Under Water

by Casey Barrett

Juli looked up at me for the first time. Her pretty face was ruined with tears and streaked mascara. The cocaine made her eyes look like an empty, wet well. Her forehead glistened with sweat beneath damp red hair. She removed her phone from her purse, looked back down, and tapped at an app.

  “Just leave me alone, man,” she said. “I’m calling an Uber. Maybe some other time, okay?”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” I asked.

  She tried to gather herself. Straightened up, wiped at her eyes. “You have a cigarette?” she asked. Before I could shake my head, she reached into her bag and produced one of her own. The lighter quivered in her small hand and refused to spark. I took it from her and lit it and waited until she had a few calming drags.

  “I’m sorry, man. There’s just some shit that triggers . . .” She shook her head, decided not to complete the thought. “Some words just set me off,” she said.

  “What did he say?”

  “Don’t worry about it, okay?” She blew smoke out of the side her mouth. Her shoulders deflated. “What did Angela have to say?” she asked.

  “That I was on the small side,” I said. “For the biz.”

  “Wouldn’t worry about it,” she said. “That fat bitch is a size queen.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked.

  “I’m really not in the mood to ball tonight. Not after that, okay?”

  “Just asked if I could buy you a drink.”

  “What do you want, man? You obviously weren’t looking for work.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “You followed me out here,” she said. “After I bit that asshole.” She remembered her actions from moments earlier. “Jesus, hope I didn’t hurt him too bad. Guess that fucks my chances of working for Angie again.” She flicked the spent butt of the cigarette into the street. “So, what were you really after?”

  “I’m looking for someone,” I said. “A girl about your age. Really tall, athletic, name is Madeline, but I think Angela said she goes by Charline or something?”

  “Maddie,” she said. “Sure, I know her. That chick’s wild. We’ve partied together a few times.”

  “Seen her recently?”

  Juli nodded. “Weekend before last,” she said. “We went out after we shot a few scenes at Angie’s. Maddie ordered a bunch of stuff for this party we went to.”

  “Where?” I asked, blood racing at the warm trail.

  “It’s called the Day of the Lord party,” she said. “Goes from midnight Saturday to midnight Sunday. In a different spot every week, in like old warehouses? Last time it was at this place in Gowanus, next to the canal.”

  “Was Maddie a regular at these things?”

  “Seemed like it. She knew a whole bunch of people there. It was my first time going. I got so fucked I barely remember it. I left sometime Sunday afternoon. Don’t know when Maddie left. We lost each other at some point.”

  “Any idea where this party is being held this week?”

  She shook her head. “Why you looking for her, man?”

  “She’s been missing, from her family at least, for a little while,” I told her. “Her mother is worried. She hasn’t been back to her apartment, no one’s been able to reach her.”

  Juli shrugged. “Like I said, I just hung out with her at that party. Who knows why she hasn’t been home. Maybe she’s with a client.”

  “A client?”

  “Yeah, man, that’s where the real money is.” She reached into her bag for another smoke. “Everybody watches those videos for free these days, Angie barely pays us shit, but guys will spend a ton to be with an actual porn star. You have no idea. That’s her main business, madam, porn producer, it’s all the same thing. She says the videos are just like promotional.”

  “So Madeline is also working as . . .”

  “An escort,” she said. “Sure, sometimes. It’s not like a regular thing for us. We’re not hookers, but the money’s so good it’s worth it every once in a while. Sometimes guys’ll give us like ten grand to spend the weekend with them.”

  I neglected to point out that Madeline McKay already had a trust fund and a monthly allowance that made escorting money irrelevant.

  “How can I reach her, Juli?” I asked. “She’s not answering her cell or emails. Hasn’t been home. How can I find this party?”

  She shrugged again. Her tears had dried, and whatever trigger had sparked her biting blow job was being pushed back beneath the surface. She lit another cigarette, this time with a steady hand. “No clue, man, that was Maddie’s scene,” she said. “I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

  She lifted her arm as she looked over my shoulder and moved toward the street. “I think this is me,” she said.

  I turned to find a black SUV slowing to a stop behind me. The ubiquitous Uber “U” was not visible beneath the windshield. The driver’s door opened, and out climbed an unfriendly man in a gray tracksuit and dark glasses and a black Yankees cap pulled low over a heavy skull. He was about my height, but spent a lot more time in the gym. In his right hand, he held an aluminum bat. I glanced back at his car and saw no one sitting shotgun. One-on-one, I liked my odds.

  “Get out of here,” I said to Juli.

  She didn’t respond, didn’t move.

  “You don’t learn,” said the man in a guttural Russian accent. The sense memory placed it. Last time I heard it, I was lying on a sidewalk in a pool of broken beer bottles and blood.

  He tapped the head of the bat in his other hand as he approached. Juli let out a light whimper like a kitten in a corner. I worked through my aikido progressions, willing myself to remember something. I used to be a regular at the dojo, but I lost the discipline. Never felt the spiritual side of the art. It was the attacks that did it for me. Literally translated from the Japanese, aikido can be defined as “the way to combine forces.” Figuratively, they say it’s all about unifying our energies in harmonious movement. But in action, at the moment of attack, it means that you can take on any sized fucker and use his own strength and aggression against him.

  He didn’t hesitate, and neither did I. The arc of the bat came at my head with a mean home run swing. Moving forward, I swept one hand low, the other high, catching his wrist and executing a fine heaven-and-earth throw. It sent him flying onto the sidewalk. His weapon clanged away in the street.

  Now, at this point, my aikido training had done its job. I’d disarmed my attacker by using his aggressive energy against him, and now I was safe from further harm. An aikido master would have the discipline and purity of spirit to walk away. But I’m no master. I’d also been knocked down by this guy once before. If he’d connected with that swing, my head might have burst open like a busted watermelon. I also had enough booze and pills in my system to cloud even a monk’s best intentions.

  So, instead of getting away with Juli, I walked over to the guy, just getting warmed up. There was a cut above his eye where he’d landed, but beyond that, he was unharmed by my throw. He looked up at me and tried to scramble to his feet.

  I kicked him once, hard, in the stomach and sent him back down. Before he could catch his breath, I kicked him again in the mouth. He choked back broken teeth, tried to lunge at me. I caught him by both ears, and then slammed his head back down on the curb. Did it a few more times. Softened the back of his skull on the pavement.

  “Who are you?” I heard myself shouting. “Who hired you?”

  He smiled a ghastly smile through a bloody mouth as the fight went out of him. I heard shouting down the block, getting closer, shouting at me to stop. I gave his skull one last crack, and then I grabbed Juli’s hand and got us out of there.

  We ran in a random maze through the streets until I was sure there was no one behind us. We finally came to a stop along the waterfront, under the Williamsburg Bridge. We stood there panting for a while, bent forward with our hands on our knees. I straightened up and looked across the still black water to Manhattan staring back at us with detached judgment. I heard a cigarette sparkin
g next to me, followed by the grimy scent, and the lingering plume of smoke. She stood there smoking in silence before the questions began.

  Chapter 18

  My answers changed her mood. By the time I’d finished explaining myself, the little redhead was purring about not wanting to be alone tonight. She was a sweet kid, claimed to be twenty-one, born and raised on Staten Island. Suffered the usual abuse, responded with the usual rebellion. Wanted to be an actress, and now she was one. A bad dream come true.

  I managed to pack her off in a cab, resisted the urge to join her. The perpetual worry of transmitted disease was one thing, the thought of trigger-word bitten castration quite another. She promised to call if she heard any word from Madeline. I promised to call if I ever wanted to reconsider my adult film debut.

  It was midday when I woke, and a rude September sun shone through my bedroom window. My knuckles were cut and crusted over with dried blood. They must have connected with sidewalk during the repeated softening of the guy’s skull. The unlucky bastard was hurting somewhere right now. When he woke, if he woke, I doubted he’d start talking. I cursed myself for failing to get his license plate. Elvis whimpered at the foot of my bed. I staggered to the back door and let the hound out in the garden. The cruel light of day hit me full in the face as I stood in the doorway and watched him piss on a dying tree. Then he trotted back inside, went to the kitchen, and started beating on his bowl. Hangovers wait for no hound. As he ate I checked my messages and tried not to make any fast movements. A few texts from Cass, eager for updates. One from Juli, wishing I were there.

  There were three missed called from a random number—845 area code, upstate. One voice mail, a long one. Before I could bear the sound of another human voice, I brewed a pot of strong coffee and swallowed down four Advil. While I waited for the water to boil, I considered the previous day. A predawn start in search of Marks at the pool; a cold morning lay at Anna Lisko’s sparse Soho loft; drinks at Old Town, as Cass and I caught up on the case; our visit with Dealer Pete; then, an introduction to the hipster porn scene and a humiliating audition; only to end the night with a curbside assault, followed by fleeing the scene with a damaged but eager porn star. I needed about twenty-four hours of silent soul-cleansing recovery to work it all out. When I checked the voice mail, I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  The message was from Marks, calling from the McKay house upstate in Rhinebeck. He was staying with Margaret, he told me. There were things they both needed to discuss with me. Could I please drive up this afternoon? It was looking like a beautiful fall weekend up there, he added. Margaret would very much like a progress report. She wouldn’t be getting all of it.

  I called Cass first. I told her about my examination at the hands of hefty Angela and confirmed her worst suspicions about the scene. Then, about that impromptu assault. . .

  “I can’t believe you had the presence of mind to execute that move,” she gushed. “I have to say, I am impressed, Duck. The heaven-and-earth? That is no easy defense. And wasted as you surely were? I couldn’t do it. Sometimes I really do underestimate you, my friend.”

  She didn’t need to hear the rest of it.

  “Amazing what comes back to you in the moment,” I said.

  “When’s the last time you were at the dojo?”

  “Got me. Few months?”

  “Incredible.” She was silent for a long moment. I could hear the pride in her breath. “I don’t know, you really amaze me sometimes. Just think what you could be with a clear head.”

  “Wouldn’t be me,” I said.

  “No argument there.”

  “So, listen, can you do some research on this Day of the Lord party? Shouldn’t be too hard to locate. Looks like I gotta head upstate to see the Mother and the Master.”

  “I’ll track it down, no worries,” she said. “You gonna be back in time to join me?”

  “Should be. Curious to hear what they have to say up there.”

  “You gonna tell them about Madeline’s escorting?”

  “Wasn’t planning on it.”

  “This girl is seriously damaged, Duck. It’s not like she’s doing this stuff for the money.”

  “Maybe she’s just a nympho?”

  “Like your new little redheaded friend? Most of these girls are running from something.”

  “I realize that.” I was thinking about Marks, about the way Charlie had seen him with his sister, the way their coach had behaved with other young girls on the team.

  “So who was this guy with the bat?” she asked. “Same one from the other day, you’re sure?”

  “Positive. Same accent, same black SUV. A Tahoe. Can’t believe I didn’t get the plates.”

  “It was probably good you got out of there. We don’t need to waste time with more questioning cops. Besides, after your performance, I doubt that’s the last you’ll be hearing from him.”

  That is, if he regained consciousness anytime soon.

  We wished each other luck, said we’d keep each other posted. Cass told me to take the Benz on my road trip to the country.

  She kept it parked in a lot beneath the Manhattan Bridge. The attendant was an ex-con named Ping Pong who’d worked out a deal with Cass: one free session at the dungeon each month in exchange for free parking. His years in prison had left him with a certain submissive streak, and now Cass filled his conflicted desires with a strap-on and some therapeutic role-play. Ping Pong was seated on his usual stool at the entrance to the garage. He made no effort to conceal the joint smoldering in his right hand.

  “Meester Duck,” he said in greeting. “The beautiful bride. How is your husband doing?”

  “Careful with that,” I told him. “Cops’ll toss you in the Tombs.”

  “NYPD can suck Ping Pong’s fat dick,” he said, grabbing at his crotch. He took a long drag, didn’t offer to share. “Let them send me back, you think I care?”

  “Guess not.”

  He sat there inhaling it down to the fiery butt, showing no inclination to retrieve the car. A Caribbean nanny walked by the garage pushing a white baby in a stroller and gave him a reproachful look.

  “Fokking bitch judge me?” he muttered. “Go take care of somebody else’s baby and keep your eyes to yourself.”

  When he’d taken the last puff possible, he sighed and stamped it out on the driveway and lazily pushed himself to his feet. “Be right back,” he said.

  Cass’s Benz was an ’81 Mercedes 300SD sedan, turbo diesel. Silver body, burgundy leather interior, just 80,000 miles. Each new mile was carefully considered. And no overpriced oil from the pump for this beauty; Cass filled it with vegetable oil, procured in barrels from Chinatown restaurants. The fact that she offered it for a hundred-mile drive upstate showed just how impressed she was with my aikido. It drives heavy to the ground, with the low rumble of a well-made tank. Made before the age of airbags, you’d rather get into a head-on collision in this steel machine than any of today’s fiberglass toys. I guided it onto the FDR and pointed it north.

  The drive was bumper to bumper in the late afternoon Friday traffic. We inched along the East River as I sweated out the booze with no AC in the old Benz. On a helipad at 34th Street, a group of black-suited bankers huddled into their waiting ride. The helicopter began to spin its long arms in slow revolutions, gradually speeding faster and faster, before lifting off and out to the Hamptons. Nice commute, if you’ve got the coin. I rode it once at the end of my last case with my newly single and achingly grateful client. It was $695 for the half-hour trip. You’ll never find a higher concentration of fuckwits than at the waiting lounge of that place. On board, the seats were cramped, the takeoffs nauseating, but hey, at least they provided complimentary plastic cups of rosé for the ride.

  I sipped my Gatorade, needing more hydration than a marathoner, and remembered Marks’s voice when I rang him back after Cass. I pictured him speaking from the stillness of the McKay mansion in the rolling hills of Duchess County. “There are some things, ah, th
at we feel we need to share, Duck,” he’d said. “Madeline really is a good girl, despite what you’ve heard. Despite what, ah, you might have already turned up. Problem is that she’s too smart for her own good. And lacks discipline, yes. We know there are some good reasons for this, some things we probably should have shared previously. But, well, we would like to share them with you now.”

  “We?”

  “Margaret and I.”

  “You might have started by telling me you were a couple.”

  “We didn’t see the relevance, honestly. In retrospect, we could have been more up front with you from the start.”

  “There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you too, Teddy. Some probably best discussed in private, away from Mrs. McKay.”

  “We have no secrets, Duck. She can hear whatever it is you have to tell me.”

  “I doubt that. But after we speak, I’d also like to speak to her one-on-one if you don’t mind.”

  “Whatever helps your investigation,” he said. “How soon can you be here?”

  I told him it would be early evening, anticipating the soul-crushing traffic I was now stuck in. If it was true what Charlie had said, about Marks and Madeline, then the man was making a bold bluff with the no-secrets bit. If it wasn’t true, well then, Charlie had made one hell of a false accusation. Marks hung up with an awkward formality. He thanked me for my discretion, muttered how it would all make sense soon.

  I sat for a sweaty hour on the Harlem River Drive marinating in the filthy fumes. Over the shoulder of the road, a pair of fat black women jabbed their fingers in the chest of a stammering Latino man in front of a grocery store. They couldn’t have been more than ten feet away, but to the sealed climate-controlled fleets of BMWs and Range Rovers around me, they existed in a silent parallel universe. With windows down in the old Benz, I took in the shouting, enjoyed the raging righteousness of the women; considered pulling off for some malt liquor to get me through the drive. Then, finally, we were gliding over the George Washington Bridge, the colossus of Manhattan shimmering down river to my left like the Emerald City on steroids. I veered off onto the Palisades, made it to the Thruway without a ticket from lurking Jersey cops, and settled onto I-87 with hangover-approved jazz playing at low volume.