“What’s your boss’s name?” Ivy said.
There was a little hitch in Vic’s stride, as though his sole had caught on something sticky. “Mr. McCord,” said Vic. “Jake McCord.”
“Good name for a hero,” Ivy said. “How long have you known him?”
“We go back,” Vic said.
They went down a long corridor, came to a door that said PRIVATE/ PRIVÉ. Vic knocked.
“C’mon in, Vic,” a voice called from the other side. Vic turned to Ivy with a conspiratorial smile, pointed out a video camera on the wall.
Ivy entered a small office lit only by a desk lamp. The man behind the desk was counting brightly colored money and stacking it in a steel box. All she really saw of him was his hair—long and platinum blond. Blond? Frank Mandrell’s hair had been dark brown in Claudette’s photograph. She’d gotten everything wrong.
“This here’s the writer,” said Vic, behind her.
The man looked up and Ivy’s heart started beating faster. Blond, yes, but not naturally, not with those dark eyebrows. A very good-looking man, deeply tanned, with a few lines on his forehead that hadn’t been there when Claudette’s photo was taken, but: Frank Mandrell, no question. He was real. This was all real.
“Forgot your name,” said Vic.
“Ivy.”
“The writer Ivy,” said Vic. “My boss, Mr. McCord.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ivy said, going forward, extending her hand across the desk.
Frank Mandrell shook it; he had a big hard hand and held on a little too long. Anything that moved. “Ivy what?” he said.
She tried and failed to come up with a quick alias. “Seidel,” she said.
Maybe he caught her hesitation. “Got some ID, Ivy Seidel?” he said.
“ID?”
“Can’t be too careful in this business,” Vic said.
Ivy gave Frank Mandrell her driver’s license. He glanced at it. “New York City,” he said. “Course I knew you were American the moment you opened your mouth.”
“Yeah?” Ivy said.
“Say ‘about,’” Vic said.
Ivy said it.
“Hear that?” said Vic.
Mandrell nodded.
“How do you say it?” Ivy said.
“About,” said Vic.
“And you, Mr. McCord?”
“Call me Jake,” said Mandrell. “About.”
Ivy listened carefully. The second syllable of Vic’s about was close to boot, almost the sound of the Beatles talking. Mandrell’s wasn’t so pronounced.
“See?” said Vic. “You’ve got an accent.”
The waitress with the snake tattoo stuck her head in the doorway. “Vic?” she said. “Sorry to interrupt—little trouble with a check.”
“On my way,” said Vic. He went out, closed the door.
Frank Mandrell dropped the last stack of bills into the steel box and closed it. “Take a seat,” he said.
The only place to sit was the white leather couch that stood beside the desk. Ivy sat at one end. Mandrell swiveled around to face her. On the wall behind him hung video monitors, showing different views from inside the club: a bunch of college boys coming in the door; Vic pointing his finger at an unsteady Chinese man; a dancer on her hands and knees.
“No shortage of strip clubs in New York City,” Mandrell said. “Why come all this way?”
“I wanted a fresh angle,” Ivy said.
He nodded as though that made sense. That gave her an idea, maybe a little reckless.
“Did that ever happen to you?” she said.
“Did what ever happen to me?” he said.
“Going somewhere new,” said Ivy. “To get a fresh start.”
Mandrell’s eyes hooded slightly. Very handsome, yes, and much younger-looking than the forty-four or -five which he had to be, according to Claudette, but there was something reptilian about him. “Why would I want a fresh start?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Ivy said. “I’m just trying to get a handle on your story.”
Mandrell leaned back in his chair, looked down his nose at her. A fine, strong nose: Who was the actor Claudette said he resembled? Claudette hadn’t been able to remember, but Ivy had a candidate: Victor Mature.
“Why me?” Mandrell said.
“Good question,” Ivy said; and one she should have been prepared for. “It’s kind of random, really. I asked around for the best strip club in Montreal and kept hearing Les Girls.”
“We say gentleman’s club,” Mandrell said.
“So Vic was telling me,” Ivy said. “But I can’t believe that’s what you call it when it’s just the two of you behind closed doors.”
A little pause. Then Mandrell smiled, a big white smile just like the one he’d flashed at the camera in Claudette’s picture. “Got me,” he said. He glanced down at her driver’s license, still in his hand. “Ivy,” he said. “We had an Ivy here not long ago. Or was it Ivory?” He looked her up and down. “We always need fresh”—meat was the next word, but he stopped himself—“…new dancers. Done any dancing?”
“I’ve got no rhythm at all.”
“Too bad,” Mandrell said. He flicked the driver’s license to her. Ivy caught it, put it in her pocket. “Couple of questions about this story of yours,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“First, no real names, right?”
“Right,” said Ivy. “I deal in fiction.”
“Second,” he said. “Why strip clubs?”
“They carry a lot of weight,” Ivy said, “metaphoric and thematic.”
Mandrell looked blank.
“And I’d like to sell the stupid thing,” she added.
Mandrell flashed that smile.
“Plus I thought it’s the kind of business that attracts a self-made man,” Ivy said. “The main character of the story—the hero—is a self-made man.” She paused, actually found herelf looking him up and down right back. “Unless you grew up rich.”
Mandrell laughed; a harsh, barking laugh. “That’s a good one,” he said. “I came from fuckin’ nothing, honey.”
“Good,” Ivy said.
“Huh?”
“For the story,” she said. “Tell me about your growing up. Maybe start with where.”
“Right here,” Mandrell said. “East End. My mom raised me. She’s French-Canadian.”
“McCord doesn’t sound French to me,” Ivy said.
“That was my father. Took off early.”
“What’s your mother’s last name?”
“French name,” said Mandrell. “You’d never pronounce it.”
“I’d like to talk to her.”
“Why?”
“To get her perspective on your rise in life.”
“My rise in life,” said Mandrell; the phrase pleased him. “Good idea, but she passed away.”
“Sorry,” Ivy said; although to that point, he’d been talking about her in the present tense, no problem. “When did that happen?”
“Long time ago,” said Mandrell. He checked his watch. “What else do you want to know?”
“How you got started,” Ivy said.
He shrugged. “Worked my way up—tended bar, saved my pennies, made some good deals.”
“Where was this?”
“Here,” said Mandrell.
“You stayed in Montreal the whole time?”
“Yeah,” said Mandrell. “It’s a great city.”
“But aren’t there more opportunities south of the border?” Ivy said.
“That’s a real American thing to say,” said Mandrell.
“So it’s not true?”
“Check us out.” He waved in the direction of the video monitors; one showed Vic walking down a shadowy corridor. “Country’s booming.”
“Never even tempted to try your luck down south?” Ivy said.
“Nope,” he said. “Let’s move on.”
“Sure,” said Ivy. She felt the need for a prop, took out her notepad. “A place like
this must cost a lot. How did you raise your stake?”
“Told you,” said Mandrell. “Worked my ass off. Denied myself luxuries. Denied myself fucking necessities.”
“Mind if I write that down?” Ivy said.
“Be my guest,” he said, and repeated the phrase at dictation speed: “Denied myself fucking necessities.”
Ivy wrote it down. “So there were no windfalls along the way,” she said.
“Windfalls?”
“Winning the lottery, for example,” she said. “Or hitting it big at a casino.”
A long pause. “Casino?” Mandrell said. He straightened in his chair; it squeaked beneath him. “What about a casino?”
Ivy shrugged. “Windfalls sometimes happen in casinos,” she said. “A friend of mine won a big jackpot at one of those Indian places.”
Mandrell’s hands—hairy hands, dark hair that contrasted with the hair on his head in a way that made her a little queasy—were suddenly squeezing the arms of his chair. “Indian places?” he said.
Enough, Ivy. What was left to establish? But she couldn’t stop. “Don’t you have them up here?” she said.
His eyes did that hooding thing. “What are you talking about?”
“Indian casinos,” Ivy said. “There’s one just across the border, maybe an hour from here.”
The skin around his nostrils went pale. He started to say something, swallowed, tried again. At that moment, there was a knock on the door. He and Ivy both checked the monitor: Vic, standing outside, fist raised to knock again.
“Yeah?” Frank called.
Vic came in, glanced at Ivy, turned to Mandrell. “Sorry, Jake,” he said. “But Gina’s upstairs. She wants to talk to you.”
“Huh?”
“Gina.”
“I heard you the first time,” said Mandrell. “What about?”
Vic lowered his voice, oddly confidential with Ivy right there. “I think you should hear from her direct.”
Mandrell rose. He looked down at Ivy, eyes thoughtful. “Be right back.”
“I’ll keep her company,” Vic said.
“Yeah,” said Mandrell. “Do that.”
He walked out of the room. Ivy, busy with the implications of Gina Mandrell’s appearance, almost missed it: that walk, that gait. She felt dizzy. Frank Mandrell had a clumsy walk, feet turned out, duck style. The facts of the Gold Dust robbery rescrambled themselves, the bloody little story changing shape again.
“Sorry,” Ivy said. “I missed that.”
“I said ‘get you something to drink,’” Vic said.
Gina Mandrell picks up her phone. A caller asks for Frank Mandrell. Now Gina was at the club, interrupting this little conversation about Indian casinos. The thinking that came after that was pretty simple, and Mandrell had been the brainy one.
“Thanks,” Ivy said, hoping Vic would leave the room. “Water, please.”
Vic didn’t go anywhere. He opened a wall cabinet instead. “Still or sparkling?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Ivy glanced at the monitors, spotted Mandrell’s blond head by the bar upstairs. He was listening to a middle-aged woman with big hoop earrings. Ivy moved toward the door. “I’ll just use the bathroom,” she said.
Vic pointed to another door, this one behind the desk. “For you,” he said, “the executive john.”
One of the monitors now showed Frank Mandrell hurrying down a staircase.
Ivy went into the executive john. It had a Jacuzzi, a bowl of condoms, a high little window over the toilet, very small. Ivy climbed up. Her eyes were at ground level. Outside she saw a trash can, a cobblestone alley, a light in a building on the other side. Out in the office, the front door would bang open any second. Ivy glanced around, a little wildly, saw a filthy plunger standing by the toilet.
Out in the office, the front door banged open.
Ivy grabbed the plunger, smashed it through the glass. Then she pulled herself up, kicking with her feet against the wall, and writhed out the window and into the alley.
Voices rose behind her. Ivy picked herself up and ran—down the alley, around a corner, then another. She came out on a well-lit sidewalk, crowded with Saturday-night people. A cab appeared. She raised her hand. It pulled over.
Back at the hotel in the Old Town, a fruit basket sat on the table and chocolates lay on the pillows, but Danny and his things were gone. He’d left an unaddressed and unsigned note advising her that a Montreal—JFK ticket in her name waited at the airport. She went into the bathroom, washed the blood off her hands and held a towel to the cuts that were still bleeding.
Twenty-four
Ivy awoke in the night, something hard against her face. She jerked her head away, snapped on the light. The hard object: a foil-wrapped Belgian chocolate that must have slid off Danny’s pillow.
After that, Ivy couldn’t get back to sleep. She rose, went to the desk and began writing on the thick hotel stationery.
Gold Dust
The official story: Three masked robbers—Lusk, Carter, Harrow. Lusk and Carter killed. Harrow takes $. Leaves Mandrell hanging by the dock. Mandrell implicates Harrow. Harrow arrested at his house. Betty Ann gets away with $.
The real story: Three masked robbers—Lusk, Carter, Mandrell. Lusk and Carter killed. Mandrell takes $. He’s arrested by the dock. Fingers Harrow. Harrow arrested at his house. Betty Ann and $ gone.
Therefore: ?
Therefore what? Ivy had no idea. So many questions, but they all derived from the collision of two irreconcilable facts: Harrow was innocent; he’d pleaded guilty.
Ivy showered, packed and checked out of the hotel at dawn, the bill all taken care of. But she didn’t go to the airport and catch her flight to JFK. Instead she rented a car and drove back across the border, entering Raquette before the sun—a pale, late-autumn disk that seemed smaller than usual—had risen above the trees.
Casino, boat ramp, Harrow’s house. They probably formed some sort of triangle. Was the problem mathematical? Ivy knew that wasn’t good. Her mind didn’t work that way. It wanted a story, and despite her MFA and all those workshops, still preferred a story of the traditional kind, with beginning, middle, end. She started at the casino.
Early morning, but the parking lot was already one-quarter full, or perhaps still one-quarter full from the night before. A crane stood in front of the entrance, removing the Gold Dust Casino sign; a new sign—twice as big, with showers of gold coins and a miner clicking his heels—lay on a flatbed truck.
She sat in the parking lot. Official story: Frank Mandrell waits by the boat ramp for Harrow, who never arrives. Real story: Mandrell comes out of the casino with the duffel bag full of cash. Supposing this was an outline: What came next? Mandrell gets in a car. Is someone waiting in it, at the wheel, or does he drive himself? Had Ferdie Gagnon said anything about a car being found at the ramp? Not that Ivy remembered.
Next question: How fast to drive the getaway car? On this, Ivy had no data at all. What would she herself do? Drive fast, yes, but not fast enough to attract attention from some random patrol car. Settling on ten miles an hour over the speed limit, Ivy clicked the odometer to zero and checked her watch: 7:58. She drove out of the Gold Dust parking lot.
Ivy followed the highway to a stoplight, turned down a street that led toward the river, then onto another one paralleling it, finally onto the bumpy dirt road where Leon Redfeather had taken her. A mile and a half later, the road dead-ended by the huge willow tree. A dirty froth, the color of roasted marshmallows, lapped at the foot of the boat ramp. Time: 8:14. Sixteen minutes.
Official story: Harrow, double-crossing Mandrell, is on his way home with the money while Mandrell waits at the boat ramp, about to be picked up by the Border Patrol.
Real story: Mandrell arrives at the boat ramp with the money.
A fact that Ivy believed totally, but it raised new questions. For example, there’d been no money when the Border Patrol arrested Mandrell. Where was the money? Missing, with Betty Ann. Did tha
t mean Betty Ann had driven Mandrell from the casino, dropped him at the boat ramp, kept going to the house she shared with Harrow?
Ivy backed up, turned around, drove to the highway and into West Raquette. She passed the Main Street Diner—saw a patrol car outside, Ferdie Gagnon drinking coffee in the front seat—climbed the long hill that went by the high school, passed the Ransom Road sign. Exactly two-point-four miles later came that nameless track into the woods. Ivy followed it, around a bend and up a slope, stopping in front of the empty, numberless house with the faded For Sale sign. Time: 8:38. Time from the boat ramp: twenty-four minutes. Total elapsed time: forty minutes.
Ivy gazed at the house. Trees stood close around it, branches hanging over the roof. Moss grew on the shingles; paint was peeling off the door and the window frames. Harrow had been inside, vacuuming the living room, Betty Ann already gone. How long after the robbery had Ferdie driven up? Had he told her? Ivy thought so but she couldn’t remember.
She called the West Raquette police station, got transferred to Ferdie Gagnon.
“Sure I remember you,” he said. “How’s the mystery coming along?”
“Still in the planning stages,” Ivy said. “I’ve got a few—”
“Do you start with an outline, that kind of thing?” said Gagnon.
“That comes next,” Ivy said. “Right now I’m still trying to get the facts down.”
“Facts? But—”
“Facts like how much time went by between the robbery and Mandrell’s arrest,” Ivy said.
“Twenty, twenty-five minutes,” Gagnon said.
“And from then to when you picked up Harrow?”
She heard him take a deep thoughtful breath through his nose. “Call it another twenty-five minutes, half an hour, tops.” Warp speed. “If you’re ever back this way, I can check through the logs, give you something more precise.”
“Thanks.”
“But what I don’t get,” Gagnon said, “is how come it matters.”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
“Because you can make up whatever you want, right?”
End of Story Page 19
