Decker knew from experience that discount brokers didn’t place a premium on image, and Executive First was no exception. It was bare bones: four walls, two metal tables, a few unoccupied folding chairs, and a disheveled-looking bleached blonde wearing a polyester stretch top that didn’t give where it should have. If you want glitz, go to any full-service brokerage house. The big desks, the high-tech electronic ticker tape, and the busty young secretary all cost extra, and those hidden expenses were passed on to the client in the form of higher trading fees.
The blonde was seated at one of the tables taking a call from a switchboard. She motioned Decker onto a folding chair as she spoke into a headphone mike in a soft, modulated voice. She put the caller on hold.
“Harry?” she shouted. “Oh Haaaarry!”
She turned to Decker and said, “Must be in the little boy’s room.” Punching back the button, she took the caller’s name and number, then hung up the receiver. Another light started blinking. She debated answering the call, but instead turned to Decker.
“You want to see Harry?” she asked.
“Actually, I’m interested in seeing Dustin Pode.”
“Dustin isn’t in and I’m not sure when—Ah, here’s Harry.”
Harry was Harrison Smithson. He was in his fifties, with a full head of thick white hair and pale blue eyes rimmed in red. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a pair of navy gabardine slacks that had seen better days. He sat down at the other table.
“Have a seat,” he said to Decker.
His phone rang. Smithson picked it up, greeted the person on the other end, and began rummaging through the piles of papers in front of him.
“I’ve got the confirmation order right here, Mr. Amati. Yes, I have the check also, but I’m holding it because the settlement date hasn’t been established yet…. Yes, it should be by next week…If the issue is cancelled, you’ll be the first to know. Yes, yes, thank you.”
He looked back at Decker.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for investments that are speculative in nature but have a higher rate of return on the upside. A friend of mine tuned me into Dustin Pode. I thought I’d come down here and check him out personally.”
“Which of Mr. Pode’s investments interest you?” Smithson asked matter-of-factly.
“Well, what kind of prospectuses do you have to offer me?” Decker hedged. His year with Jack doing wills and estate trusts had been good for something. You learn the lingo.
“Well, I don’t know if Mr. Pode ever got around to any formal prospectuses.”
“What did he file with the SEC?”
Smithson hesitated. “They’re not exactly public offerings.”
The phone rang again. The receptionist answered it.
“It’s Grunz, Harry.”
“Take a message,” Smithson said wearily. He turned his attention back to Decker. “It would be best to have Mr. Pode call you directly, Mr….”
“Cohen,” Decker said. “Jack Cohen.” He handed Smithson one of his father-in-law’s business cards.
Smithson inspected it briefly.
“All right, Mr. Cohen. I’ll have Mr. Pode call you.”
Decker was about to stand up, but paused.
“My friend told me that Mr. Pode had done very well in movie production limited partnerships. Does he still do that?”
“Yes,” Smithson answered. “Occasionally. But he and my son, Cameron, are also involved in a real estate syndication which, to my mind, is going to really take off. It’s speculative, of course, and I wouldn’t recommend putting your life savings into it. But as far as potential for an upside profit—you’re talking sky’s the limit.”
“Sounds like my type of deal,” Decker said, smiling. “A little cash and a lot of stomach acid.”
The outer door burst open and a young man flew in. He stomped up to Smithson’s desk, completely unaware, it seemed, of Decker’s presence.
“Where are Cumberlaine’s certificates?” he demanded of Smithson.
The older man turned pink and lowered his voice.
“The securities are still being registered, Cameron. The order was only placed a couple of weeks ago.”
“The guy wants his certificates,” Cameron said, loudly. “I told him I’d have them for him.” He started pacing. “This isn’t some penny-ante bimbo, Harry, we’re talking big stakes. Somebody who can inject a little class, not to mention a lot of money, into this firm. The man’s connected!”
Smithson cleared his throat and turned to Decker. “This is the senior vice-president of Executive First,” he said, “Cameron Smithson. This is Mr. Cohen, an interested investor.”
“Hello,” Cameron said, shaking Decker’s hand. “I’ll leave you two alone in a minute.”
Decker regarded Smithson’s son. He wasn’t particularly small, but his overall appearance suggested delicacy. His complexion was baby-smooth, almost translucent, with a hint of peach fuzz above a narrow pink upper lip. His hair was blonde and fine and combed to cover a patch of denuded scalp. His eyes were watery blue, his nose thin with surprisingly wide nostrils. His blue cashmere blazer was perfectly tailored, his charcoal slacks, razor pressed. A red silk tie hung against a backdrop of white sea island cotton, the collar of the shirt secured by a gold pin. His hands were slender with un-callused palms, fingernails filed and shaped and coated with clear polish.
Not a man used to getting his hands dirty.
Cameron glared at his father. “I need those certificates, Harry.”
“I can’t get them now,” Smithson said, embarrassed. “Can’t get blood from a turnip, Cam.”
“Then what the hell do I tell Cumberlaine?” His expression suddenly shifted. “Never mind! I’ll think of something. Blame it on the SEC or, better yet, blame it on the post office.”
He stormed out of the office. The room was eerily quiet—the stifling calm after the cessation of a freak tornado. Smithson cleared his throat.
“You’ll have to forgive Cameron,” he said sheepishly. “He gets a bit overexcited when he can’t make good on his word. He takes his work very seriously.”
Decker nodded. He was making excuses for his son. It sounded like something he was used to doing.
“I’ll have Mr. Pode call you,” Smithson said, trying not to appear nonplussed.
“That would be fine.”
“I hope I’ve been of service to you, Mr. Cohen.”
“You have,” answered Decker. “I’m glad I made it over here.”
The men rose. Smithson held out his hand and Decker took it.
There was more action outside the Golden Dreams Motel than inside. The proprietor, a middle-aged Armenian, complained animatedly to Decker that the prostitutes and pimps had driven away all his legit business. Decker listened with half an ear, and when the man paused for air, stuck in his question. Who, of the half dozen pimps outside, was Wilmington Johnson? The owner pointed out a tall, emaciated black with a full Afro, wearing purple stretch pants, a gold lamé V-neck shirt, and a black velvet jacket. Around his neck were plaits of gold chains and on his arms were two babes of fifteen or sixteen—both white.
The man had arrived.
He went up to Johnson and told the girls to beat it.
“Say what, white boy?” Johnson asked, staring out into the street.
“You Johnson?” Decker asked.
The black turned around and gave him a quick once-over.
“Well, that all depends on what you want, man.”
“Oh,” Decker said meekly. Then he spun around and gave the pimp a short, hard punch to the solar plexus. Johnson folded over like a loose strand of licorice and began panting, teary-eyed. His whores stared at the detective, one with animosity, the other with admiration.
“Jesus,” Decker said helping him up. “I’m so sorry. I just lost my balance for a second. Jesus.” He brushed off the pimp’s coat. “I’m so sorry.”
Johnson stared at hi
m with evil eyes.
“I’m looking for Wilmington Johnson,” Decker said, smiling.
“Who the fuck are you?” Johnson spat.
Decker took out his badge.
“Police.”
Johnson muttered to himself. Pulling out a pair of glasses, he stared at the shield, then looked at Decker. “Yeah, you’re po-lice all right. What you want?” He was about to remove the spectacles, but Decker held his arm and showed him the picture of the Countess.
“Yeah,” Johnson nodded. “I seen the bitch.”
“Was she one of yours?”
Johnson laughed, showing off horse-sized teeth.
“No way. Ain’t got that kind of animal in my stable. Try a dude named Clementine.”
“Where does he hang out?”
“Here and there.”
Decker scowled at him.
“Where is ‘here and there’?”
“The Strip, the Boulevard, the back alleys,” said Johnson. “Catch him when you can.”
“What do you know about the Countess?”
“She was bad-assed. Kinky.”
“Know this one?” Decker showed him Lindsey.
Johnson took a long look.
“A nice one,” Johnson nodded. “Fresh meat. Could get a lotta mileage from her. But the angel hasn’t crossed my path.”
“You sell pictures of your girls, Johnson?”
The pimp laughed.
“Say what?”
“Sell pictures of them with their johns.”
“Shit, no. Who needs the extra hassle? I ain’t greedy.”
“Some people say you do.”
“Who?”
“Cecil Pode.”
Johnson sputtered out guffaws.
“Ole Cecil. How’s the fat boy doing?”
“What do you know about Cecil?”
“Fat old fart. Used to slip me a few extra bucks if I’d let him shoot some of my girls in the raw. After a while he got in my face, man. Tried to steal some of my cuties. But my girls are loyal. I told him to take a hike. Musta been two years ago.”
Decker put away his notebook.
“You stay put,” Decker said. “I may come back for you.”
“Hey, Mr. Po-liceman, where the fuck should I be goin’ to? My livelihood is right out here.” The pimp’s eyes narrowed and shifted to the hookers. “Interested?”
Decker gave him either a hard pat or a light slap on the face.
“No.”
The cop who walked into the interrogation room was no more than a kid.
“You’re Vice in these parts?” Decker asked.
“Yup.”
The cop’s name was Beauchamps—all-American surfer boy with peroxide hair, movie idol eyes, and the deep tan that a redhead could never attain. Decker felt tired and old. And whenever he felt tired and old, he also felt pissed. The kid gave him an aw shucks grin.
“Welcome to Hollywood PD. Want a cup of coffee?”
“Pass,” Decker said.
“How long of a shift have you been on?”
“I didn’t have a mustache when it started.”
Beauchamps laughed, then said, “I’ve seen you before.”
“I was here last Sunday asking about a runaway.”
“That’s right. You spoke with Martell.”
“Yeah,” Decker said. “I’ve got some new developments. A kinky one that goes by the name of Countess Dracula.” He showed Beauchamps the picture.
“Don’t know her personally,” said the Vice cop, “but I’ll circulate it.”
“How about a pimp named Clementine?”
“Him I know.”
“Where does he hang out?”
“All over. His main squeeze lives in a pink duplex on Genesee, off of Hollywood Boulevard. Her name matches the house. Get this—Pinky Lovebite.”
Decker nodded. “Where can I get hold of kinky films, real nasty stuff?”
Beauchamps grinned boyishly. “If I knew that, Decker, I’d have a hell of a bust.”
“Ever hear of a photographer named Cecil Pode?”
“Nope.”
“Thanks.”
“Stop by again,” Beauchamps said. “I’ll buy you dinner.”
13
“The murdered girl?” the Rabbi asked. “Have you found the culprit?”
Decker took another drag on his cigarette and shook his head. Schulman looked upset.
“Have you talked to the parents at all?”
“Not since the initial interviews,” Decker answered. “I figured I’d call them when I had something worthwhile to tell them.”
The Rabbi crushed out the butt of his handrolled cigarette.
“I’m sure something will break open soon for you, Peter.”
“I appreciate the optimism, Rabbi. This is one of those cases that’s wrapped in layers. And as I peel them off, I know I’m going to find a rotten core. It stinks.”
“Are there ever good cases?” Schulman asked. “That was not meant rhetorically. I’m wondering if there are any cases from which you walk away feeling good?”
“Not really,” Decker said. “But most are very straightforward. A wife shoots her husband because he had a lover. A husband shoots his wife because she nagged him. Mama picked on the son-in-law at the wrong time. This one is not like that, though.”
The Rosh Yeshiva was clearly troubled.
Decker cursed his stupidity. He shouldn’t have told Schulman about his work. The old man had been insulated from the depravity of the outside world and was not equipped to deal with it.
“Don’t worry, Rabbi,” Decker said. “We’ll solve the case.”
He had told Rina that he’d stop by after his session with Schulman. As he approached her door, he could hear voices inside her house—a foreign tongue—Hungarian.
Her parents! Shit!
Reluctantly, he knocked. Rina swung open the door and stared at him, looking haggard. She was holding Jacob and was struggling under his weight, the boy’s feet dangling down to her shins. He was dressed in pajama bottoms but was barechested, his swollen eyes evidence that he’d been crying.
Her parents were standing around the doorway, looking their usual stiff selves. Her mother, Mrs. Elias, though wrinkled around the eyes and lips, was still a very pretty woman. Rina resembled her except that she’d inherited her father’s baby-smooth complexion, ending up with the best of both worlds. Mr. Elias was shorter than his wife, with a solid frame packed with muscle. He appeared agitated, his round face flushed and wet with perspiration.
“What’s wrong?” Decker asked.
“Come in,” Rina said, wearily.
“You didn’t ask who it was?” her mother scolded her in a heavy accent. “It could have been anyone.”
“I saw him through the peephole,” Rina said tensely.
“C’mere, Jake,” Decker said, forcing himself to breathe regularly. “Give your mama’s arms a rest.”
As Decker reached out to take Jacob, the boy screamed, kicked, and buried his face in his mother’s neck.
“He’s had another nightmare,” Rina explained. “I don’t think he’s fully awake. He woke up soaked with sweat, and everytime I try to put a shirt on him he screams. If I try putting him back to sleep, he screams. If someone tries to take him, he screams. I just don’t know what to do.”
“Sit down with him, Ginny,” suggested her father. “You’ll sprain your back.”
“I’ve tried that already, Papa,” Rina answered.
“Remember what happened when you carried Sammy too much as a baby,” her mother warned.
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Give him to me,” her father said. As soon as he touched Jacob’s shoulders, the boy emitted a high-pitched wail.
“Forget it, Papa,” Rina said. “He just won’t go to anyone else.”
“Let him sleep with you, Ginny,” the mother suggested. “Just for the night.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful,” Rina said, sarcastically.
>
“For one night it won’t kill you. I did it with you,” her mother said. “You sleep on your own now, don’t you?”
“Mother, I am not going to let him sleep with me. You know all the trouble I had with the boys doing that after Yitzchak, alav hashalom, died.”
“He’s falling asleep,” her father announced. “Try putting him down.”
“Everytime I try putting him to bed he screams,” Rina said, exasperatedly.
“Try again,” her mother insisted.
“At least let me wait until he’s deep asleep.”
“And until your back breaks,” her mother muttered. “Just let him sleep with you.”
“Rina, maybe I should come back at another time,” Decker said.
“Well, that’s to be expected,” Mrs. Elias said acidly.
“What was that supposed to mean?” Rina said, forcing control into her voice.
“After all, we know the reason behind Yonkel’s nightmares—”
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” Rina defended.
“Nothing like this ever happened when we had the children,” her mother insisted.
“It was one of those unfortunate things, Mrs. Elias,” Decker answered, supressing his anger. “He’ll survive.”
“There is a big difference between survival and happiness, Detective,” Mrs. Elias shot back. “I survived the camps.”
“Mother, that’s not fair!” Rina exclaimed.
“I think I’d better leave, Rina,” Decker said.
“As I was saying, that is to be expected,” her mother said.
“Don’t pay any attention to her—”
“That is what you call me, Ginny?” said her mother, with her eyes watering. “Her?”
Decker balled his fingers into a fist and headed for the door. Jacob shouted out his name.
Decker turned. “C’mere, fellah,” he said, holding out his arms.
This time, Jacob leaped.
“Let’s talk in bed, okay?”
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