Hooked

by Polly Iyer

  “Hush money. One hundred thousand and the murder goes away. By the way, there’s film.”

  Cautious, Martell had checked the room the first time he went to Upper Eighties. He didn’t see anything, and he knew what to search for. Whoever installed the camera did a fine job if it escaped his discovery.

  This was the moment of reckoning. Although the main man kept a low profile, Martell knew who he was. Benny Cooper was betting that rather than expose himself as a murderer, Martell would shut up and pay. He calculated the risks on both sides of the equation, the same way he calculated numbers. They had underestimated him. He was logical, tactical. A member of the fucking Russo Family.

  “You didn’t report the crime,” Martell said. “Why not?”

  “We thought we’d give you a chance to get away with it. For a price.”

  Martell felt blood flush hot through his body like a raging river, heating his neck and cheeks, soaking his two-hundred-dollar shirt. He hated that. His hands shook, and he bet his pressure shot up beyond threatening to critical.

  “How noble of you,” he managed to say. “Now, let me get this straight. Someone committed a murder in your establishment. The medical examiner would determine the time of death to be sometime last evening. But you never reported it, did you? If you had, you wouldn’t be calling to offer a cover-up.”

  Silence.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Martell continued, “but my guess is you’ve already disposed of the body, which means no corpus delicti. Now if you expose me, you’re exposing yourself as an accessory after the fact, and all to save me from a murder charge? I’ve got this right, haven’t I?”

  Again, silence.

  “And you are going to accuse me of murder? Fuck off, asshole. You don’t want to fool with me. I’ll take a hit from my boss―a reprimand at best, but I’ll make sure the NYPD knows about your operation. You guys will be out of business and facing prostitution charges. But that will be the least of your problems. Your one witness to the murder was out cold, and your doorman won’t know his own name. But I’ll have a dozen people swear I was somewhere else. And when they find Baby Cindi, if they find her, remember that accessory after the fact business? To keep her taut little ass out of prison, pretty Miss Melody with the glorious knockers will throw you under the bus so fast you won’t feel the wheels turn you into pastry dough.”

  Martell was starting to shake big time now. “Anything else?”

  Silence.

  He slammed down the desk phone with the force of four hundred and fifty pounds. He heaved himself to his feet and stomped to the bar in his office. So what if it wasn’t five o’clock? Hell, it wasn’t even noon. He needed a drink. He may be only an accountant, but he was an accountant for goddamn organized crime. He knew the ropes, and he knew he had to come clean to the main man. He didn’t want to call attention to himself, but in his case honesty would be the best policy. Martell chuckled at that one.

  He had to think. And he had to get to the toilet fast before he shit his pants.

  Chapter Ten

  Deal at the Deli

  Tawny took a limo from the airport into the city. The driver tried to barter the fare for a date. When she told him what a date with her would cost, he paled, dropped her at her apartment in SoHo without another word, and drove off with the fare and a nice tip.

  She undressed, showered, and put on a pair of jeans and a Brown University T-shirt. Then she plopped on the bed, tired and stressed and not looking forward to her meeting with Benny Cooper.

  When the phone woke her, rain was pouring down in sheets from a menacing sky. A quick peek at the bedside clock told her it was seven thirty, and for a moment she questioned whether it was morning or night until she saw the p.m. light on its face. She’d slept the entire afternoon.

  “You get home okay?”

  She recognized the voice, and her heart popped like a crackling fireplace. “Fine. No problems.”

  “Thought I’d check.”

  “Thanks.” The line sounded like it had gone dead, and then he spoke.

  “I’ll call you when we know something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good night, Tawny.”

  “Good night, Walsh.”

  She set the receiver into the base and sat upright on the bed. “That was the most banal exchange I’ve ever experienced in my life,” she said aloud.

  * * * * *

  After working a couple of sexual abuse cases and nailing a serial pedophile over the weekend, Linc got the go-ahead call that Cooper was on his way into the city. He’d stayed in New York Friday night, the day before Linc returned from Myrtle Beach, and his chauffeur drove him to the Hamptons Saturday morning. He partied at a seaside mansion Saturday night and stayed home Sunday and Monday. This morning, Tuesday, he left his house in the limo ten minutes before seven.

  Linc called Tawny, something he’d wanted to do all weekend but couldn’t think of a reason. It was a bad idea to get too chummy, no matter that he wanted to. If this went wrong, he might have to arrest her.

  Tawny’s chirpy hello ruffled his feathers. Seven fifteen and she didn’t sound like he’d woken her. “There’s a health food store right near Gruber’s on 87th, between Lexington and Third,” he said.

  “Good morning to you too,” Tawny said.

  He winced at the sarcasm in her tone. “Yeah, morning. The store is one of the best of its kind in the city. Stuff you can’t find anywhere else, I’m told. That should be a perfect reason for you to be there. You can go in and check it out, then wander over to Gruber’s for lunch.”

  “After a visit to the Metropolitan. Another reason to be in the area.”

  “Of course. You were an art history major, weren’t you?”

  “Yup. Ever been there, Detective Walsh? Or is your entertainment limited to Sylvester Stallone movies?”

  Huh? It took everything he had to keep his cool. “Might interest you to know, Miz Dell, that I’ve been to the Met many times. Some of us law and order guys have other interests besides guns and NASCAR.”

  “Actually, your pursuits don’t interest me at all. What time does Cooper eat?”

  Linc scowled, glad Tawny couldn’t see his irritation. “I’ll call you on your cell as soon as we see him leave his building, but be in the store at noon.”

  “I take it you have my number.”

  “Do I ever.” He hung up, pissed. Sylvester Stallone, my ass.

  * * * * *

  Tawny fumed. Lincoln Walsh was an ass—with a very nice ass, but an ass just the same. And why was he fuming? She was the one who should be mad. The one time she let emotion prevail over reason, a man treated her like a whore.

  Men paid a lot of money for her company and never made her feel as if she’d been bought. For most rich men, paying an exorbitant amount of money was the thrill. It meant they had a woman few could afford. It was power, exclusivity, and ego. Some craved to be seen with a beautiful woman on their arm. No strings attached, minimal sex involved. They didn’t want ties to a steady woman and felt safe that Tawny wasn’t after them for a long-term relationship. She made them feel good, and her presence made the right impression on whomever they wanted to impress, which was the object of hiring her in the first place. Some clients were gay and needed a woman to dispel rumors of their questionable sexual orientation. And still others sought a woman who knew her way around the bedroom. She made clear what she would and wouldn’t do, and she never had a complaint she wasn’t worth what they paid.

  Many older men were married to women for whom sex had become a bore or to women who had their own play toys on the side. The consensual arrangements asked only that each party avoid embarrassing situations at all costs. Screw around carefully, and there’d be no humiliated children and messy divorces. Each partner got what he or she wanted, no one lost money, and both were free to engage in multiple sexual escapades.

  Their arrangements worked fine for her. She’d seen the world on yachts and private jets, gone to Hollywood
parties with a major leading man―gay―and dined with Mid-Eastern royalty in their gilt-trimmed palaces. She even enjoyed a ten-year, twice-monthly tryst with a Mafia don in his swanky penthouse hideaway.

  But no one, no one, had ever made her feel like a twenty-buck street whore the way Lincoln Walsh did the other night. The boiling hot shower she’d taken after she kicked him out of her suite hadn’t washed away the dirty feeling still clinging to her skin like an oily residue, even after his effort to explain his callous remark. Now she had to gear up for Benny Cooper. At least she knew where he stood.

  She ground her morning coffee, drank it with a piece of whole-grain toast and fresh fruit, then thought about what she’d wear. If she was going to make herself irresistible, it’d have to be something sexy but classy. She remembered every time she ran into Cooper, and he tried to enlist her into his harem, his sightline centered on her cleavage. Well, today she’d give him enough cleavage to cause him to choke on his pastrami sandwich.

  So, cleavage and demure. Simple. Tawny chose a white, translucent but not see-through Armani linen shirt. She’d unbutton it as low as legally allowable before leaving for the deli, but for now she tucked it into a fitted black skirt that brushed the tops of her knees. She never wore minis except at the beach. They screamed hooker to her, and for the money she charged, that was the last thing clients wanted her to look like, unless they did. She’d contracted a few of those over the years.

  She pulled two shoe boxes from her closet. One, a pair of red Tod’s flats to wear during her morning at the museum; the other, Jimmy Choo strappy heels, she dropped into the red Prada satchel for her meeting with Cooper. She’d better take good care of her clothes, because she wouldn’t be spending money on labels from now on. They were tools of the trade, and her trade had ended, or so she thought until Walsh. She stood back from the mirror. It’ll do.

  Tawny took the subway uptown and walked the short distance to the Metropolitan. Unless she was out of the city, she did that every Tuesday for her volunteer job as a docent, sharing her knowledge of Greek, Etruscan, and Roman art with the tour groups that came through the museum. The unpaid position fed her soul. Non-working hours afforded her time to roam the museum, absorbing the over two million works of art from classical antiquity to modern day, including the ever-changing traveling collections.

  She worked the tour at her usual ten a.m. hour and chatted with a few of the employees after. None knew any more about her than that she had a doctorate in art history and she volunteered her time at the museum. They’d undoubtedly be shocked to learn about the flip side of her life, but that was no one’s business. Too many people knew as it was.

  She bought a Bastet Egyptian cat at the Met store that she’d coveted for weeks to add to her collection of authentic and reproduction pieces. Maybe it was the ominous task before her that prompted her to feel deserving of a gift.

  She left to find the health food store on 87th. She really wasn’t a health food nut, didn’t take all the supplements, pills, or other overpriced supposedly health-related products. Only a multi-vitamin and a calcium pill to delay the aging process, if only psychologically. If Walsh labeled her a health food nut because she didn’t eat animals, that was his perception, and she knew better than anyone that perceptions were hard to change. The night in the hotel room proved that.

  She walked up Fifth to 87th, crossed Madison, Park, and Lexington and found the health food store exactly where Walsh said. She spotted the awning of Gruber’s Deli a few doors east. Browsing inside the health food store, she picked up a bottle of multi vitamins with extra calcium and magnesium, then found a deserted corner. She pulled her heels out of the satchel, slipped them on, tucked her flats in the bag, and unbuttoned her blouse two more buttons. That ought to do it.

  Her cell rang. Unlike the morning call, this time Walsh greeted her cordially, then went straight to business.

  “Cooper left his building a minute ago and is walking toward the deli. If you leave in a few minutes and time it right, you’ll run right into him.”

  “I have to make a purchase first, and I’m on my way.”

  “Tawny?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good luck, and be careful. Call back on this number if you need me.”

  “Okay.” She turned off her phone. Walsh almost sounded worried. Probably didn’t want any problems to mess up his career.

  She took the small shopping bag with her purchase—something to show for her walk to 87th from the museum—put on her Gucci sunglasses, and headed toward the deli.

  She’d dressed to attract Benny Cooper, and from the attention she was getting from every male who passed, she’d chosen her outfit well. Was Walsh spying from some safe retreat like he had at the beach? Of course he was. Doing his job, he’d say.

  Put Walsh out of your mind, Tawny. This is business. A way to stay out of federal prison for committing a federal crime. Nothing more.

  She saw Cooper diagonally crossing the street on a collision course to the deli door. Dressed impeccably as always, he hadn’t aged much since their last meeting. A little more gray in his hair, a tiny pot belly, and a few extra wrinkles that defined men over fifty as distinguished. Would he recognize her?

  Yup, he saw her. With sunglasses hiding her eyes, she acted as if she didn’t see him. When they met at the entrance, Cooper held open the door.

  “Thanks,” she said, flashing a smile. “Who said chivalry was dead?”

  Cooper smiled back. “Chivalry could never be dead when there are lovely ladies like you to open doors for.”

  His eyes were definitely riveted on her chest. Some things never changed.

  “It’s been awhile. How are you, Tawny?”

  Tawny cocked her head slightly, lifted her glasses, and squinted, as if trying to conjure a name from her mental Rolodex. She stepped inside and turned toward him. “Benny? Benny Cooper?”

  “I’m flattered you remember me. How long has it been?”

  She didn’t excel at small talk―her business had entailed more listening than talking—but if ever a situation called for aimless banter, this was it. “Years, I imagine. Still in the same business, Benny?” she said with a flirtatious tone.

  “Join me for lunch, and we can talk about it.”

  “Hmm, I don’t know.” She checked her watch. “I have an appointment downtown at two thirty. I was going to grab a quick salad.”

  “Plenty of time.” Without giving her the option to refuse, he took her arm and waved at the owner for a table.

  “Got better company today, I see,” the man said, directing them to an empty table in back.

  “I can talk to you any day, Gruber. Dining companions like this lady come along once in a decade.”

  The owner laughed and placed a couple of menus on the table.

  Tawny slid into the booth, pressing her upper arms against the sides of her chest, swelling her breasts over her demi-bra. True to form, Benny did everything but drool in the complimentary sauerkraut.

  The waitress arrived in a flash with two glasses of water, two cups, and a thermal pitcher of coffee, which she left on the table. Benny made no effort to hide his lasciviousness and ordered corned beef on an onion roll and a cream soda without shifting his gaze. No doubt, if he had some mustard, he would have slathered her chest and gobbled. Tawny ordered a house special salad, hold the meat.

  “Heard you quit the business,” Benny said, finally tearing his gaze away from her chest to concentrate on her face. “Tell me New York isn’t losing one of her star ladies.”

  Tawny added cream and sipped her coffee. How did Benny know she’d quit the business? “Where did you hear that?”

  “We share some of the same customers. Wall Street types make the rounds.”

  “Should’ve known. I’m getting too old, Benny. Can’t compete with the young girls coming up. A woman should know when her time is up.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying, you still have a lot of years left, if what I’m seeing today
is any indication. Still eye-ball knocking gorgeous. How old are you, Tawny, twenty-nine, thirty? Not too old where I come from.”

  She wouldn’t tell him she was thirty-two, heading fast for thirty-three, and she’d been in the life since she was eighteen. That’s fifteen years of turning tricks. Fifteen years of keeping in shape. Fifteen years of dealing with the Benny Coopers of the world. “Thanks. Maybe I’m going through a period of self-doubt. But what you heard is true. I’m out of the game. Gonna relax a while until I decide what I want to do.”

  “How could I entice you to come out of retirement? I’d guarantee more money than you made as an independent, for sure.”

  Tawny laughed. She didn’t think he could have made her more money per engagement, just more engagements. She’d never wanted to work that hard. “I made enough money. Besides, I don’t need your clients. You could do even better with some of mine.”

  The waitress set down the lunches and refilled her empty coffee cup.

  “Come work for me and bring them along. Then when you leave for good, they’ll have a place to go for the best ladies in town. Not your caliber, to be sure, but right up there. Everyone knows that.”

  “If everyone knows, then my ex-clients will find you. I don’t divulge names. They trust me to protect their privacy.”

  “My places are private. I’ve been off the radar since I started.”

  Since Tawny knew his place was more than a blip on the radar screen, she wanted to disagree. But that would defeat the purpose of her accidental meeting.

  “You know what’s always been the sticking point of working for you, Benny.”

  “You mean a little sursy?” Benny’s playful tone didn’t hide his lecherous smirk. “What’s wrong with that? You might enjoy yourself.”

  “You don’t mean a little gift.” She leaned across the table and spoke in a whisper. “You mean fuck, and I never give it away.”

  Benny expelled a raucous belly laugh loud enough for people to turn and see what exploded. “Still get right to the point, don’t you, Tawny.”

  “I don’t believe in beating around the bush. Pardon the pun. No, Benny. I’m out.”