“No chance of that, Daddy.”
As Abe and Emma were arguing with—really more like teasing—each other, Rendi donned her costume: black leather minisheath, red belt, black spiked heels, fishnet stockings, and a shoulder-length blond fall.
“To die for,” Rendi said, stroking the blond hair.
“To dye for,” mocked Emma, spelling out the word.
The black-and-red heart-shaped tattoo that Emma had bought in the head shop adjoining her school was too much, even for Abe, especially when he found out where Rendi was thinking of placing it.
Emma let loose with a wolf whistle that would have made a construction worker proud. Rendi laughed out loud, remembering her little lecture to Emma about not dressing for sex unless you meant it. Now, here she was, dressing up as veritable man-bait. Rendi explained, “It’s a costume, all right? It’s just a costume. I’ll be careful. I’m going to meet women, not men.”
Abe laughed nervously as he once again offered Rendi the falsies. “Alex O’Donnell tells me you’ve got to wear these things to be a credible groupie. Athletes tend to evaluate women by their breast size. His exact words were ‘broads with bazooms.’”
“Do guys still talk that way?” Rendi asked.
“Apparently in locker rooms they still do—at least according to Alex, who sounds like he knows,” Abe replied.
“That’s sick,” Emma said.
“Don’t attack the messenger, Emma,” Abe responded defensively. “I’m just repeating what my expert on jocks tells me.”
“No wonder they call them jocks. They ought to call them—”
“A little respect, my dear,” Abe cut in quickly. “One of them is paying for your college education.”
“I’m not talking about Joe Campbell, Daddy. He seems different from the stereotype Alex was describing.”
“Maybe, but all stereotypes are wrong,” Abe said.
Rendi saw her opening. “Well, if that’s true, why are you making me wear these damn falsies?”
“Precisely because you have to look like a stereotype.”
So Rendi stuffed some tissues into her bra and became a miniskirted broad with big bazooms. On one level she didn’t really care. It wasn’t her; it was just another one of her assignments, though not a particularly appealing one. Rendi hated basketball and could never understand Abe’s and Emma’s fascination with it. Once Abe had persuaded her to accompany him to an important playoff game, and she’d mortified him by reading a poetry book during the overtime. It was the last invitation she’d gotten to a basketball game, which was just fine with her.
Now Abe had invited her to enter the tawdry world of sexual hero worship—or was it whoreship, she thought—that followed professional athletes wherever they performed.
Her job was to find out everything she could about Joe Campbell’s sexual proclivities—and, in the process, to learn about the life of groupies. Abe had told Campbell and Alex that he was sending his investigator into the groupie scene to get background on groupies for the trial. He’d told Emma the same thing. He could not tell them the real purpose of the undercover operation, nor what had stimulated his need to investigate what Justin suspected about Campbell’s sex life.
Chapter Twelve
NEWARK—FRIDAY, MARCH 31
“How did you know I’d be here?” Nancy Rosen asked as she looked up at Justin from the weight-lifting bench in the old broken-down gym located in downtown Newark. Muscle Discipline attracted few women, especially white women, into its spidery depths. Justin stood out like a sore thumb in his gray lawyer’s suit.
“Your reputation as a jock precedes you,” Justin replied. “I can’t get to talk to you any other way. Why the heck haven’t you been returning my calls? We need an answer. Who killed Monty Williams?”
“I haven’t called back because I can’t tell you. It’s your turn to put your sorry, out-of-shape butt on the line. Get out there and follow up some leads.”
“You should only know how much investigative work we’ve done,” Justin said, covering his mouth to avoid being overheard by the muscular black man on the next bench. “Even some of your clients, such as those Black Muslims in Newark who threatened Williams. So far we’ve come up dry.”
“You’re looking in the wrong place. The Muslims are clean on this one. That much I can tell you. No more.”
“That’s good,” Justin acknowledged. “At least we won’t go down that blind alley again. Now all I’ve got to figure out is who the rest of your clients are. Any more clues for today, Superwoman?”
Nancy continued to curl the barbell. “Only that it won’t be easy. I’m sorry, Justin. I just can’t tell you more. The Code of Professional Responsibility makes no exception even for an innocent man on death row. I’ve got to play by the rules. I actually found a case just like this one, down in Georgia—eighty years ago.”
“Just like this one?” Justin asked incredulously.
“Yeah. It involved a man named Leo Frank.”
“I’ve heard of that case. A Jewish businessman who was convicted of murdering a young girl who worked for him.”
“That’s the one. Well, it turns out that one of Frank’s other employees confessed to his own lawyer that he, not Frank, actually did it.”
“Did the lawyer blow the whistle on his client?”
“No, he didn’t. In fact, after the case was over, the lawyer wrote an article about his dilemma. That’s how I found out about it.”
“What did he say?”
“That he would be disbarred if he disclosed what his client told him in confidence. I can’t break the rules, Justin.”
Justin quickly jumped on Nancy’s words. “That wasn’t the position you took in the Jimmy Hawkins case.”
Hawkins, a black preacher in Newark who had practiced civil disobedience, had been arrested for staging sit-ins at city council meetings. The prosecutor had argued that rules and statutes had to be obeyed regardless of the moral consequences. Nancy had made an impassioned and successful argument in defense of those who “break the rules to create a moral world, rather than those who play by the rules to preserve an immoral system.” Nancy had proudly sent her press clippings to Justin after the case was over.
“How do you want to be remembered?” Justin asked, peering down into Nancy’s eyes. “As a woman who played by the rules and allowed an innocent black man to be executed? Or as a woman who broke a rule and saved an innocent life?”
Nancy rose from the bench on which she had been reclining and stood face-to-face with Justin. “That’s just not fair, and you know it. When I argued that Jimmy Hawkins should not be punished for breaking the rules, I was playing by the rules. That’s a permissible closing argument in New Jersey. Now you’re asking me to break the rules—to put my bar certificate at risk. Would you do that, Justin? Would you?”
Without pausing for an instant, Justin responded, “You’re darned right I would—if an innocent human life were at stake.” He knew he was not being entirely candid with Nancy. He knew he would do anything now to get Charlie off death row—to win the case. He didn’t even care whether he was being fair to Nancy.
For now, Justin had made his point. It was a good exit line. It would leave Nancy thinking—and perhaps feeling enough guilt to loosen her tongue.
Chapter Thirteen
BOSTON—FRIDAY, MARCH 31
Rendi had been in the Westin Hotel many times for dinners, on assignment, even once for a romantic interlude with an old friend from her childhood. But she had never been in the Champion Bar, a watering hole for professional athletes, fans, and groupies. If she wanted to become part of the groupie scene, this was the place to begin.
The large room was filled with the mixed scent of smoke and perfume. Champion’s was a brassy sort of place, adorned with shiny metal, glass, and oak. Several television sets were tuned to different sports events and programs. The sound was always low, producing a rhythmic mumble of sports jargon. Nobody appeared to be watching the lighted tubes;
they were there more for ambiance. A dozen women or so, ranging in age from about twenty to thirty-five, were sitting at tables and at the bar. And half a dozen men, all beefy, were standing around the bar.
Rendi sat down at the bar next to a short, voluptuous woman, who introduced herself as Patsy. She appeared to be in her middle twenties. A cigarette hung from her lips as her eyes stared vacantly at the smoke.
“I just moved to Boston from Los Angeles,” Rendi said, hoping her inflection would make her sound like a Southern California girl. “I used to follow the Lakers in a big way. Have you ever been to the Forum Club?” She had prepped herself by reading a series of clips about groupies published by the L.A.Times following Magic Johnson’s retirement.
“I wish!” Patsy replied in a perky voice. “I’ve only been in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. I hear the scene is great out in L.A.”
“It’s a mixed bag,” Rendi offered. “Lots of guys, what with the Lakers, the Clippers, and the college kids. Lots of competition, too, especially among the young girls who come to L.A. from the farm belt. The guys are always looking for new young blood.”
“Washed up at twenty-seven.” Patsy sighed. “And the athletes think they have it tough.”
“How’s the scene here?”
“It’s okay. Some of the Celts are goody-two-shoes. They always seem to have a Mormon or two on the bench to keep them holy. Still, there are some real fun guys. Mostly I go for the out-of-town players. It’s a lot looser with the visiting team. No wives or girlfriends to worry about.”
“Did you hear about ‘Riley’s rule,’ when he was coaching the Lakers?” Rendi asked.
“No, what is it? Some kind of curfew thing?”
“Pretty much the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
“Some of the Lakers’ wives were accompanying the husbands on road trips, and it was getting the other players uptight. You know, wives stick together and that sort of thing. The action guys were nervous that the traveling wives would report what they were doing on the road back to their wives.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So it was beginning to affect their play on the road—their nervousness and all.”
“So what did Riley do?”
“He went and banned all wives from road trips, and the Lakers started winning again on the road.”
“How did the wives react?”
“Some of them had a cow.”
“So?”
“So Riley tells them, ‘Look, wives don’t score points, players do, and players have to be loose.’”
“Goes to show that sex on the road is good for morale.”
“As long as it’s not with your wife,” Rendi added. Patsy joined in the laughter as they both ordered another drink.
“There’s a guy in New York I’m really hot for,” she confided, leaning over while trying to avoid the smoke from Patsy’s cigarette.
“Yeah, who?”
“Campbell, the big white guy.”
“You and half the borough of Manhattan. He’s the best-looking spook in the NBA.”
Rendi hadn’t come across the word spook in her research, but it didn’t take much imagination for her to figure out that its ghostly reference was to Campbell’s white skin in a league where most of the players were black.
“A girl can fantasize, can’t she?” Rendi responded.
“Ain’t much for fantasizing, when you can’t touch and feel.” Patsy giggled. “It may be a whole lot safer.”
“That Magic stuff has certainly put a damper on the fun,” Rendi said.
“Not so much here in Boston. It’s never been as wild here as everyone said it used to be in L.A. and Chicago.”
“Oh, for the good old days, when all you had to worry about was getting knocked up or a dose of the clap.”
“You got nothing to worry about with your heartthrob, baby. He’s very selective, very discreet, none of this Wilt Chamberlain ‘I’ve screwed everyone in California’ stuff with Campbell.”
“What else do you know about him?” Rendi asked, her voice in near perfect California modulation.
“Not much. I know he’s shy. He reads a lot. Carries a portable computer with him sometimes.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, one thing that should help you. He doesn’t go for the very young ones so much—the teenyboppers. He likes mature, serious women. At least that’s the rep.”
“Is he kinky?” Rendi asked, not showing even a hint of embarrassment.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been with him. I do know one girl who says she has been with him.”
“What do you mean, ‘says’?”
“Oh, you know. There’s a whole lot of bullshit around. Some girls get off by just bragging. Didn’t you get some of them types in L.A.?”
“I don’t know—yeah, sure, maybe…”
“Are you sure you know this scene?”
For a moment Rendi feared her cover might be blown. “You know—I’m a little older than you. What are you—twenty-five, twenty-six?”
“I’m twenty-seven, like I said.”
“Well, I’m older,” Rendi declared. “We older girls weren’t as brave as you kids. Things were less blatant earlier on. You know, rock star girls got all the attention for a long time—the competition wasn’t so fierce.”
“Yeah. It’s so competitive nowadays that some of the girls even make stuff up.” Patsy pointed in the direction of an older woman with flaming red hair, sitting alone in the rear of the bar. “Do you see Cynthia, over there? Don’t look, just peek.”
“Yeah.”
“She’s one of the bullshitters. Hardly ever gets it on with anyone anymore. Anyone important, I mean. Yet she brags about everyone—even some guys who never do it. Nobody believes her.”
“Who’s the lucky girl you know who made it with Campbell?”
“Says she made it with Campbell,” Patsy cautioned. “It’s a woman named Chrissy. Doesn’t hang here. Doesn’t really hang anywhere. I haven’t seen her around for a while.”
“I’d love to talk to her. Just for the thrill of hearing what it’s like to be with Campbell.”
“She says she’s been with Campbell. Remember that you can’t believe everything you hear in this scene.”
“Do you have any idea where I could find her?”
“Nah, I never much liked her. We hardly ever talked. Once or twice. Now Bev over there”—Patsy pointed to a tall woman deep in conversation with a former-jock-now-corporate type—“she knew Chrissy real well. Maybe she can help you.”
Rendi kept her eye on Bev while continuing to talk with Patsy. When Bev got up to go to the ladies’ room, Rendi quickly followed.
As Rendi expected, the ladies’ room was a face and body repair shop with indirect lighting that flattered the faces of the five women who were helping themselves to the ointments and toilet waters lined up in designer label perfume bottles. Rendi positioned herself next to Bev at the mirror. The other woman was dressed completely in red and was touching up her scarlet lipstick.
“Hey, Bev, haven’t seen Chrissy around much lately. I’ve got a message for her, and I haven’t run into her.”
“Haven’t you heard?” Bev replied without even glancing up. “Chrissy got married. To some jerk in the meat-packing business. Big bucks, big muscles, big jerk.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. Stan something. Maybe Kowalski or Karin-ski, something Polish. I do remember his company is called Merit Meats. I remember that because she once had him send me a package of free steaks, before they got married. Haven’t heard from her since she moved to the burbs.”
“Which suburbs?”
“I don’t know, south shore somewhere. He has a boat. Maybe Cohasset or Marshfield or somewhere.”
“Thanks, Bev.”
“Hey, you’re not gonna call her with some message from some guy from the scene? That could cause complications. I don’t think her Stan knows how deep sh
e was into the scene before she regained her virginity for him.”
“Nah, don’t worry. It’s a message from an old girlfriend of hers.”
“Yeah. Who?”
“It’s private, Bev, sorry. You understand.”
“What do I give a shit. Just don’t tell her you got the info from me.”
Rendi made a zipper motion across her mouth and walked out of the bathroom and the bar. She needed some air. She wanted to go home. Her work for the night was done. Now all she had to do was find a woman named Chrissy, married to a Polish guy named Stan, who owned a meat company called Merit and lived on the south shore with his boat.
Piece of cake, Rendi said to herself as she drove toward Cambridge.
Chapter Fourteen
CAMBRIDGE—MONDAY, APRIL 10
“What have you got for us, Rendi?”
Abe had arranged a joint debriefing with Rendi and Justin in his Cambridge office. Rendi disliked Justin, as much as he was put off by her. She regarded the tall, good-looking young lawyer as a spoiled brat who did not deserve the enviable opportunity of apprenticing for Abe. “Why him?” she had demanded when Abe told her he had selected Justin from the thirty-five Yale, Harvard, and Columbia applicants.
“Because he’s so different from me. He’s really a prosecutor at heart. He’s better at seeing the other side of the issue. I need a different perspective. The rest of us—me, you, Gayle—we’re all so much alike.”
“How can you work with a wire strung as tight as Rendi?” Justin had once asked Abe. She scared him. He had never quite met anyone like her. He was fascinated and a bit repelled by her, but he was also in awe of her energy and impatience.
Justin loved to tell “Rendi stories” around the office. “You know the ketchup commercial—the one about how slow it drips out of the bottle? I swear, Rendi told me it drives her crazy to watch it drip so slowly. Why would anyone want a slow-pouring ketchup? For her the quicker the better. I can just imagine her in bed.” One day Justin came out of the bathroom laughing hysterically. “Rendi went into the adjoining ladies’ bathroom the same time I went into the men’s room. As soon as she got in, I hear her flush. So when we came out, I asked her, and she told me she flushes as soon as she starts to go, so that the flush will finish when she finishes, and she won’t have to waste an extra second. The woman is nuts. A terrific investigator, but a weird person.”
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