by Polly Iyer
“Mr. Cooper. You stayed longer than Mr. Cooper said. Was there any problem?”
“No. The extra time’s on me. Old man. They take longer sometimes.”
Charles’s face reddened and he sputtered something she couldn’t make out.
Poor guy seemed unsuitable for his job. “By the way, one of the ladies mentioned a Cindi. I was wondering if she’s someone I know by that name. Cindi Davidson?”
“No, I believe Cindi’s last name was Dyson.” Now Charles became ill at ease. In fact, his complexion went from flushed to pale in a matter of seconds. The hand holding his pencil shook. “No, no, that’s not right. I’m getting her confused with someone else. Forget I said that. I…I don’t know Cindi’s last name. I only know the ladies by their first names.”
Was? Cindi’s last name was? Could that be why Cindi hasn’t shown up? She’s a was? Tawny felt a wave of something foul hit her stomach. Poor Charles had screwed up royally. Twice. He tried to backtrack, but he knew what he’d done. She needed to push hard while he was flustered.
She leaned closer, hoping to unnerve him even more. “When is she scheduled next? If it’s the Cindi I know, I’d love to see her again.”
“I…I don’t know. I have nothing to do with the schedules. I’m just the doorman. Anyway, I doubt you’d know her. She’s from Kansas. Hasn’t been here long. Couldn’t be anyone you know.”
Screwed up again, Charles. She reached out to him. “You look sick, Charles. Are you all right?”
“Who’s from Kansas?” Darlene swept down the hall, not a hair out of place, lipstick perfect. She looked coldly beautiful, except for the frown that caused a vertical crease between her perfectly-arched eyebrows.
“N-no one,” Charles said. “Ms. Tawny was just leaving.”
Darlene eyed Charles suspiciously. “You look terrible, Charles. Why don’t you knock off. It’s slow tonight. I can handle the rest of the evening. When the girls call down to usher out their clients, you won’t have to summon me. I’ll be right here.”
“Yes, that’s good,” Charles said. “I don’t feel well. Something I ate. I’ve felt out of sorts all day. Think I’ll go to my apartment and take something.”
“Good idea,” Darlene said.
Tawny reached into her satchel. “I carry antacids with me. Would you like one?”
“No, th-thanks. I have some in the apartment. Thanks for covering, Miss Darlene. Good night.”
He darted to the door so fast Tawny expected to see skid marks streak the marble floor. “Well, I’d better be going.”
Darlene blocked the way. “How was your evening?”
Digging deep, Tawny mustered her most confident attitude. “Quite pleasant. Mr. Cooper really knows how to treat his customers. Caviar, champagne. Very elegant.”
“Caviar and champagne, huh? Must have been someone important.”
Tawny studied her. Did Darlene know who the client was, or was she trying to find out? “You heard the name. Mark Seymour. You said you didn’t know him.”
“Sometimes clients use aliases for privacy. The name meant nothing to any of us. What was he like?”
Tawny picked up her bag. She didn’t want to get on the bad side of Darlene, even if her first inclination was to tell her the client was none of her business. After all, she did say not to talk about them. “Old. Had to work hard to get him hard.”
Darlene relaxed, even smiled. “I’ve had a few of those.”
“Well, nice to meet you, Darlene.”
“Same here. Oh, and Tawny, if you need information, ask Benny. Don’t pump Charles. He’s a sweet guy, but he’s on the dim side. I wouldn’t count on anything he says.”
“What makes you think I was pumping him for information? Why would I?”
“Just saying.” Her smile was fake and forced. “Good night, Tawny.”
Tawny smiled back. She didn’t have to force it either. She felt pretty good. She’d call Walsh in the morning with the name. Cindi Dyson, from Kansas. And she’d bet the thick wad of cash in her satchel the woman was dead.
Chapter Twenty
Bad Start to a Bad Day
“Daddy, what’s a pimp?”
Benny’s coffee shot through his nose and spattered like mud all over the table and The New York Times. He was about to read the paper, something he did every morning he was home with his family, and his daughter’s question left him literally speechless. He eyed her hunched over her bowl of cereal and blotted the coffee dripping from his nostrils with his napkin. When he cleared his throat, he asked, “Where did you hear that word, Jennifer?”
“Ashley heard her daddy call you that.”
“Ashley who?” Who the fuck is Ashley? he thought. “Eileen,” he yelled. “Would you come here, please.” His son Ethan snickered. Benny turned to him. “What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing,” he said, shrugging. “But a pimp? Wow, that’s way cool.”
“There is nothing cool about being called a pimp. Not if you know what it means.”
“I know,” Ethan said. “It’s―”
“Never mind,” Benny said, cutting him off. “I know what it is.” He returned his attention to his daughter. “What’s Ashley’s last name, Jennifer? What’s her daddy’s name?”
“Mr. Mokler.”
Benny could feel the blood draining from his face. Herb Mokler. That schmuck couldn’t find his asshole with both hands. “Eileen.” His voice came out an octave higher and filled with panic. “Where are you?”
“And he called Mommy a tart,” Jennifer said. “A tart’s like a pastry, isn’t it, Daddy?”
“Jesus.”
“You shouldn’t say the Lord’s name in vain, Dad,” Ethan said.
“Jesus is not my Lord. He’s your mother’s Lord. You’re Jewish.”
“That’s not what the rabbi says. Jews believe children are the religion of the mother. That makes me Catholic.”
“Ei-leen.”
“What is it, Benny. Why are you yelling?”
Eileen was wearing tight Capri pants with a halter top. Benny took one glance at her tits and almost lost his train of thought.
“Jennifer, Ethan, you’re finished with your cereal. Go get ready for camp.”
“We are ready, Daddy.”
“Then go wait for the camp bus.”
“There is no camp bus.” Ethan planted himself in his chair, arms across his chest. The position stated clearly that he wasn’t going to leave the kitchen until he’d heard what his father wanted to say to his mother. “It’s Mrs. Delano’s turn to drive today.”
“Well, go outside and wait for her.”
“It’s too early, and it’s hot outside,” Jennifer said.
Benny leaned closer to his daughter. “Then go watch TV until she comes,” he said in a low monotone. “Both of you.”
Jennifer appealed to her mother with a drawn-out, “Mom.”
Benny could feel his patience draining. “Eileen?”
“Go ahead, baby. Go, Ethan.” She helped Jennifer from her seat. “Daddy needs to talk to me.”
“Why can’t I ever hear what Dad has to say when he wants to tell you something juicy?” Ethan whined.
Eileen glanced at Benny. “Exactly for that reason, sweetheart. He wants to tell me something he doesn’t want you to hear. That’s what grownups do sometimes.”
“It’s not fair.” Jennifer pouted and left the room, huffing and stomping her foot in a mini-fit of temper. Ethan smirked.
After his kids were out of hearing distance, Benny said, “Herb Mokler called me a pimp. A pimp! Where the hell did he get that?”
Eileen wiped the coffee-splattered table. “Probably from someone you set up at the club. Word gets around, you know.”
“And he called you a tart.”
“He what?” Eileen’s two words wailed like an air-raid siren. “A tart. Why, the son of a bitch. Herb Mokler should know about tarts. His wife has banged every tennis pro at the club since they joined. The nerve.”
“People talk. Especially, you know, tennis pros.”
Benny glared at her. “Since you have an…inside track, maybe you should pull Mrs. Mokler―what’s her first name?”
“Laura.”
“Yeah, Laura. Maybe you should pull Laura aside and tell her to put a gag on her husband, unless she wants her extra-marital escapades made public.”
“Not a problem, dear. I never liked her anyway. She’s always making comments about how my boobs jiggle when I play tennis. She’s a jealous, flat-chested tramp.”
Eileen plopped in the chair, calling Benny’s attention to her jiggling boobs. God, they were beautiful. “Hmmph, pimp, indeed,” Benny said under his breath. “I’m not a pimp. I never take a cut. Don’t work on percentage. Why are people ugly, Eileen?”
“I don’t know, honey. It’s just the way they are.”
Benny spread the paper, scanning the front page. “Oh, my God.”
“What? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Remember that actor I told you about? Cindi’s boyfriend? What was his name? Dirk something?”
“The extortionist?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Hansen. I think you said his name was Hansen.”
“He’s dead. Someone found him in a Dumpster. It says he was mutilated. Wonder what that means.”
“In the old days it meant someone cut off his pecker. Probably still means that.”
Benny gulped. “Jesus.”
“Don’t say the Lord’s name in vain, Benny. It offends me.”
“Don’t get into what’s offensive. Remember, Jesus isn’t the Lord in this house.”
“Maybe he should be. Bad things are happening to people you come in contact with lately. If you believed in Jesus, those things might not happen.”
Benny thought about what Eileen said. Not the Jesus part, but the bad things happening part. First Serena, then Cindi and Melody, and now this con artist Hansen. Oh, and Colin blackmailing Rick Martell, triggering a visit from Don Mario Russo, a crime boss who wouldn’t bat an eye while he put a bullet in the back of Benny’s head, mob style.
There could be no other explanation. Benny was fucking cursed. On top of that, his children thought he was a pimp. His breakfast bagel felt like a slab of cement in his gut, churning up acid reflux. This was turning out to be a very bad day, and it wasn’t even eight a.m.
Chapter Twenty-One
Tawny’s Appointment
Linc watched Tawny leave Upper Eighties and hail a cab. She looked gorgeous in her elegant evening suit, hair swept into a twist. He wanted to talk to her, but she’d have thought he was tailing her like she’d thought before. Only making sure she was all right, he rationalized.
Guilt gnawed at his insides for pulling her back into a life she was trying to get out from under. But another emotion perplexed the hell out of him. She’d been inside Upper Eighties servicing some john, and he didn’t like it one bit. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was jealous. He laughed and shook off the ridiculous notion. He had nothing to be jealous of. Tawny was her own woman. He had no say in what she did or didn’t do. So why was every muscle in his body revolting at the idea of her with another man? It’s what she does, Linc. Christ, I need a shrink.
Shortly after she took off, he received a heads-up call from the detective he talked to about the guy in the photo going into Upper Eighties, Dirk Hansen. The late Dirk Hansen, he learned. He spent the next two hours with the medical examiner and a NYPD crime scene unit in Hell’s Kitchen near the Dumpster resting place of the actor. Unofficial cause of death: spinal shock from a broken neck.
Checking on Hansen, Linc found he had a record for spousal abuse. He left the alley and Hansen’s body and spent the next hour following up with Hansen’s ex-wife. She said little good about the man. He beat the crap out of her for whatever macho reason suited him at the time and apologized later. When she’d taken enough, she kicked him out on his ass. The man was a slug.
In spite of getting home in the middle of the night and being bone-dead tired, Linc didn’t fall asleep until almost dawn. He woke early this morning with the same uneasy feeling that had kept him awake. With so many connections to Benny Cooper’s establishment, he was beginning to think they should pull everyone in and put the screws on them. He knew Tawny didn’t want the girls to go to jail, but he didn’t want them killed either. And that’s what was happening. One dead, a second woman had disappeared, a third holed up in her apartment last he heard, and now Hansen. He didn’t want Tawny to be next.
He’d talk to the captain when he got to work. Maybe he could broker some kind of deal to get Tawny out of her tax mess before she got hurt. After his shower, he noticed he’d missed a call from Tawny. He picked up his cell, hit her number on speed-dial, and punched Send.
“You’re going to be proud of me,” Tawny said after he identified himself. “I got the name of the missing girl. Cindi Dyson. She’s from Kansas. How’s that for a night’s work?”
He wondered what else a night’s work entailed and then wanted to punch himself. “Great.”
“Oh, and Walsh, this is the bad part. This Cindi person might be dead. The doorman referred to her in the past tense.”
Why did the name Cindi ring a dull bell? It didn’t take long before he made the connection. Hansen’s ex-wife said she hoped his new girlfriend, Cindi, had better luck with the dirtbag. She didn’t know Cindi’s last name, only that she was an actor, like Dirk, and a would-be writer. Has to be the same girl, he thought. “Tawny, don’t leave your apartment. I’m on my way.”
“Walsh, I can’t wait. I have…an appointment, and I’m late.”
“We need to talk. I’m serious. Stay there.”
He hung up before she could argue and called Dennis. He briefly related Tawny’s information. “Tawny believes the missing girl is a Cindi Dyson from Kansas. That’s all I know right now, but the doorman gave her the impression Dyson was dead. And I think Hansen was connected to her.”
“What makes you think that?” Dennis asked.
“Something his ex-wife said. I’ll fill you in later.”
“I’ll check on the Dyson gal,” Dennis said. “Then I’ll see what the captain says about having someone talk to Melody Carnes. Might be time to start moving in.”
Linc agreed and was pulling on his pants when his cell rang. At this rate, he’d never get out of his house. It was Harry. “I’m kinda in a hurry, Harry.”
“What’s going on?”
“Tawny got more in one night than we got in two weeks.”
“I’ll bet,” Harry snickered.
Linc heard the sarcasm, but he let it go. He filled Harry in quickly, then said he’d call him later.
“Where are you?” Harry asked.
“On my way to Tawny’s apartment as soon as I get dressed. She may have triggered suspicions. I don’t want her hurt.”
“Watch out, Linc. She’s a snitch, nothing more.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Do you? You’re too concerned for my taste.”
“We obviously don’t have the same tastes. See you later, Agent Winokaur.”
“Detective Walsh. If all pans out, you have enough to close Cooper down.”
“That’s a decision for my captain, Harry. I don’t call the shots.” Silence on the other end of the line. There were times when Harry thought Linc was his man, forgetting the NYPD was city and he was federal.
“Right. Forgot my place.”
Linc caught the sarcasm for the second time. “I want to wait until I talk to Tawny. We need specifics, like who told her what, before we bust in the place without knowing who we’re supposed to bust.”
“Right again. Call me later.” Harry cut him off.
Linc shut his phone down, irritated not only at Harry’s attitude but at the snide I bet remark that felt like a slap in the face. Even if Tawny never turned another trick, she’d always be a
hooker in the eyes of anyone who knew her past. He wondered how many of the Hampton crowd knew about Eileen Cooper, and if they did, how they reacted to her. Did they talk behind her back or did she suffer face-to-face insults? Linc knew women who’d turned in their date books for two kids and a house in the burbs. He guessed they had as high a marital success rate as anyone else. Maybe better, considering they knew at least part of what made a man happy.
Dammit, he thought, chiding himself for being a sexist pig. As if all it took to please a man was a roll in the hay. He finished dressing and headed for the city, mind revving along with the car’s engine.
Why had Hansen visited Upper Eighties? Did Cooper contract men for women or for other men? Many clubs did, although it wasn’t a fact that made news. Sex was sex, and everything was on the table between consenting adults when money called the shots. One thing Linc was sure of―Dirk Hansen wasn’t a john. He didn’t have five minutes worth of the fees Benny and his ladies charged. Besides, the guy was an actor and enough of a stud to snag any woman he wanted for sex, even if he was a wife-beating asshole. There were enough women with low self-esteem to fall prey to a bad boy like Hansen.
Then Linc was in SoHo, half a block from Tawny’s apartment, with no recollection of how he drove into the city. He pulled into a commercial vehicle space near her building and put a tag on the windshield. He went inside the store, flashed his badge, and told the owner he wouldn’t be long.
“Make it fast,” the guy growled, undaunted by the cop’s presence. “I’m expecting a delivery.”
Linc didn’t have time to argue. “I’ll be back when I’m back, and I don’t need any crap from you. Persist in giving me a hard time, and I’ll come back with a city inspector. Bet he finds something to close you down for a few days.” That shut him up.
Linc hurried to Tawny’s door and pressed the bell. He waited, but she didn’t buzz him in. He pressed the bell again. Again, nothing. He told her to wait and she left anyway. An appointment. He figured what that meant. Tawny was meeting a john. At nine o’clock in the morning. So much for retiring.
