by Jason Ridler
The Hilton had no such facial bootlegs, just the usual range of flawless tans and lush hair, liver spots and bald pates. Thus far, even the rich couldn’t buy their way from the tag team of gravity and entropy. I cut through a swath of them, imitating their indifferent poses and never making eye contact until I saw the marble of the main desk, where a man in a sleeveless T-shirt and shorts only a runner would wear was moving as if he’d been cattle prodded.
“I will not be quiet! My reservation was made weeks ago! Do you know who I am?”
Behind the desk was a black-haired, doe-eyed, maybe-twenty-year-old who looked like she’d been on the stage or screen since she was a child: her back was straight and her nose tilted, and she was clearly “acting” the part of a hostess. Back home, she’d been told that she was beautiful and talented and could do anything she wanted, and yet her half-life in Hollywood was already decaying. She was holding her countenance as firm as a soldier grips his balls in his bunk. “Of course, Dr. Stephano.”
“And yet you are too stupid to have made my reservation and will not give me a new key. Mine was taken by your lousy staff, and if it weren’t for the great run I just had, I’d be even more furious at this thievery, and yet you’re treating me like a common criminal instead of doing the right thing and giving me my key. Tell me, girl, one good reason to not get you fired today?”
Her name tag said Candice. Her eyes said, “I’m terrified.”
So, I tripped over my own feet. This sent me spilling onto the reedy Dr. Stephano, who was maybe five-foot-eight and skeletal. I hit him with the kind of force I’d normally save for goring someone’s stomach, lifting them off their feet and driving them to the ground, a la Lou Thesz, NWA heavyweight champion. Since I hit the doctor’s back, his chest was driven forward, ramming his sternum against the marble counter, effectively stealing his breath and sending shooting pains through his entire nervous system.
Dr. Stephano bounced back and I caught him, dipped him back while sensation to his arms and legs was AWOL, then said, “Oh, sorry about the left feet, old man.”
His face was a pinched graveyard for happiness. Creased forehead and dark eyes dominated a face two times too big for its body. And it was turning a shade of red reserved for radishes. The best part: he couldn’t speak or move. I had about five seconds.
“Sorry, Candice,” I said. “Back in a flash.” I then led “Dr. Stephano,” most of his deadweight trying to resist me, to the fountain.
When his ass hit the fountain’s edge, his voice snapped back with a bark. “How dare you. I will have you locked up so fast—”
I tapped his sternum with two fingers. He shut up.
“No. You won’t. Because you’re pulling one of my favorite cons.”
He didn’t blink, which was unfortunate. It meant he was concentrating under threat, instead of being scared and blinking reflexively. He wasn’t as slick as I thought.
“I love that you found Dr. Stephano’s itinerary somewhere and are literally trying to fast-talk your way into an evening of elegance. I truly do. I’m a member of the same union.”
He gasped and I raised my fingers, his mouth closed.
“But you’re taking it out on the wrong target. That girl doesn’t deserve your shit. If scaring girls to get what you want is your actual thrill then, brother, we got a real problem. So here is the play. You’re going to leave in a huff, as Dr. Stephano would. You’ll get in a cab and ask for another hotel that would have a Dr. Stephano or his ilk losing their keys. If you’re truly good at the game, you’ll be in the lap of luxury before dinner rolls are served. But if you stick around, I’m going to poke you until red turns to blue.” I raised two fingers and he flinched.
The conman jogged out on weak legs as I turned my attention back to Candice and walked back to the desk. She met my eyes. The blush from the recent hijinks warmed her features and kept her smile formal. “Welcome to the Hilton, sir. Are you checking in?”
I dropped my gym bag. “No. I have an appointment here but need to buy a gift first. Can you tell me where I can find El Dorado?”
“Of course,” she said. “It’s the centerpiece of our patron’s market, one of our most popular features. Just take the hallway to your left, then follow your nose.” She said this while tapping her own slim New England snout.
“Thank you, miss.” I kept the formal tone she seemed to need, perhaps defense against the prying eyes of managers like the one monitoring the bellboys. “You’ve been most helpful.”
I turned to the left, and her right hand breezed against my shoulder. In it was a key. “Complimentary services are available in a half-hour.” Her smile brightened. “We know you have many choices when traveling, so thank you for choosing . . . the Hilton.”
I grinned. “It’s a first-class operation.”
I pocketed the key and walked away feeling righteous, but creepy. Sure, every Lothario since Casanova believed the Fountain of Youth was found between the legs of young women, and Candice could have flipped every switch in these elder sheet warriors. If Chaplin was within ten miles of the Hilton, he might dust off his Little Tramp to get a bit from Candice. But the Fountain of Youth was an illusion, and I liked pillow talk that didn’t involve the words “groovy” or “boss” or “Led Zeppelin.” The key would not be used.
The arched hallway to the left beckoned with gold letters above: Les Market. How European. I expected I would find lutefisk and café au lait on the room service menu.
“You can take the boy out of the trash,” a wispy voice said behind me.
I turned to find a bushy mustache of the walrus variety stuck on a wrinkled face. Aaron Piper. L.A.’s other low-rent PI. The guy who didn’t take weird cases but had been trying to steal mine since the ink dried on my license. He had scorch marks on his cheeks from I don’t know how many years under the West Coast sun; white tufts of hair filled the V of his brown polyester shirt’s open collar. Brown was one of the few colors not in the plaid of his jacket.
“And you can take the hack from his sedan,” I said. “Nice to see you, Aaron. How is Wendy?” That would be Wendy the Actress Whose Dad Is a Cop so She Dressed up in His Uniform to Harass Me for Leads on Aaron’s Behalf. That Wendy.
He sniggered while dragging on a half-spent Marlboro. Each chortle smelled like an ashtray in a cheap bar. “Quit me after she saw you. Thanks for killing my action, J.B.”
“You know it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, even with such a fine specimen as yourself, Aaron. Now, as much as I enjoy our friendly rivalry—”
“You’re on a case,” he said, just quiet enough that the nearby richies did not hear. “It’s the only reason you’re not dressed like a has-been crooner begging for another chance outside Harvelle’s Blues Club.”
“By that logic, you’re tonight’s entertainment.”
“Who is it? More trolling for sex-film stars?”
My anger coiled. I’d already had my fill of Mr. Piper. “Aaron, why are you here? I’d presume you’re on a case, but every time I see you or your associates, it’s because you’re scrambling for leads.”
“I got friends in high places,” he said, taking a wet drag. “You’re also abysmally easy to follow.”
No time to be nice. “Good thing, too, or else America’s Sherlock Holmes might get lost on his way to the bar.”
He poked a nicotine-stained digit straight at my right eye. “You ain’t so big, J.B. But you’re cutting into my racket. I made a steady check before you showed up with your goddamn movie-star hair and chiseled jawline.” Which made me wonder if Aaron couldn’t see those features in others, like some abandoned critter from the nethers. “And now the well is going dry. So, it’s time to be a mensch.”
“That’s good Yiddish for a Swedish Lutheran.”
The finger was back at my eye. “You owe me. I opened the door to the skids of this town before your ass ever settled at the Thump & Grind. Hell, I worked for Queen Bee once. You’re a parasite, building your home on my grav
e!”
Aaron was livid. He was also scum. And lower on the rung than me. I hated him even more because he was right; I’d crashed into the house that he’d built. All of this made what I said next a thousand times worse than if I’d told him to fuck himself with his own skull.
“I wish I could, but I’m working pro bono. I won’t see a dime, even if I find who I’m looking for. I took a personal case, and my only reward is doing the right thing.”
Aaron went apoplectic. I thought I saw mushroom clouds steaming from his ears. Then he started laughing. “I knew it. I knew you’d welsh on any deal I offered. You’re high rolling now, you useless mick. But you’ll fall. We all fall. And when you do, I pray to Christ I’m there when you reach up for a helping hand.”
“James?”
Damn it.
Veronica Carruthers tapped her pumps quicker and quicker without losing the stride she’d learned in finishing school. She was no longer dressed in the blood-spattered outfit from earlier. She was Holly Golightly’s uptight older sister, little black dress minus the fifty pounds of cheap costume jewelry. Veronica accessorized with a string of tasteful—and probably priceless pearls—and the rock I knew was on her left hand even though she was covering it with her right. Her hair now hung down one side of her face in a gentle wave, eye makeup subtle but effective. “You got my message?” Then she took in Aaron, and the horror of her disdain was obvious. The same look I’d seen at the hall—before I saved her life and changed her tune. Then it muted with a head nod. “I’m sorry, I’m interrupting.”
“No,” Aaron said, taking in big gulps of air through flared nostrils thick with gray hairs. “You are not. We’re done.” He dropped his cigarette, ground it into the immaculate marble floor. “Always nice to chat with my good friend James Brimstone.” He smiled, each yellow tooth telling me how long it had been since he’d seen a dentist (the square root of never). “Hope you get a case that pays soon, buddy.”
Aaron walked away on heavy, worn, and cracked black loafers that had seen more miles than many cars, much to the relief of Candice and the other staff who had been watching our chat. Aaron’s sad form turned right and headed for the door, weight shifting from one side to the other.
Veronica stepped closer so we were shoulder to shoulder. I half expected her to weave her hand through my arm. “Who was that?”
If I wasn’t careful, the Ghost of Christmas Future.
20
“I ALMOST DIDN’T RECOGNIZE YOU,” VERONICA said, smiling, as her eyes executed judgments about my clothes that I assumed were in the affirmative, as her disdain of my earlier suit was now replaced by a quiet note of acceptance. Getting past her class bias was no mean feat. I’d have to send Aaron a “thank you” card. “I . . . also thought you might not . . . accept my invitation.”
“I’m grateful for you checking up on Cactus. And offering to help. That means a lot.” I would have said more, but I hoped that truth was enough to imply I had, indeed, accepted her invitation. Now I was stuck with Veronica Carruthers. “Tell me, do you like perfume?”
A joyous surprise lit her face. “Of course. What girl doesn’t?” I smiled easy. “But I don’t want to interrupt your case.”
I could not blow her off without risking Cactus’s life and my soul. She and Alan were the reason Cactus was getting first-class treatment. Being beholden to the rich was enough reason for me to refuse their tentacles of obligation, but a good man’s life was in the wings. “You’re not. I’m not a classy fellow, but I think a ‘thank you’ is in order. But I need your help. Would you mind escorting me to El Dorado? It will spoil the surprise, of course, but we’ll get to spend time together before I follow my next lead.”
“Is that what the gym bag is for?” she said.
“You study investigative science at Harvard?”
“Cornell, actually. But no. It is just that you’ve already changed clothes.” Her lips parted a bit.
I took a deep breath. Whatever scent she was wearing, it was sweet with a lingering savory note. The kind you wear on first dates when you’re at the country club, or so I’ve been told. “A clean suit is less conspicuous than a rumpled one covered in blood. But I’ve tucked my previous attire into the bag. Maybe a good dry cleaner can get the blood out.”
She smirked, then shook, then stumbled.
I caught her shoulders and held her up. “Veronica?”
“Sorry, I . . . just felt faint. Let’s walk. Walks help.”
Fainting was so common she knew the remedy was walks? I deferred to her expertise, though I wondered if she was faking. Arm-in-arm, we walked under the arch, heading for El Dorado. I ignored what I expected to be Candice’s glare at my backside, and hoped she viewed what was happening as me helping a woman in need. No bad ever came of that, surely.
The beat of her heels was rhythmic but muted. “James,” she said, a little breathy. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
I nodded, as if I knew exactly what she was talking about.
“It was so sudden. How did . . . why did you do it?”
Her weight was a light drag on me, just enough to keep me close but not so much that it would cause anyone to think I was assisting someone who had taken too many Valiums that afternoon. “Instinct. Training. Same as Cactus and every other man in that room. I protected what was closest to me.”
She squeezed my arm as if that had been the most romantic thing she’d heard since reading Byron at Cornell. “You did. I would have been a victim of those freaks if you hadn’t.”
“We don’t know what kind of freaks they were,” I said. “Political freaks. Hippie freaks. Freaky freaks.”
She laughed away my joke. “Is it wrong to want them punished?” “I just catch ’em and release them to the justice system.” “That’s enough for you?” she said, voice soft, as if to slip it in closer.
“There are guys who you could pay for such services, no doubt. But punishment requires a degree of certainty that requires too much work and isn’t that much fun.” I’d known men and women who got off on punishment of all kinds, from the pretend kind you saw in Betty Page’s photos to harder variations that left permanent scars.
Her sharpened tone kept time with the patter of her pumps. “You don’t want the men that put your friend in a coma punished?” “Never said that. But the price of doing it myself—”
“I’d want to.”
I began to realize that, for all the affection of her arm around mine and how tightly she held it, Veronica was in a one-woman play with me as a prop in the shape of both foil and audience. I stopped bothering to answer her questions and focused on what was important.
“Tell me what you’d do.”
She stopped and looked straight at me. “I’d hurt them for trying to hurt me. Like you do with a dog that won’t obey. I’d hurt them worse so, as you say, the price of disobedience would be so high they’d rather be docile at my feet.”
A part of me was very dark; the remaining sliver of the man I used to be. The one who almost believed Edgar’s world view. That sliver flexed when it heard Veronica. A gash of black desire opening so quickly I didn’t realize I’d woven my fingers in hers and that the huge diamond on her finger was leaving a mark. I relaxed my grip.
“Your dogs must be very happy.”
She leaned her head on my shoulder. “They never complain.”
We walked down the golden-lit hallway. The scent of her perfume gave way to something stronger and sweeter. The store was just ahead—dark brown, almost black—adorned with silver lettering that spelled out EL DORADO above the doorway. The scene refreshed my mind and snapped me back to remembering I had a married woman on my arm, one whose husband was a pharmaceutical kingpin and Vietnam war veteran in a wheelchair.
I straightened up. “Do you know the store well?”
She lifted her head, straightened her spine, and assumed the mien of the Queen of New England. “El Dorado is a retreat for me, a Venetian spa without all the boat people. They take ca
re of you as you should be taken care of.”
My psyche cringed. “Charming.”
We entered a vast store full of golden-silver light. Mosaic flooring reminiscent of ancient Rome, glass shelving and pedestals with sparse goods that spoke of their high cost: creams, elixirs, maquillage, and, of course, perfume—all making the store smell like the sum total of avarice. I tried not to vomit. The place did make me uncomfortable.
“Every breath is like being born,” Veronica said.
To the left were five buttery chairs with stools and towels, like barber chairs without sinks behind them. Two of them were occupied by older generations of Veronica, feet soaking in tubs as two Latinas in black uniforms sat on low stools working on their nails with emery boards. Acoustic guitars and flutes played softly from hidden speakers.
“Isn’t it just perfect,” Veronica said, but it was no question.
“Why don’t you take a seat while I get your present?”
She gave me a dour look. “I don’t mean to be impolite, James, but you can’t afford anything in here.”
I smiled. “You’re basing this on my previous attire?”
“Among other clues.”
She was rapping her heel into my last nerve. “You’d be surprised at what I can save wearing clothes that hobos abandon.” Then my voice hardened, like I was commanding a mutt. “Take a seat.”
She bristled, then smiled, and did as she was told. “I love the scent lounge.”
I wanted to escape, but Cactus was still alive, and that meant I still had a chance not to owe the dead lifelong service. I approached a small desk made of marble pedestals and a glass top that stood before a door. Behind the desk was another dark-haired beauty. This one was regal with almond eyes, high cheekbones, and a long nose. She reminded me of an Argentinean I once knew, a woman who would have still been hot in Antarctica. La Bellaza wore a black blazer over a red silk blouse, her lips a splash of Spanish red wine. “May I help you, sir?”
