Mason laced his fingers behind his head, leaned back in his chair, and said: “Nailed it.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“I got seventeen porn stars on the record.”
“Great.”
“I knew you’d be pleased.”
“I’d be more pleased if you told me what they went on the record about.”
“Let me tell it from the beginning,” he said.
“Sure.”
“At first I didn’t think this was going to work out. The first six porn actors I located declined to talk to me, and most of them were quite rude about it. One even took a poke at me.”
“That how you got the split lip?”
“No. I ducked and he missed.” Mason laid a finger against the half-moon-shaped scab. “I got this when a whitecap flipped me and I got clipped by the board.”
“So what happened next?”
“On my second day in the Valley, I knocked on the door of a little pink bungalow in Santa Clarita, and a very pretty blonde in shorts and a halter top greeted me with a smile. When I told her what I wanted, she didn’t slam the door like the others. She invited me in and offered me iced tea.”
“What’s her name?”
“Her real name is Frieda Gottschalk, but she started calling herself Shania Bauer six years ago when she moved to Hollywood from Duluth to try to make it in the movie business.”
“How’d that work out?”
“Not well. After a couple of years, she gave it up and started doing porn under the names Peachy Butt and Sugar Sweet.”
“Does she have a peachy butt?”
“If that means what I think it does, I’d have to say yes.”
“Is she sugar sweet?”
“I resisted the urge to taste.”
“So what did she tell you?”
“First I showed Frieda the records indicating she had contributed five thousand dollars to the governor’s reelection campaign three years in a row.”
“I’d prefer that you refer to her as Peachy Butt.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Okay. Peachy Butt confirmed that the records were accurate. She also acknowledged contributing two thousand dollars each to our house and senate judiciary committee chairmen. When I asked her why she made the contributions, she said Sal Maniella told her to.”
“Did she tell you where she got the money?”
“She said Sal gave it to her.”
“Did she know this was illegal?”
“She didn’t say. I forgot to ask her that.”
“Why do you suppose she told you all this?”
“She said Maniella trimmed his roster of actors a few months ago when he opened a new studio in Rhode Island. She’s one of the ones who got dumped, and she’s not pleased about it.”
“Did she lead you to some of the others?”
“To five of them, yes. She even called them and said they should talk to me. Those five led me to still more, and by the end of the week I had seventeen on-the-record interviews. I could have gotten more, but I figured that was enough.”
“They all told the same story?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“I don’t suppose you recorded the interviews.”
“I videotaped them with the Sony camcorder I brought along to document my vacation.”
“They didn’t mind?”
“Not at all. They were quite accustomed to being on camera.”
“Great job, Thanks-Dad. You’re really getting the hang of it. Don’t forget what street reporting is all about when you land the big job in the corner office.”
“I won’t.”
“After you write this up, let me look it over before you give it to Lomax, okay?”
“You can have it tomorrow. It’s already written; I finished it on the plane.”
“Good.”
“Double byline, right?”
“Hell, no,” I said. “Why share the credit when you did all the work?”
“There wouldn’t have been a story if you hadn’t pointed me in the right direction,” he said. “I think your name should be on it.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
“Up to you,” I said. “Lomax will want to hold the story for Sunday and strip it across page one. It’s gonna make a hell of a splash.”
But first, I owed a couple of people a heads-up.
46
The maid answered the bell and ushered me into the library, where Sal Maniella was waiting for me. I found him seated on the couch, admiring the autograph on the title page of Ian Fleming’s Moonraker. Copies of Casino Royale, From Russia with Love, and On Her Majesty’s Secret Service were fanned out on the coffee table.
“From the Swann Galleries auction?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I’d looked up the auction results online. The signed first edition of Moonraker had sold for more than fifty thousand dollars.
I sat beside him and placed both volumes of the Grant biography on the coffee table. “Thanks for letting me borrow them,” I said.
“You’re most welcome. Let me know if there’s anything else you want to read. After all, what good are books if you can’t share them?”
“I never got around to reading Moonraker,” I said, “but if I ever find the time, I’ll buy a used paperback. I’d be afraid to even breathe on this copy.”
“Don’t be,” he said, and placed it in my hands. “You can read it here if you like; it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. But I’m sure you understand why I’d prefer it didn’t leave the premises.”
“Of course.”
“By the way,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your collection of pulp detective magazines.”
“The magazines that were in the boxes you don’t know anything about?”
“Those would be the ones.”
“What about them?”
“Take special care with the June 1935 edition of Black Mask. It contains the first printing of a story by Raymond Chandler, and except for the tiny coffee stain on the spine, it’s in remarkable condition.”
“I suppose it is.”
“If you ever decide to sell it, let me know. The last one that sold at auction brought five hundred dollars.”
“You’ll be the first one I call,” I said. I could sure use the money, but I hated the idea of parting with it.
“So,” he said, “why did you want to see me?”
I told him.
He picked up the crystal decanter, poured himself a shot of Scotch, and offered me one. I shook my head.
“Well,” he said, “this will certainly cause some trouble for the governor.”
“For you, too, I imagine.”
“No, not really. Yolanda will plead me guilty to violating the state campaign finance law, and I’ll have to pay a four-figure fine. But of course the governor’s campaign committee will have to return the money, so I’ll use that to pay the fine and be well ahead of the game.”
“They’ll return the money to the porn actors, not to you,” I said. “I doubt you’ll ever see any of it.”
“Excellent point,” he said.
“When the story breaks, there’ll be a lot of pressure on the governor and the legislature to outlaw prostitution,” I said.
“I imagine so.”
“If they do, it will ruin Vanessa’s brothel business.”
“I very much doubt that.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“How come?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“The story’s going to run Sunday, page one,” I said. “We need some kind of quote from you and Vanessa.”
“Just put us down for a ‘No comment.’”
* * *
I walked into Hopes expecting to find Fiona at her usual table. Instead she was holding down a stool at the far end of the bar.
“You look exhausted,” I sai
d.
“I am. I spent last night trying to comfort Daniel and Carla Arruda.”
“The parents of the kidnapped Pawtucket girl?”
“Yeah.”
“How are they holding up?”
“Carla can’t stop crying and begging God to send her little girl home. Daniel has already given his daughter up for dead and wants to shed blood; but he doesn’t know who to kill, and it’s driving him fucking crazy.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that, so I stared at the bar top for a moment.
“I bet you could use some good news,” I said.
“You got any?”
“I do,” I said, and then I told her.
“That’s fantastic,” she said. “How’d you find out?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “It was Thanks-Dad.” And then I told her how he’d done it.
“Pretty slick,” she said.
“I think so, too.”
“Of course, they’ll all wriggle off the hook,” she said. “Maniella will get fined and can grab enough cash to cover it by looking under his sofa cushions. The governor and the two committee chairmen will be shocked, shocked, about where the campaign contributions came from, and they’ll give the money back. But the bastards won’t dare to hold up my antiprostitution bill now. If they do, I’ll make it look like they were all bought and paid for.”
“Which they were,” I said. “You were right all along.”
“Have a drink with me,” Fiona said.
“My doctor has advised against it.”
“Would a little wine hurt? Come on, Mulligan. I’ve got a couple of things to celebrate.”
“A couple? What’s the other one?”
“Rome finally weighed in on my, uh, situation.”
“And?”
“And it’s politics or the church. I’ve been given a week to decide.”
“Aw, crap.”
“I couldn’t have put it better,” she said, and then she threw her head back and laughed.
“What are you going to do?”
Fiona drained her can of Bud and placed it on the bar. She slipped the gold band from her finger and held it before her eyes for a moment. Then she dropped the ring into the empty. She picked up the can and shook it, the ring clattering inside, and suddenly the mischievous smile I remembered from two decades ago was back. “So whaddaya say, Mulligan? Wanna fuck?”
“Uh … what?”
“Don’t look so scared,” she said. “I’m just kidding. Besides, you’re not my type.”
“I’m not?”
“No.”
“Why is that?”
“Can you turn the governor into a pillar of salt?”
“Guess not.”
“Bring a rain of burning sulfur down on the statehouse?”
“Only metaphorically.”
“Well, there you go.” She laughed hard and long, the sound mirthful but with a hint of hysteria around the edges.
“Going to hold a press conference?” I said.
“No. I thought I’d just give you the scoop. Pull your pad out and I’ll answer all your questions.”
So I did. But I already had my lead: the clink of a gold wedding ring hitting the bottom of an empty beer can.
47
The “Who Are You?” ringtone interrupted my breakfast.
“I’m only going to say this once,” the caller said, “so listen up.” The voice was muffled—a man trying to disguise his voice. The gravel in it again reminded me of Joseph, but I still couldn’t be sure.
“You again,” I said.
“Shut up and write down this address: 8 Harwich Street. That’s H-a-r-w-i-c-h. Got it?”
“Off Blackstone Boulevard?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you must mean Harwich Road.”
“Yeah, yeah, Harwich Road.”
“Nice neighborhood,” I said.
“Fuckin’ posh.”
Would Joseph say “posh”? Would he even know what it meant?
“Do a little redecorating there, did you?” I asked.
“You’ll find out when you show up. Another big story in it for you, so move your ass.”
So that’s what I did. I’d just pulled Secretariat out of the Mob-owned parking lot across from the newspaper when the cell started playing “Who Let the Dogs Out?”
“Hi, Peggi.”
“Something’s wrong at Dr. Wayne’s house,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t come to work this morning. Blew off an eight o’clock appointment with a big donor, which isn’t like him at all. I tried his cell phone and it went to voice mail, so I called the house and a policeman answered the phone.”
“A policeman?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That Dr. Wayne couldn’t come to the phone right now. Then he asked me who I was and why I was calling.”
“Did you get his name?”
“Parisi. Captain Parisi of the Rhode Island State Police.”
“Where does Dr. Wayne live, Peggi?”
“Eight Harwich Road.”
* * *
Dr. Charles Bruce Wayne’s place was a two-story red-brick colonial with thick hedges on three sides and a wrought iron fence across the front. Three unmarked Crown Vics, two Providence PD squad cars, and the state medical examiner’s wagon were parked at the curb out front. An ambulance waited in the driveway, nose out but in no apparent hurry. Three stay-at-home moms and their preschool toddlers gawked from the sidewalk across the street. I parked Secretariat behind one of the squad cars, and as I climbed out, Patrolman O’Banion of the Providence PD waddled in my direction. He didn’t look happy to see me.
“Top of the mornin’ to ya, Officer.”
“Get back in your piece-of-shit Bronco and get the fuck out of here,” he said, “or I’ll arrest you and call for a tow.” My story about him filching joints from the Providence PD evidence locker was six years old now, but we Irish know how to nurse a grudge.
“While you’re doing all that,” I said, “please let my friend Steve Parisi know that I’m here with information pertinent to this case.”
“And what information would that be?”
“After I give it to Parisi, you can ask him.”
O’Banion folded his arms, rested them on the top shelf of his potbelly, and gave me a hard look. I shrugged, took out my cell, and hit speed dial.
“Parisi.”
“Morning, Captain.”
“Sorry, but I’m a little busy right now.”
“I know. I’m right outside.”
“Aw, hell. Who tipped you this time?”
“An anonymous caller.”
That made him pause. “Not the same one who tipped you off about the Chad Brown murders,” he said.
“Sure sounded like him.”
“Well, then stay right there until I can get to you, okay?”
“If I do, Officer O’Banion is going to arrest me and have my car towed.”
“Let me talk to him.”
O’Banion raised an eyebrow as I handed him the cell. He put it to his ear, said, “Yes, sir,” a couple of times, and clicked off. Then he glared at me, swung his arm back as if he thought he was Josh Beckett, and hurled the phone across the street. I walked over, picked it up, and brushed the snow from it. It still worked.
I got behind the wheel of the Bronco, eased the seat halfway back, cracked the window, and set fire to a Cohiba. I’d finished the cigar and was a third of the way through my prostitution playlist when two EMTs rolled a shiny black body bag out of the house and loaded it into the ambulance. The driver was in no hurry. He took a few moments to savor his cigarette before tossing it aside, climbing behind the wheel, and driving away. Fifteen minutes later, a crime scene investigator from Tedesco’s office came out of the house, spotted the cigarette butt, picked it up with tweezers, and deposited it in a clear plastic evidence bag.
It was well past noon when Parisi
exited the house. I slid down the passenger-side window as he headed my way.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“I’m buying,” he said. He opened the car door, swept some newspapers and empty coffee cups off the passenger seat, and got in. “Head downtown and find a parking spot near city hall.”
Parisi’s idea of springing for lunch turned out to be hot dogs and Cokes at Haven Brothers, one of the oldest lunch wagons in America. An immigrant woman named Anne Philomena Haven founded it in 1893 with money from her late husband’s insurance policy. Originally it was a horse-drawn wagon, but it reluctantly joined the internal combustion age about ninety years ago. For longer than anyone could remember, Haven Brothers has been a fixture on the street just outside the entrance to city hall. For a time, it is said, the lunch wagon drew its electricity by illegally tapping into the government building’s power line. Every now and then, the city fathers denounce the place as an eyesore and drug addict hangout and try to close it down. Each time they do, loyal customers including drug addicts, Brown students, bikers, cops, hookers, reporters, and former mayor Vincent A. “Buddy” Cianci Jr. ride to the rescue. Buddy recommends the beans, one of the things he missed during his four years in federal prison on a racketeering conviction.
Haven Brothers has no seats, but it does offer a choice of dining accommodations. You can inhale grease-flecked air while eating standing up in a cramped and gritty indoor space near the grill, or you can take your food outside and join the pigeons by the equestrian statue of Civil War general Ambrose Burnside in the little park that bears his name. Most people prefer the park, even when it rains. Parisi and I walked through what remained of the snow and sat on the concrete base of the statue.
“Tell me about the call,” he said.
“It was pretty much the same as the first one—a muffled voice giving me the address and saying there was a big story in it if I got there first.”
“But this time you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Put the phone on speaker and hit redial.”
It rang eight times and went to a recorded message saying the voice mail mailbox had not been set up. Same as the last time.
“How’d you beat me to the scene?” I asked.
Parisi took five seconds to compose his response. “The good doctor’s wife was out of town visiting family. She called the home phone and her husband’s cell several times, got no answer, and became concerned. About six this morning, she called the Providence police and asked them to check on him.”
Cliff Walk: A Liam Mulligan Novel Page 21
