Bolt

by Bryan Cassiday

  “Are we talking about Lyndon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He said he wouldn’t get me an audition for a part unless I gave him a blowjob and other things . . . ,” she said, her voice trailing off. “Look, I wanna work. I don’t wanna be a stripper for the rest of my life.”

  “I thought you worked as a sugar baby.”

  “I do a lot of things,” she said, taking a sip of her Tom Collins. “I have to make ends meet.”

  “You must resent Lyndon.”

  “I believe he took advantage of me. He knew I wanted to be an actress in movies, and he knew he could get me auditions. He used that power to have sex with me.”

  “Why don’t you hire a different manager?”

  “It’s not easy getting managers in Hollywood. You make it sound like a cakewalk. You have no idea how long it took me to get Lyndon to represent me. And he does get me auditions.”

  “Would you take it out on his family?”

  She stared at him.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, her high cheekbones gleaming in the wash of the light that spilled from the spotlights above the stage.

  “You have good reason to hate him.”

  “What kind of a journalist are you? You sound more like a cop.”

  “I surrender,” said Brody, holding up his hands. “I’m not a cop, but I’m a PI.”

  “Are you gonna tell the cops what I’ve told you?” said Terri, pulling back from the table.

  “No way. What you tell the cops or don’t tell them is none of my business. I’m not telling them anything about you.”

  Terri continued to eye Brody with suspicion. “Are you working for Lyndon? Is he using you to sound me out somehow?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past that guy. One of his producer friends used Black Cube to investigate an actress on the sly and trashed her career when he heard she was gonna go to the papers to report his raping her.”

  “I assure you I’m not working for Lyndon.”

  Terri relaxed and moved closer to the table. “All right. What was your question?”

  “I said you must have good reason to hate Lyndon.”

  “Look. Business is business. Not everything in this business is fun and games. Sometimes you have to do things you don’t like. Don’t you have to do stuff in your job you don’t like?”

  She sounded tough, Brody decided. But maybe it was an act to make her sound more mature. Was she tough enough to hire someone to cut a dog’s head off and send it to its owner? Enough to sic a stalker on Deirdre? Could Terri have designs on marrying Lyndon by breaking up his family in order to fulfill those designs? Could she be the brain behind this campaign to terrorize the Fox family?

  “All the time,” he said.

  “OK, then. You know what I mean.”

  “Do you know anyone in MS-13?”

  “MS-13? What’s that?”

  Her answer sounded genuine, Brody decided. But she was an actress. How could he believe someone who made her living by lying?

  “It’s a gang,” he said. “Mara Salvatrucha.”

  She shrugged. “Gangbangers come here to the Convent all the time. That doesn’t mean I know any of them.”

  “Do you still have sex with Lyndon?”

  She bridled. “Why am I telling you all this?”

  “There’s two hundred dollars in it for you.”

  “You better not tell him I said any of this. I’ll deny everything. And I’ll deny everything to the cops.”

  “OK.”

  “Make it five hundred bucks.”

  “OK, but that’s it,” said Brody, glad he had gone to the bank before he had come here.

  “The answer is, yeah I do. If I stop, he won’t represent me. It’s a simple business equation. No ficky-fick equals no job.”

  “Does he know you work here?”

  “If he does, he doesn’t care,” she said, and held out her hand, palm upward.

  Brody dug his wallet out of his trousers, withdrew five hundred-dollar bills from it, and handed them over the tabletop to her.

  “Did you ever tell Lyndon’s wife about what he did to you?” he said.

  “No way. And you better not either. If he found out she knew, he’d drop me as a client in a New York minute.”

  She could be lying about her relationship with Lyndon, Brody decided. But why would she? In any case, Brody needed to tell Deirdre what Terri had told him. Proving Lyndon’s adultery was one of the reasons she had hired him.

  He had only Terri’s word against Lyndon’s, which might not act as proof to satisfy Deirdre. She might side with her husband. Brody believed she was trying to give Lyndon the benefit of the doubt, which was why she had demanded photographic proof.

  “Do you have photos of you and Lyndon together?” said Brody.

  “Together? Maybe.”

  “Having sex?”

  “Not that I know of. Do you want to see us getting it on?” she said, sticking out her tongue and wiggling it.

  “Photos would support your allegations.”

  “So you could post them on the Internet? No way, buddy.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “You don’t believe me?” she said with disbelief, pulling back from the table again.

  “I do believe you.”

  “Dirty photos turn you on, huh?” she said, with a knowing look.

  If he told her he wanted the photos to show Deirdre, Terri would never admit she had any, decided Brody.

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Sorry to disappoint you. I don’t have any.” She paused. “Wanna lap dance instead?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “I’m really good. It’s only fifty bucks.”

  She ran her foot along the inside of his thigh under the table, looking coy.

  He thought of the serial killer strangling the life out of his wife. He didn’t want to go through that again. Why couldn’t he let go of it? Not every relationship ended up as a train wreck, he told himself. But himself wasn’t listening. It wasn’t just that. He was convinced very few women could deal with his seizures. He had been lucky to find his wife . . . but he had been cursed to lose her.

  Not that he wasn’t tempted by Terri’s offer. Terri was a good-looking girl. And there was no question he would like to feel her thighs on his lap—

  He got up and left.

  Chapter 69

  As Brody ducked into his Mini, he received a text on his iPhone. Because he couldn’t dig his smartphone out of his trouser pocket while he was sitting, he clambered out of the driver’s seat, fished his cell out of his pocket, and checked out the text.

  Meet me ASAP at the same beach we met at before. I’ll be in an RV in the parking lot. P.

  Brody figured the text was from Peltz. If anybody intercepted the message, they wouldn’t know which beach Peltz was referring to. Peltz had told Brody that Brody’s apartment was bugged. Peltz must also think Brody’s iPhone was compromised. Hence the vague text that didn’t name the beach in question.

  Pocketing his iPhone Brody folded into his Mini, drove to Sunset Point Beach, and, tooling around the parking lot, scoped out any RVs parked there. He spotted three.

  He heard one of them honking.

  Maybe Peltz had spotted him, decided Brody. He drove toward the source of the honking, his tires crunching the sand beneath them, parked in a slot near the RV, and got out of his Mini.

  A sea breeze freshened and swept across the beach. A storm was brewing in the offing, bruised thunderheads gathering leisurely for a flanking maneuver onto the shore. Wheeling gulls screamed at the impending storm, announcing its looming presence with alarm.

  Brody found the RV’s door and knocked on it.

  The door opened.

  Peltz invited him inside.

  Brody climbed up the aluminum steps into the cramped RV, closed the door behind him, and picked up on a farrago of cell phones piled on a desktop near the window with its blinds drawn sh
ut. In fact, all of the blinds in the RV were closed, the only light emanating from a battery-powered hurricane lamp in a corner near the cab. Its screen awake, a laptop lay on the desk near the cell phones.

  Peltz stood lurking in the dim light.

  “Why all the cell phones?” said Brody, nodding at the stack of them.

  “They’re burner phones. Untraceable. I use ’em once and toss ’em.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We’re hearing chatter that the vice president will be making his move soon to initiate proceedings to invoke the Twenty-fifth Amendment and remove the sitting president from office,” he said, his eyes hollow as if he hadn’t slept in a while.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” said Brody.

  “This concerns your client Lyndon Fox. We found out he’s accumulating money at the behest of the vice president to fund the vice president’s coup attempt. It’s dirty money.”

  “What do you mean ‘dirty money’?”

  “Cash that can’t be traced. We know a lot of it’s coming from foreign narcos.”

  “The vice president is accepting foreign money to back his coup? Isn’t that illegal?”

  “A coup is illegal, and it’s a Federal Election Committee violation to accept foreign donations. But the foreign entities are laundering the money in the States at racetracks and other legit businesses before they donate it to the veep to avoid the violation.”

  “What kind of foreign money are we talking about?”

  “Cartel money, as in the Sinaloa cartel and the Jalisco New Generation cartel. Zeta money probably, too.”

  “Why would the cartels support the vice president?”

  “They think he’ll open up the border so they’ll have an easier time shipping their narcotics into our country. They think they’ll be able to operate more freely with him in power.” Peltz paused. “They hate the president. He’s drawing too much attention both to them and to increasing border security, forcing them to lose money.”

  “I don’t see what I can do.”

  “Keep doing what you’re doing. Zero in on Lyndon Fox and his illicit activities aiding the traitorous Vice President Dealey. And tell me anything the Bureau can use to make their case against Dealey.”

  “I haven’t found anything like that.”

  “What about the incriminating documents I want you to find? Have you located any of them?”

  “The only thing I’ve found is he might be cheating on his wife.”

  “Dealey?”

  “No. Lyndon Fox.”

  Peltz shook his head in irritation. “That intel doesn’t do us any good.”

  “I haven’t found out anything about his plotting a coup.”

  His face clouding, Peltz paced back and forth in the close environs of the RV, the soles of his shoes thumping on the aluminum floor.

  “We can’t let him get away with this,” he said, his monomaniac gaze intense, his hand fidgeting at his side. “I have to stop him. Do you understand?” he said, rearing up his head to level a demonic stare at Brody.

  “Yeah.”

  “Get me something I can use against him.”

  Peltz sounded like he was on a personal crusade against Dealey, decided Brody.

  “I’m trying,” said Brody.

  “I must stop him at all costs,” said Peltz, and shook his fist at Brody.

  The hurricane lamp was becoming dimmer, noted Brody. Maybe it needed new batteries. The RV rocked in the wind gusting and howling along the beach.

  The ensuing dimness bathed the fierce aspect of Peltz’s face in gloom.

  Brody had a sudden desire to flee the RV, as though it might explode any second into a ball of flames.

  He retreated to the door, stumbling on a shoe lying on the floor.

  He opened the door, slipped outside, and climbed awkwardly down the steps onto the parking lot without saying anything, the wind whipping him.

  Chapter 70

  Flustered, Brody drove his Mini east to Deirdre’s house.

  Dusk was falling like a whisper, barely perceptible, the dying ember orange glow of sun bobbing low on the horizon.

  As he tooled down Georgina Avenue, he spotted Lyndon’s Porsche 911 in the Foxes’ driveway. He would have preferred meeting Deirdre alone, but he couldn’t put off talking to her. He felt her life was in danger, and they needed to step up their precautions against an imminent attack.

  He parked behind the Porsche.

  He would have to concoct a pretext for Lyndon’s benefit.

  He got out of his car and approached the front door.

  He peeked past the rhododendron bush in front of the living-room window. Shocked at the sight that confronted him, he made a move for his SIG.

  Deirdre sat gagged and tied to a chair, her eyes bulging with fright.

  The penny dropped. Realizing Deirdre and Lyndon must be playing their sick sadomasochistic games again, Brody relaxed. He had misread the situation the last time he had interrupted their game and had come close to shooting Lyndon, thinking the guy was torturing his wife. But, as he had learned later, she was a willing victim. The two of them had been playacting.

  And now they were at it again.

  Brody didn’t want to disturb their sick game, but he needed to tell Deirdre what Terri had confided in him.

  He didn’t see any sign of Lyndon through the window. Maybe the guy was getting an electric power drill or a chain saw to scare Deirdre with. Brody didn’t want to think of what other sick torture scene Lyndon might be dreaming up. He failed to see the thrill in BDSM. Maybe because it reminded him too much of the atrocities he witnessed doing his job.

  Sometimes Brody thought Deirdre and Lyndon deserved each other with these S-M games they played.

  He didn’t want to spoil their fun, but Deirdre needed to hear what he had to say. After all, it was her money paying for the intel.

  He was in the process of ringing the doorbell when he noticed the door wasn’t completely shut. There was a crack of about half an inch between the door’s edge and the wooden jamb.

  Brody nudged the door open and crept into the lobby, seeing no one as he entered.

  He padded into the living room and approached Deirdre. He still didn’t see Lyndon.

  Deirdre caught sight of him with terrified eyes.

  “Where’s the Marquis de Sade?” said Brody, with a half smile.

  The frantic expression in her eyes didn’t change. Maybe she was afraid he was going to spoil their game by pulling his gun on Lyndon again.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not gonna stop your parlor game, but we need to talk when you’re done.”

  Squirming, she struggled as if trying to escape her bonds.

  Brody heard a noise behind him. He turned around to see if it was Lyndon.

  Brody got a fist in his jaw for his trouble. It happened so fast he didn’t see what hit him. He collapsed to his knees and got a foot in his jaw, which sent him to the floor on his back. His eyes closed, he lay motionless, playing dead.

  He heard footsteps walking away from him. He hadn’t expected Lyndon to get this angry about his interrupting their spousal S-M session.

  “Where is it?” he heard a man say.

  Brody wanted to open his eyes, but he didn’t want to tip off the assailant that he was conscious because he figured Lyndon would kick him again if he found out.

  “Where is it?” the voice repeated.

  His head throbbing from the boot that had connected with his jaw, Brody couldn’t tell if the guy was talking to him, and he wasn’t going to open his eyes to find out. He couldn’t tell if it was Lyndon’s voice. But it must have been Lyndon. Who else could it be playing S-M games with Deirdre?

  “I told you, I don’t know,” said another guy’s voice.

  Brody was hearing ringing in his ears from the blow to his head, making it difficult to ID any of the voices.

  Figuring they weren’t talking to him Brody opened his eyes a tad to find out what was goi
ng on. He wished the pulsating pain in his head would stop.

  A twentysomething reedy Hispanic guy about five six in baggy jeans and a wife beater was holding a knife to Lyndon’s chest. He had assorted green tats on his shaved head, including the letters M and S in two-inch-high Gothic font on his temple. The guy was scrawny but was jacked up, his obsidian eyes wild. Brody recognized the type. A guy that could kill at the drop of a hat.

  Wild Eyes could’ve been a speed freak as well, decided Brody. The guy’s eyes might look black thanks to dilated pupils. What did MS-13 want with the Foxes? What did they want with him, for that matter?

  Standing beside Wild Eyes was Lyndon, his hands bound behind his back, fear twisting his drawn face.

  This wasn’t one of Lyndon’s S-M games, decided Brody. It was a home invasion. Deirdre really was hysterical with fear. He wondered if the knife wielder had any cohorts with him. Through the slits between his shut eyelids Brody couldn’t see any others in the living room. Of course, they could be lurking elsewhere in the house.

  “Why don’t you know?” demanded Wild Eyes.

  “I don’t know what happened to it,” said Lyndon.

  “How come?” said Wild Eyes, baring his teeth and moving his serrated knife’s edge closer to Lyndon’s throat.

  “It’s not where it’s supposed to be,” said Lyndon, his eyes glued to the knife’s blade with apprehension. “I took you there. The suitcase is gone.”

  “What the fuck’s that mean? Are you jerking my chain?” said Wild Eyes, riveting his glare on Lyndon’s face.

  “I don’t know who took it,” said Lyndon, his face dripping with the sweat of fear.

  “You’re lying.”

  “No.”

  Wild Eyes glanced at Deirdre. “What about I carve up your wife and fuck her brains out in front of you? Huh?”

  Deirdre writhed in her chair, trying to escape, the chair rocking with her efforts.

  “No,” said Lyndon.

  “How about I jam my knife into her pussy and cut up to her belly?”

  “No.”

  “Then tell me where it is.”

  Wild Eyes strutted over to Deirdre and stood in front of her.

  “You suck my cock, I’ll let you live five minutes longer,” he said.