As we start out, Lance says, “Say, beauty, what’s your name?”
Rayo turns to him, walking backward. “Cleo.”
“I doubt that, but it’s a good name. And your last name should be . . . Shade. Cleo Shade. Nice, huh?”
She laughs and pirouettes back around and follows us out.
We scoot downstairs and out to the porch, where Judson is snorting and gagging, snot and drool webbing from his chin, the veins standing out on his forehead. We shouldn’t have left him ball-gagged for so long. I remove the gag and fling it away and wipe my fingers on his shirt. He’s gasping like he’s just been pulled up from underwater, then throws up on himself, and we realize how close he’d come to drowning in the way I’d warned him about. I tell him Lance will be down in a minute to remove the cuffs, but he doesn’t look up at us, doesn’t say anything, just sits there gasping like there’s not enough air in the world. One of those hard guys who’s never before been so badly scared, never before faced a moment when he was certain he was about to die. I’d say his bodyguard days are done.
Lance called our travel time almost exactly right and his directions to the Ramhorn building are faultless. With only a few brief stops for gas and a last stop to wash up and change into fresh shirts—though Frank and I forwent the shaves we could use—we enter LA’s river of morning traffic with the sun blazing in our mirrors. When I find a spot in a parking lot almost directly across from Ramhorn, we’ve got more than fifteen minutes to spare, and Frank tells Rayo she’s not going in. If she did, we’d have to explain her—who she is, why she’s with us, and so on—which would only enlarge the pretense we’d have to hold together and increase the odds of a slip-up. I agree. The smaller the lie, the easier to support it.
She’s irked but knows this isn’t a time to argue. We get out and put on the windbreakers but leave our weapons in the vehicle. There’s a café next to the parking lot, and I tell Rayo she can watch the front door from there.
“Watch for what?” she says.
“For anybody who looks like a porn producer ready to jump at the chance to sign a sizzling prospect like Cleo Shade. Leave us a note if you decide to run off to a new career.”
She smiles flatly and gives me the finger.
We present ourselves to the lobby receptionist and she phones someone to report that the “Texas people” have arrived. An attractive blonde appears and introduces herself as Miss Nelson, Mr Dolan’s assistant. She gives us a brisk appraising look and says she hopes our long drive wasn’t too tiring, then escorts us into the elevator. We exit at the top floor and follow her to a door near the end of the hall. She raps it twice and conducts us into a spacious office of paneled wood walls and black leather furniture. “Your nine o’clock, Mr Dolan,” she says.
“Gentlemen,” he says, coming around from behind a massive desk positioned catty-corner to large, abutting windows that offer a grand view of the city. He’s tall and lanky, dressed in brown tweed, and has the ruddy complexion of a sportsman. Lance had said he was in his early seventies but looked vigorous for his age, and despite the white hair and baggy eyes I have to agree.
He dismisses Miss Nelson and extends his hand to us. “Nolan Dolan. Pleasure to meet you boys.” His voice has the deep resonance of the late John Huston’s, and it occurs to me that he looks a good deal like the famous moviemaker and even emulates his tight ironic smiles and narrow-eyed looks of cagey assessment. We shake his hand, Frank first, introducing himself as Thomas Hudson and me as his partner, Alex McPope, of the Texas Starlight Group.
“Yes, of course. Shall we sit?” Dolan nods at a conference table on which are set a large pot of coffee, cups and saucers, creamers and spoons, napkins in ornate holders. He sits across from us and says to help ourselves to the coffee. We both decline. Frank tells him we’re still fairly wired on all the coffee we drank on the drive from Tucson and apologizes for our casual dress and somewhat bleary aspects. “When we got to Tucson yesterday evening, we had no idea we’d be driving all night to meet with you this morning.”
“No apology necessary,” Dolan says. “I admire both your zeal and your stamina. I suggest, however, we not waste any time. Ben Steiner tells me you’re interested in an actress under contract to me.”
“Yes, sir,” Frank says. “Kitty Belle. According to Mr Steiner she’s contractually obligated to do one more picture for you but it hasn’t yet begun production.”
“That is correct on both counts.”
“Well, sir, we chose to drive here straightaway rather than wait for your return from South America precisely because of our zeal—as you so aptly termed it—to gain her participation in one of our upcoming cable films. We’d hate for her to begin work on another project before we can at least present ours to her.”
“Why Kitty? There are any number of actresses with much more experience. She’s only made three pictures.”
“And we’ve seen only one. But it was enough to convince us she has exactly the right blend of sexiness and audacity we want in the character she’d play. It’s the lead role and we think she’s ideal for it. If we could meet with her to discuss the project, and should she wish to be part of it, we’re sure we could all—she, we, and you—arrive at some satisfactory contractual arrangement.”
“I see.” He smiles his tight smile. “Well, I’ll tell you what I’m sure of. I’m sure you’re lying through your teeth. During my phone talk with Steiner I had him stand by on a pretext while I inquired about your company. I know people who know everything about such matters, you see, and it didn’t take five minutes for me to know that the Texas Starlight Group is a total fiction. It’s not in any of the registries, and none of the cable outfits have heard of it, never mind contracted with it for a production. What say you cut the horseshit and tell me who you really are and why you’re looking for Kitty.”
“What about your flight?” Frank asks.
“What flight?” Dolan says with a smile.
“I see,” Frank says. He turns to me and raises his brow. I hold his look for a three-second count, then nod. It’s a ploy we sometimes use to give a questioner the impression we’ve agreed between ourselves to be forthcoming with him.
“We should’ve known a man of your experience could easily find us out,” Frank says. “The truth is we’re private investigators from Dallas under contract to locate the girl.”
“So why the artifice?”
“It’s our experience that people in the adult entertainment field are usually disinclined to answer questions about the business, especially from investigators.”
“That’s generally true, yes,” Dolan says. “Dallas, you say. Is that where she’s from?”
“It’s where her family lives.”
“Who hired you? Her father, husband, fiancé? Her pimp? There’s always some man trying to track down some girl who ran away to join the porn circus.”
“We’ve been retained by a legal firm that’s handling a substantial estate she and her brother recently acquired in consequence of their father’s death,” Frank says. “The mother passed away some years ago, and Kitty and her brother are the family’s sole survivors. The brother has been notified of the inheritance, but in accordance with the terms of the will it can’t be claimed by either sibling except in equal division with the other, or unless the other signs a verified quitclaim to his or her share, or unless it can be proved the other is dead. The firm somehow learned she’d been in The Love Tutors, under the name Kitty Quick, and we took it from there. Our charge is simply to find her and inform her of the circumstance so that she can respond to it as she chooses.”
Lance was dead right about Frank’s gift for extemporaneous invention. Actually, just about everyone in the family can lie with expert facility. It’s in our bones. But only Frank and Catalina also possess the equally valuable talent to know a lie when they hear one.
“I see,” Dolan says. “And her real name is . . . ?”
“I’m sorry, sir, we’re not at liberty to say. Nor t
o divulge any details beyond those I’ve already given. Legal restrictions.”
“Well, she’s not the first rich girl who’s ever ventured into the wide, wide world of fuck films,” Dolan says. “The richies all tend to do it for much the same reason. The outlaw adventure of it, I suppose we could call it. The thrill of wagging their ass at the world they grew up in. I can usually spot them at a glance, but Kitty’s never showed any sign of privileged upbringing. If she comes from money, it’s not old money.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir,” Frank says. “Where can we find her?”
He looks at me. “Do you ever speak, Mr . . . McPope?”
“When occasion necessitates.”
He chuckles and nods. “All right then, fellas. Now I’ll come clean with you. When I learned your company was a phony, I pegged you for hired trackers of some kind or other, and I thought we might be able to work a deal. I’ll tell you where I think she is if, should you find her, you’ll bring her to me before you take her to Texas or cut her loose. There’s something I need to discuss with her, and a short meet is all that’s required. After that, she can return to Dallas or whatever else she might choose. I’ll pay you off the books. Name your price.”
“What if she doesn’t want to see you?”
“I would expect you to bring her to me anyway. Which is why you can name your price.”
Frank gives me the raised brow again as if asking if we should agree to the offer. I nod. He takes a little notebook from his pocket and writes in it, tears out the sheet, puts it facedown on the table, and pushes it across to Dolan. “That’s our off-the-books fee for the sort of service you’re requesting,” he says. “It’s payable in cash when we turn her over to you at this office and it buys you exactly half an hour with her. Alex and I will wait in the hallway and time you.”
Dolan picks up the paper, considers it, and puts it in his coat pocket. “Agreed.”
He tells us she’s in Mexico. She went there with a man he describes as “a top executive of a Mexican business organization heavily invested in Ramhorn.” She met him at a party Dolan hosted for him four weeks ago at his Hidden Hills home. Every three months he throws a party for this man and around a dozen or so of his associates, and to ensure there are plenty of girls to go around, he also invites more than a dozen Ramhorn actresses. In addition to a fairly lavish buffet, Dolan tells us, his parties always include an open bar, a dance floor, and a live band. The party in question was the first one since Kitty had come to work for him, and he invited her to attend as his personal guest and seated her next to him at the head table, a detail I’m sure piques Frank’s curiosity as much as it does mine. In the course of that evening, the Mexican executive and his translator—the man doesn’t speak English and Dolan knows no Spanish—came over to Dolan’s table and introduced himself to Kitty and asked if he might have the honor of a dance. When she answered in Spanish, the man grinned and said something more to her, at which she laughed and in turn said something that made him laugh. Dolan hadn’t had any idea Kitty could speak Spanish and was impressed by her obvious fluency. She and the executive went off to have their dance, then had several more in succession. Then the next time Dolan looked, they were no longer on the floor or anywhere else in the room. The executive’s translator was dancing at that moment, so Dolan went to the executive’s table with a Ramhorn actress proficient in Spanish and asked the man’s friends if they knew where the couple had gone. The men all grinned, and one of them said they’d gone to have a drink. Dolan asked where, and the man said Mexico and winked at the actress, and the men all laughed.
“I haven’t received a word from her since that night,” Dolan says. “Her landlord says he hasn’t, either. Nor have any of her friends, not that she had many. Her phone doesn’t answer.” He looks off for a moment, then back at us. “I really must speak with her. I’m depending on you boys to make that possible.”
“Where in Mexico are they?” Frank says.
“I’m not sure. I asked his pals at the party, but they all shrugged and yukked it up some more. But the fella himself once told me he has a seaside place in Ensenada. Invited me to visit him there sometime and we’d go marlin fishing on his boat. I have a hunch it’s not his only residence, but as it’s the only one I know of, I’d say it’s the place to start your search.”
“I suppose so,” Frank says. “But now I’m curious about something, Mr Dolan. I’ve never been in Baja, but I’ve looked at a few maps, and if memory serves, Ensenada’s what . . . only sixty or seventy miles below the border? A couple of hundred miles from where we’re sitting? So I have to wonder why you haven’t hired somebody to go check out the guy’s place down there, see if she’s with him. LA’s got loads of top-flight private investigation companies and it’s hardly more than a one-day job. Of course, no legit company is going to kidnap her and risk the legal shit storm that could bring on them, but they could probably find out easily enough if she’s there. If she is, you could whiz on down and have your talk with her.”
Dolan nods. “As a matter of fact, I’ve spoken to a number of local agencies, all deemed among the best in town. But, you see, I don’t know the fella’s Ensenada address, and in order to find the residence, the investigators would need the name of its owner. Being the sort of close-to-the-vest fella he is, I wouldn’t be surprised if he bought it under an alias, but what choice did I have but to give them his real name in the hope it’s on the deed so they could find the house? However, as soon as they heard the name, well, that was it. They got their hats. All of them.”
“Really? What’s his name?”
“Jaime Montón.”
Frank leans toward him over the table. “The Jaime Montón? Better known to the news media as El Chubasco?”
“The very same. But you boys don’t strike me as the sort to be as easily intimidated as the people I’ve tried to engage. I wouldn’t expect you to bow out of our agreement simply because—”
“We are bowing out,” Frank says, and stands up. I do, too. “Neither our Dallas contract nor our deal with you obligates us to risk our asses by possibly antagonizing the likes of Chubasco. We’re going back to Dallas to report our findings, Mr Dolan. For what it’s worth, we’ll leave your name out of it. Could be her family’s lawyers will want to hire a Mexican investigation team to look for her in Ensenada, who knows? That’s their business. But we are withdrawing from the matter altogether.”
“Now hold on, fellas. Let’s talk about this. If it’s a matter of more money—”
“Good day, sir,” Frank says, and heads for the door.
If I didn’t know him better he’d have me convinced we were quitting the hunt. But I know he’s just grabbing the opportunity to break us clear of Dolan. We’re halfway across the room when Frank stops and looks back at him, saying, “Almost forgot to mention. We have a certified birth certificate. She’s very much underage. What you California fellas refer to as San Quentin quail. Maybe you already knew that about her, maybe you didn’t, but if the law should somehow get wind of the kind of work she’s done with you, there’s no way you’ll dodge a child-porn conviction. I strongly advise that you destroy her contract and every video and movie you’ve made with her. Hell, if I were in your shoes, I’d clear my records of all traces of her. Every photo, every form she’s ever signed under any name. Any document that makes mention of her in any way. Just a suggestion.”
Dolan nods dolefully.
At the door, I cut a look back at him. He’s staring down at his folded hands on the table, his face showing every day of his age.
As the elevator doors begin to close, I ask Frank how much of a fee he’d presented to Dolan on the notepaper.
“Fifty grand. Expected him to laugh and haggle it down, but he didn’t bat an eye.”
“I know why he didn’t.”
“Me, too. He’s in love with the kid.”
“Exactly. That important talk he wants to have with her? Bet you the ranch he wants to ask her to marry
him. Or maybe just ‘come live with me and be my love and I will give you plenty.’”
“Poor old bastard.”
“Got that right. To be in love with somebody more than fifty years younger than you is about as poor old bastard as a man can get. But the hell with him. How about this kid? This no-big-deal assignment, bro, is no big deal no longer.”
“Said a mouthful. Chubasco, for Christ’s sake.”
“You know, Frankie, we could tell the Cat we couldn’t find her. ‘We’re truly sorry, señora. We traced her as far as LA and hit a dead end. Makes us ashamed because we pride ourselves on our expertise, but even more because you were counting on us and we let you down. But still, she’s vanished. . . . We could tell her that. I mean, hell, man, it’s almost the truth. Be done with this fool’s errand.”
“Or,” Frank says, “we could call Mateo and see what the Jaguaros can give us on Chubasco’s whereabouts. And if we get a lead on that, try to find out if she’s still with him. And if she is, try to figure out how to detach her from him.”
“Or we could do that, yeah.”
III
THE CROSSINGS
RUDY
Frank wheels us back the way we came into the city but this time turns south when we hit I-5. Rayo’s in the back seat, leaning forward between our buckets as I tell her about the Dolan meet.
“She’s in Mexico with Chubasco?” she says.
“That’s how Dolan tells it. Says she speaks pretty good Spanish. Add that to her looks, and I have to think the kid might be at least part Mex.”
“And fearless us,” Rayo says, “we’re going down there and fetch her ass.”
“Fetching is an apt inflection to describe it,” I say.
“I have to wonder how much you guys would enjoy this job if she had an ass like a bus.”
“Speaking of buses,” Frank says, “if you want out, we can drop you at the next station.”
The Bones of Wolfe Page 14
