Caper (7 page)

The cabbie stopped at the exit. I opened the door, stood, half in, half out, in case the son of a bitch tried to drive off. The congressman and the girl were now fourth. With a steady stream of taxis lining up, it was only a minute and a half before the starter ushered them into one and slammed the door.

“That's them. Don't lose 'em, but don't let 'em know we're following them.”

“No rough stuff.”

“None.”

My cab pulled out, dropped in behind theirs.

I sat bolt upright in the backseat, tried to keep from telling my cabbie he was getting too close, or, alternately, letting them get away.

We drove down Independence Mall and took a lap around the Liberty Bell. I wondered if he was showing her the sights. I couldn't imagine he would care.

We were heading out of town, which didn't make sense, but none of this made sense. Spending a bundle for a hooker, you'd think you'd rather spend your time in bed, rather than tooling around the country. I mean, New York or Philadelphia, it's the same girl, what's the big deal?

A short way out in the suburbs we pulled into the huge parking lot of the Show Palace.

Show Palace?

If he was putting her to work in a girlie joint, I was setting my speed dial for MacAullif. I didn't care if he had jurisdiction here or not, he knew people, he could make some calls. By God, I'd shut down the place.

Only it didn't appear to be a titty bar, at least from the clientele. There were as many women as men, maybe more, and a lot of them were young. Maybe not as young as Sharon, but pretty damn young. What the hell was going on?

I found out at the door.

It was a dinner theater. With some pop singer performing. Along the lines of Celine Dion, but not as famous. I knew her name vaguely, couldn't match a face or a song to it.

I gave them a ten-second head start, then followed them in.

A woman batted false eyelashes and smiled too much lipstick at me. “One? Fine. Dinner's a hundred dollars minimum. You pay in advance, your waiter will charge you the balance. Cash or credit card?”

I wanted to pay by credit card with a receipt for my client, only if I did that, they'd be long gone. I fished out five twenties, handed them over.

Before I could follow the congressman, a young waiter, attracted by the sound of my money, appeared at my elbow to guide me through the front door.

Inside was a spacious dining room, a bit of an optical illusion, appearing way too large for the size of the building. The stage on which the pop singer would perform was about a mile from the door. There were hundreds of tables, some for two, some for four. I was guided to a table for one, which was actually a stool by a pillar, but what do you expect for a hundred bucks? I didn't care. I wasn't staying there anyway. I accepted a menu while my eyes probed the semidarkness for the congressman and the kid.

I spotted them weaving their way through the tables in the direction of the restrooms. I stood my menu up on my table like an open book, and took off after them.

They didn't go into the bathrooms. They went right on by toward an unmarked door at the end of the corridor. A burly, tattooed skinhead stood next to the door. The congressman approached him, said the magic word, and the Hell's Angel wannabe opened the door and let them in.

My mind was churning a mile a minute. Backstage? He's taking her backstage? To meet a pop star diva? A kinky pop star diva? What had the congressman got going on? Or, worse still, was the girl a mere bargaining chip, something to throw to the roadies while he got it on with the chanteuse? If that's what she was. Could a pop star be a chanteuse? What the hell was a chanteuse anyway? Why am I throwing around words I don't understand—trying to appear more intellectual than I am? I should be going old school, tough guy private eye long about now. Kneeing the roadie in the nuts and walking through the door, cool as ice.

I wandered in that direction, just to see what would happen. The minute I passed the men's room door, the roadie's nose twitched, like a dog on guard who just smelled an intruder. Actually, a bad move on his part. It made me conscious of my own nose, and the air, and what it smelled like. And coming from the direction of the door was the unmistakable odor of marijuana.

Great. Something else to bust the congressman for. Now I had him on sex and drugs. I wondered when he was up for reelection. The guy might have a hard time.

I walked down the hall. Three hundred pounds of tattooed roadie blocked the door.

“What do you want?”

“Could I get in there?”

“What?”

“I was wondering if I could go inside.”

“Who are you?”

“I'm a fan.”

“Get lost.”

“You let those other people in.”

“They got a right to be there.”

“How come?”

He opened his mouth, closed it. Scowled. “None of your business. Get the hell out of here. What are you, a reporter? If you're a reporter, wait in the autograph line like everybody else.”

“I'm not a reporter.”

“Then you got no reason to be here. Go on. Run along.”

I went back to my table, kept an eye on the door. The waiter came over, asked me if I'd like a drink. I ordered a Diet Coke. He wasn't pleased. It would take a lot of Diet Cokes to earn out my hundred-dollar minimum.

They were out in twenty minutes. I sized up the kid, tried to see if she looked any the worse for wear. She didn't. Just a schoolgirl, toting a book bag. She wasn't giggling like she'd been smoking grass. Of course, I wasn't too up on what a teenager smoking grass acted like. I hadn't even seen any of the stoner movies. I only knew the half of Harold and Kumar that was on
House
. Nonetheless, if she was buzzed, I would have expected some difference. She did seem a little exhilarated. I don't recall marijuana producing exhilaration. A goofy, mellow groove, not an upper. Or so I hear.

Sharon and Congressman Blake returned to their table, which was not that far from mine, but closer to the stage, which was good in that they'd be looking in that direction, whereas I'd be looking at them.

The congressman signaled the waiter over, gave him an order. Eager to use up his two hundred bucks, no doubt.

When the waiter left they picked up the large leather-bound menus on the table. I had one on mine but hadn't paid any attention to it. That's because I never took the advance course on private eye surveillance about appearing natural in a restaurant by pretending you were there to eat.

I picked up the menu, flipped it open, so if a waiter appeared I'd be ready. I could place my order without taking my eyes off the congressman and the kid. I took a look at the entrees. The rib-eye looked good. At sixty-five bucks it would take a whack out of the hundred-dollar deposit. What the hell. I was hungry. Might as well use it up.

And for starters, a pear salad, with shaved reggiano and balsamic vinaigrette, for a mere eighteen ninety-five. Throw in tax and the Diet Coke, and my waiter might start liking me again.

My waiter seemed in no hurry to take my order. He reappeared with my Diet Coke, plunked it on the table, and was gone before I could ask him about the day's specials. Not that I was going to, but even so.

I wondered how many tables the guy was covering. Not the congressman and the kid. Their waiter was back with a tray from which he delivered the congressman a martini, and the kid … a margarita!

Oh, the charges were adding up.

Sharon sipped her drink, giggled, licked salt off the rim of her glass.

I wondered if they carded anyone in this place. Or if she just got by because she was with the congressman. I wondered if he was a regular. That would make sense. He was allowed backstage. He was allowed to order booze for his pubescent date. After smoking dope, no doubt.

The waiter came back, asked me if I'd made up my mind. I hadn't, really. I was torn between ordering the rib-eye and breaking the congressman's nose. It was a tossup, really. I mean, the rib-eye sounded good, but the thought of hearing that nose crack …

I stifled the urge, ordered salad and the steak.

“How would you like it cooked?”

“If I say rare, what will I get?

“Rare is bloody. Medium rare is red. Medium is pink.”

“I guess I tend toward medium.”

The waiter repeated “tend toward medium” as if he were writing it down. More likely, “asshole, burn it.”

“Would you like another Diet Coke?”

I'd barely touched the one I had. “Not just yet.”

As the waiter hurried off in quest of fresher game, I realized my attention had been diverted momentarily from the congressman and the kid. There was a waiter at their table too, going through a similar routine, though probably with more deference. He seemed quite happy with what he was writing. Probably “big tipper, remember to smile.”

The waiter's routine ended with a gesture toward their drinks.

Sharon's margarita was half gone. She nodded yes. The congressman shook his head.

Son of a bitch. Staying sober while plying her with booze. I wondered why. Was there anything he wanted she wouldn't do? Something particularly kinky, perhaps? Which would explain the elaborate preparations, the trip, the dope, the booze.

Sort of.

The lights went down, and the performance began.

It wasn't the singing star. It was her opening act. Some god-awful boy band I'd never heard of, no doubt aping some god-awful boy band I'd heard of vaguely but hadn't a clue who they actually were. They didn't play instruments, just sang and danced, if that's what you could call it, or at least moved in unison. They had short hair, huge smiles, wore matching slacks and polo shirts.

They made me wish I hadn't ordered dinner. Perhaps I'm just jealous. Perhaps I just wished I were one of them. Young and successful, singing for a roomful of people. Instead of conducting a sordid clandestine surveillance.

The song ended. Sharon was cheering, wildly, enthusiastically, almost spilling her drink. Her second drink. Which I noticed was almost gone.

The congressman surreptitiously motioned the waiter over, pointed to her glass. The waiter smiled and nodded.

So what was I going to do? I couldn't sit here and watch him pour booze down her throat all night. And I couldn't bear much more of the Backside Street Boys. I had to get her out of there.

I got to my feet, wove my way through the tables in their direction. Weighed my chances. I had the disadvantage that she knew me. The advantage: she must be pretty drunk.

Plus she was watching the stage. The boys were performing another nauseating step-in-time routine, which, from the way she was paying attention, must have been absolutely fascinating.

I stumbled against their table. Put out my hand to brace myself. Actually knocked over their salt shaker. Muttered, “Sorry, sorry,” and stumbled away.

I didn't look behind me. If the congressman was coming to beat my brains in, I didn't want to know. If a waiter was coming to escort me from the dining room, I didn't want to know that either. I just wanted to put as much distance between me and the congressman's table as possible.

That and screw the top back on what was left in my bottle of chloral hydrate.

She had another drink after that. The girl clearly had an iron constitution. She probably didn't weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet, and here she was, guzzling margarita after margarita with enough chloral hydrate in her to fell a bull moose. Had I missed her glass? Poured it all over the table?

I had not. Just as the boy band was leaving the stage to thunderous applause, which I could fully understand (I was delighted to see them go too), she folded her arms on the table, leaned forward, and put her head down, just as if it were nap time in school.

The congressman peered at her curiously. He couldn't know she'd been drugged. With all the booze she'd had, he must have thought she'd just passed out. He poked her, tried to rouse her, but no luck.

If he asked the waiter to call a doctor, I was sunk. But I didn't think he would. He wouldn't want to explain to some medic why the sixteen-year-old girl he was sitting with in a nightclub was sloshed to the gills.

The congressman checked to see if she was breathing, a point in his favor—and there were damn few—and headed in the direction of the restrooms. More likely he was going backstage, to tell the diva there'd been a slight hitch in his plans.

I watched him disappear down the hall, then snagged a passing waiter, neither mine nor theirs. “Help me, please! My daughter's sick!”

“What?”

I pointed. “My daughter. Over there. She's sick. I think she's going to throw up.”

The waiter, a young dude with a pointy headed haircut, was eager to pass the buck. “Hey, man, that's not my table.”

“Come on, help me get her out of here. It'd be better if she throws up in the parking lot. Please.”

He smelled a tip. “Okay, man.”

With his help, I lifted Sharon up from the table, put her arm around my neck. “Take the other side.”

The waiter did. Once he'd agreed to do it, the guy was actually getting off on being a hero. He led us through the tables, saying, “Excuse us, please. Sick customer coming through.”

Glancing over my shoulder I saw the congressman coming back. Damn. Why couldn't he stay for a joint? He'll reach the table and raise the alarm.

No, he won't. He'll assume she came to and went to the bathroom.

But then he would have passed her.

What the hell
will
he assume?

Will he hear the words “sick customer,” and put two and two together?

Why should he? Surely people's lives aren't so dreary they'd still be discussing our impromptu exit.

Damn. How big was this fucking room? Where the hell's the door?

We reached it, went through the lobby, outside, and down the front steps.

I stuck a twenty in his hand. “Thanks, man. Get back to you tables. I can take it from here.”