly swathed in black leather driving gloves. “My fingers are very sensitive.”
Cordova snickered. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.”
Probably thought he was funny. A real comedian.
Jack eyed his suet body, his suet face with its suet cheeks, his suet hands resting on the steering wheel, and wondered if this was the same car he’d used to snatch Sister Maggie.
Be so easy to reach over and grab his suet throat and squeeze…squeeze until he passed out. Let him wake up, then start squeezing again…and then do it again…
Jack wondered how many hours he could keep it up, how many times he could—
“Hell-o-o?” Cordova said. “Did you hear me?”
Jack shook his head, not trusting himself to speak at that moment.
“I said, What time’s Brady usually head for the hills?”
Jack stared at the garage exit. Eight o’clock already and so far no sign of Brady. Jack remembered Jamie telling him about Brady’s Sunday night trips, but had she said anything about time? He didn’t think so. Had to improvise here.
“Varies. Sometimes early, sometimes late. But always after dark.”
Crisscross Page 36
