by Laird Barron
When speaking became possible, I said, “Uh-oh.”
She pressed her nose to the flowers and inhaled, then tossed them on a dresser and came outside.
“Hmm. Nice shoes.”
I put her in the truck and headed south. She reclined in such a way as to be near me yet not. Her coconut lotion scent clouded my mind. I tried to simultaneously keep one eye on her leg and the other on the road and not crash into the ditch. It was a near thing.
“You’re speeding,” she said, head tilted back, gaze on the trees whipping past.
I was most definitely speeding. She adjusted the radio dial until Freddy Fender started in with “Before the Next Teardrop Falls.”
“A woman as young and pretty as yourself who listens to Freddy Fender? I’m slain.”
“All the girls love Freddy Fender.”
“Ever been to the Sultan’s Swing?”
“Never ever. It’s private. Daddy says it’s full of gangsters.”
“Your daddy ain’t lying.”
We cruised along the old highway beside the river. I’d dug enough into local history to learn that several of the yacht and nightclubs that dotted the riverbanks belonged to the mob or the yakuza. The Sultan’s Swing was run by an Albany family since its founding in 1939. Sinatra and Martin had sung there. According to legend, a barge docked out back to smuggle away the bodies. God alone knew the truth of that, although what was known was in ’75 a Jersey boss got whacked in the parking lot by a carload of goodfellas blazing away with AK-47s. Never a dull moment at the SS, where they truly did treat you like family.
* * *
—
I MISSED THE TURNOFF because there wasn’t a sign, and also because I kept peeking at Meg’s thighs. I reversed and cruised along a gravel drive until a valet in a tight jacket trotted over and grabbed the keys.
The building itself was pink stucco that hadn’t been painted in a while. Lots of flowers and shrubs and candles in candle boxes. Classical music played soft and low. Wooden floors shone in the dimness. Crisp white tablecloths, real silver cutlery, crystal glassware, and the staff in slicked-down hairdos and dark suits. A young man with a tattoo edging from under his collar escorted us to a cozy window table. The table had a garden view, where a decayed cherub pissed into a birdbath.
The main floor divided into a tiered horseshoe dining area around a central dance floor. A baby grand on a raised dais occupied the heart. The dozen or so other couples were dressed to the teeth. I figured some of them for Curtis’s bullyboys and -gals. Everybody smelled nice, though, and the girls flashed plenty of leg. I scanned the number of entrances and exits and estimated how many of the staff were packing heat. My own piece was safely stashed at the farm. Wouldn’t have done me a lick of good here in the lion’s den.
Meg took it in stride. She accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and linked her arm in mine. I shook my head at the guy and he scrammed.
“Isn’t this a kick in the ass?” I said. “So old-school I half expect Marilyn to pop out of a cake.”
“Spiffy,” she said.
We ordered dinner and made small talk. Her parents had retreated from Kingston, New York, to Mount Dora, Florida; her brothers lived in L.A. and St. Louis. She worked the stacks at the New Paltz Public Library. An Aries and merrily widowed. Her favorite book was Crime and Punishment and she’d been friends with Jade and Virgil Walker since they’d come in to lecture at SUNY New Paltz during her senior year in college.
Meg helped herself to more champagne. Her cheeks glowed. Her brown eyes too.
“I’ve never met a Meg before,” I said. “And a trapeze artist, no less.”
“Ah. It’s actually Megara. Mom’s a fan of the classics.”
“Mine too. Possibly why I feel at home with the Walkers. I have a fondness for the heroic dudes. Hercules, Thor, Beowulf, Gilgamesh, John Henry. That crowd.”
“My, my. The strongman archetype.”
I spread my hands in a gesture of faux modesty.
“C’mon, just look at me.”
“Indeed. Impressive that a macho dude such as yourself is comfortable with the degree of homoeroticism that permeates those mythologies.”
“Hey, hey, I loved Top Gun.”
“By the way, I’m not a trapeze artist. I’m helping the club.”
“Volunteer work is commendable.”
“Two rules for dating me.” She cleared her throat and sat straight. “Never under any circumstances tell me I look tired. I work fifty hours a week. Damned straight, I’m tired. The second thing you mustn’t do? Don’t ask me where I see myself ten years from now.”
“That’s easy. Shelving books at the library.”
“Right on. Thank you. So. Enough about me. Why did you go after those guys at the festival?”
“Really? You’re going to change the subject?”
“Mmm-hmm. The dudes at the festival . . .”
“If you had to guess,” I said.
“Oh, they’re nasty ones. Word gets around. Huey, Dewey, and Louie, the drug dealers. My girlfriend thinks they’re bangers from Newburgh. Figures. Newburgh is a pit.”
“Well, there you go.”
“Okay, but you’re no sweetie pie either, are you?” She glanced from my scarred knuckles to our surroundings. “Look where you brought us for our first date.”
“Yeah, it’s tony for sure. I hope I loaded enough dough. The silverware gave me pause. And the silk napkins.”
She scrutinized me intently.
“You’re Maori.”
“Been on your mind?”
“I’m intrigued. A girl can be curious. It’s allowed.”
“Half Maori. All-American military brat. I’m only ethnic when it comes time for whoever’s in charge to draw up teams or to get followed around by store detectives. Honestly? I don’t dwell on it. Catholic-on-holidays kind of deal.”
“Whoa! A little bitter, there.”
“Less than you’d suppose.”
“Ever go back to New Zealand, get in touch with your roots?”
“When I was nine. Stayed with my grandfather for a while. Grandpa was so raw, he made career gangsters look like cream puffs. Grandpa hated Dad and Dad returned the sentiment. Dad hated everybody, especially Mom’s side of the family. One thing he did enjoy was the idea Grandpa would toughen me the hell up.”
“Evidently, it worked.”
“And how.”
Luckily, the steak arrived, and by the time we’d worked through it there was sorbet and more champagne. Then a fellow in a tux began warming up at the piano. He was soon joined by a sultry brunette in a strapless red dress. The brunette sounded a lot like Helen Reddy.
After the first set, the headwaiter materialized and invited us to join Mr. Curtis and his companions at the big table. Plenty of money concentrated in one spot. Even more than I’d become accustomed to caddying for Mr. Apollo back on the frontier. Although it made sense, the East being headwaters of the American Mafia.
Diamonds and mink, gold watches and gold fillings galore. The girls wrapped themselves in fur and around the half-dozen hard cases of Curtis’s entourage. These ladies were the immaculate type who charged by the hour, and the rates wouldn’t be cheap. The men wore tailored suits. I figured them as captains for Team Deluca. No sign of the great man himself, but that was hardly a surprise. The Don kept Curtis around to deal with riffraff like me.
Curtis and his henchmen played the role of courteous hosts. They stood and kissed Meg’s hand and shook mine while flashing overly wide smiles. Curtis introduced us around the table. Names such as Bobby the Whip, Salazar, Vinnie, and Fat Frank, some others I didn’t catch. Curtis’s date was Wanda, a beauty with maybe a decade on the other girls and the only one who didn’t shoot daggers at Meg with her eyes.
“I have to say, I noticed you ain’t touched a drop,” B
obby the Whip said. Soft guy with wide shoulders and a banker’s paunch. Like the rest of them, his eyes were dead glass. “I hope everything is to your liking.” He struggled to remember his gerunds. I appreciated the effort.
“Honestly, gentlemen, I was holding out for the scotch.”
“You’re in luck, pal,” Curtis said, folding his napkin and setting it aside. “I happen to have a bottle of twelve-year-old Glenrothes in the cabinet. Wanda, my angel, please entertain Meg for a minute. Man talk.”
“I shall return,” I whispered into Meg’s ear.
The men rose and I followed them through a door into the back of the club. Last glimpse I had of Meg was Wanda scootching over to her and patting her hand while the other women exchanged glances. A school of barracudas. Instinct told me my date could hold her own.
* * *
—
WE GATHERED IN A GAME ROOM. Leather couches, pool tables, and a fifty-gallon aquarium teeming with sunfish and betas. The little figurine in the diving suit had toppled over. I hoped that wasn’t an omen. Velvet Warhol-style posters of Frank Sinatra and thin Elvis glared at each other from opposite walls. Somebody handed me a cigar. Curtis’s majordomo, Bobby Two-Shoes, stepped behind the bar, lined up tumblers, and poured the scotch.
Curtis smoothed his tie with one hand and raised his glass in the other.
“Isaiah has come a long way to be with us tonight. Rumor has it, he went to Alaska a ninety-pound weakling. Now look at the husky fucker!”
I chuckled politely with the rest of them and downed my whiskey. Bobby the Whip was quick with a refill. He managed a sanitation facility near Albany. Vinnie operated two nightclubs in Kingston. Fat Frank did commercial real estate. Curtis owned a trucking company. Which is to say, they maintained squeaky-clean fronts for their adventures in racketeering.
“C’mon. Let’s stretch our legs.” Curtis nudged my elbow and led me through another door. This one let onto a covered porch that overlooked a lawn and a bunch of rose beds. The Hudson moved, sluggish and muddy, through dogwoods. Stars winked in the darkening heavens.
I smoked my cigar and waited.
Curtis was a different man here in his element. Genuinely affable and relaxed. He exhaled a smoke ring. He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose.
“You want to get back into the game. What I thought.”
“That’s the wrong thought.” I told him about Reba’s disappearance, how I intended to investigate, and what I needed regarding cash and intelligence.
“This gonna be a regular thing?”
“Got to see how it goes. Think of this as a trial balloon.”
“We don’t like Boy Scouts.”
“Then you’re going to love me.”
“Vitale Night don’t.”
“It’s complicated, what we’ve got together.”
“Word is, the Outfit higher-ups gave you a pardon.”
“How does New York feel about it?”
“New York don’t interfere in Chicago business. I’m only reporting the news. Apollo’s got a lot of pull. You’re out clean. Except, Night don’t want to honor the arrangement. Word is, he’s gonna move on you.”
I yawned.
He studied the smoke. I bet a million calculations a second were going on behind the palooka façade.
“Vitale is fast. Quick-draw artist. I seen him work. You quick on the draw?”
“Not particularly. I like to get my hands on people.”
“Not particularly is gonna get you in a wooden box.”
“My problem.”
“So, I got a problem too,” he said. “This is a lovely spot. Very nice. But, you see, I got allergies. The hay fever, or what have you. It’s murder. You?”
“Nicotine and alcohol keep my symptoms at bay.”
“Right. You probably got a constitution like a horse. Enjoy your steak? Our chef won a prize in Italy.”
“He did fine with it.”
“You clean up good,” he said, scrutinizing my suit. “Nice-looking lady on your arm.”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“I won’t. Me and Wanda might as well be hitched. Seventeen years this July.”
“Congratulations on making it to amethyst.”
“Huh?”
“Or you could buy her a sofa. Lot of options for number seventeen. Sort of a no-pressure anniversary.”
He eyed me, obviously calculating whether or not I was mocking him. His expression didn’t soften, but it wasn’t quite homicidal either.
“My other problem is Charles. You remember Chuck.”
“Mr. Blond. Dino the Ax’s prodigal nephew.”
“Prodigal is a nice way to say fuckup.” He puffed on his cigar and stared at the water. “Like I said, okay kid, but wired wrong for the life. He did a nickel in the pen. Ever since he got street-raised, he’s been a mad dog. Completely off the rails. The other day we had this deal with the Vietnamese—”
“Hold on, Curtis,” I said, raising my hand. “The less I know, et cetera.”
“Sorry. Suffice to say, the gooks are pissed and I’m out forty large. All because a his mouth.”
I cupped my hand to my ear.
“Hark. Is that the sound of the other shoe dropping? Chuck’s in your hair and you want to wash him out. Alas, Uncle Dino wouldn’t appreciate the poor job review. A more indirect approach is called for. That’s my cue.”
“That’s your cue. So’s we’re clear, I don’t want him dusted. Just fix it so he has to be reassigned to a more appropriate department. Like chauffeurin’ or slingin’ drinks here at the club. Somethin’ where a cane isn’t too much of a liability. Gotta be natural, though. Can’t come from me or I’ll have to deal with the Ax. And so will you.”
“I’m too young to get the ax.” Tangling with some connected doofus wasn’t high on my list. On the other hand, it was necessary to get into the Family’s good graces. “Fine. Two conditions. I get a call when Night lands in New York. Also, a ticket to ride.”
“Hang on a second, buddy. We got a working relationship with Chicago. I can’t go against the treaty.”
“Understood,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
“No kidding? I don’t need to worry?”
“You don’t need to worry.”
“Okay. You’ll get your two-minute warning when the shooter arrives. Stay off my toes, you can run your little investigation. But take care of Chaz first.”
“I’ll arrange something.”
“Won’t take much,” Curtis said. “Embarrassed the shit out of him when we paid you that visit. He’s a touchy guy. Been tellin’ me every chance he gets how he wants a piece a you.”
“Oh, that is easy. Unleash the hound.”
“Unleash the hound?”
“Tell him I said Italians are pussies and point him in the right direction. Nature will take its course.”
“We’ll see.” He checked his watch. “One more thing. I invited him down for dinner. He’ll be here in about twenty minutes. Hope you got your game face on.”
I met his gaze. Gave him the dead-eyed stare I saved for special occasions.
“Jesus,” he said. “Maybe I put my money on the wrong horse.”
He wasn’t referring to Charles.
“Laid cash on Night rubbing me out?”
“In a big way.”
“Yeah, you’re going to cry when you eat that,” I said.
“Y’know what, fella? I kinda hope so.”
SEVENTEEN
I made an emergency call to Lionel, returned to the main room, and collected Meg, who was clearly at ease amongst the predatory fish. She tucked a napkin full of scribbled phone numbers into her handbag and accompanied me to the bar, where I promptly ordered a revolver of the cheapest booze available. It had to be cheap because I needed nastiness
for the work to come. The bartender arched his brow and produced a monster of a tumbler and filled it to the rim with firewater.
“Do you enjoy thrills and excitement?” I said in a passable Wolfman Jack.
“As much as the next girl. Why?”
“Because, as of two minutes ago, I’m on the clock.”
I drained a third of my glass in one long gulp, took a breath, and brought the contents down to about two fingers. Helen Reddy’s stand-in had come and gone. The pianist had a decent voice, though. After a few minutes, the bartender poured again. Only a double this time. I polished it off and slid the glass away.
I winked at Meg.
“Wanna dance?”
“Do I ever.”
I slipped a couple bills to the piano man and requested “Mack the Knife.”
“I love this song,” Meg said. We moved together, separated by a bit of space, as was proper. “You’ve got nice moves for a man who’s knocked back that much liquor.”
“Man alive, you’re beautiful.”
“Is that the Jim Beam talking?”
“He’s coaching me a little.” I gazed into her eyes and felt more light-headed than could be blamed on the booze. “I want to apologize up front.”
“Okay. Better make it good.”
“There’s a girl missing and I’m looking for her. Nobody else is.”
“Is she your girl?”
“Somebody’s.”
“Are you a detective? It’s not what I’d have guessed.”
“What would you have guessed?”
“The huge, mean dude who works for the loan shark.”
“Eerily perceptive. I need something from our gangster hosts. They require a service in exchange.”
“Huh. My instinct says it isn’t a good idea to get in bed with this crowd. Plus, every episode of The Sopranos ever.”
