Lloyd Corricelli - Ronan Marino 01 - Two Redheads & a Dead Blonde (15 page)

“You know me, I have women all over the place, ready to come running at a moment’s notice,” he said. “My pimp hand is strong, cousin.”

I again laughed but this time Tony took offense.

“What the fuck is so funny?”

“My pimp hand is strong? Jesus, Tony, who the hell are you now, Snoop Mobby Mob?”

“Hey, fuck you. I’m a stud and you know it.”

To illustrate his point, he grabbed his thigh. I was sure it didn’t hang that low, despite the legend.

“I can’t stand that ghetto talk,” I said. “It makes you sound stupid, which I know you’re not.”

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe I should just say I have a harem of
goumadahs
.”

“Now you sound like Uncle Sal.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

I nodded. If you were going to be a mobster, at least emulate a successful one.

We turned off the beach and headed down the parkway toward Medford.

“How you want to handle this?” he asked.

“I was thinking about just going in and asking them a few questions.”

“That ain’t gonna work. Those Mick assholes won’t give up shit, especially to a little guy like you.”

“How do you know they’re Irish?”

“Just assuming, since they work for Duffy. Why can’t we just break in at night? Then you can steal everything you want.”

“B&E isn’t any fun. Besides, I want them to know I’m looking.”

“Why?”

“I’m hoping it will bring the rats out of the sewers.”

We went through the rotary past the Teddy Bear Peanut Butter factory and the old Charleston Chew sign down from Wellington Station eventually finding ourselves in a mixed commercial and residential area.

“Probably no sign,” Tony said sarcastically.

I agreed. Escort agencies typically kept a low profile. They might run ads in the newspaper’s sports section or have a website, but you’ll never see one with a big neon sign on top of the building, at least not in Massachusetts. That was more of a Las Vegas thing.

I honestly had no issues with the business. If someone can afford to pay a couple of grand a night for sex, so be it. I was never big on being the morality police. What people do with their own bodies is their own business. I had worked a case once involving Air Force members who were working for an agency in Los Angeles. I went undercover as a potential client and made the bust. There are some really attractive women in the military and the lower ranks don’t get paid very well so some will jump at the chance to make easy money, especially when that easy money is potentially a thousand bucks a night.

Someone figured this out and decided to capitalize on it. The problem with military members getting involved is that their security clearance makes them an easy target for blackmail. Then it comes down to a national security issue. Even if they quit without getting caught, years later a hostile foreign power or terrorists could use their past against them. I did have a problem with that.

Tony directed me to a small old strip mall and we found the place in a storefront with nothing but the street number. Most of the stores in the mall were vacant with “For Rent” signs. The only other occupants were a dollar store, a hair salon and an Asian market.

As we pulled into the parking lot, my adrenaline surged. The two guys who’d jumped me were walking out of AAA’s office. Red held a plastic Target bag that experience told me was stuffed with money.

“Those are the guys who kicked my ass.”

Tony reached for his gun. “Let’s fuck em’ up.”

I put my hand out to stop him. “Hold on. Let’s see what they do.”

He looked disappointed. Besides women, there was nothing Tony loved more than beating the hell out of someone, especially when they deserved it. As much as I would have liked to have exacted my revenge, I needed to be patient. The goons got into a late model black Dodge Charger, a popular car for law enforcement.

They pulled out and I got a good look at the car. To my disappointment it had no yellow paint transfer. That didn’t mean it wasn’t the right car, they could have gotten it fixed. I grabbed a pen and wrote down their license plate on a napkin. Why bother with note pads when you have free napkins?

“Recognize em’?” I asked.

“No, could be a couple of Duffy’s boys but I don’t know them.”

They might have been wise guys but they carried themselves like cops, just as I had suspected earlier.

“You gonna follow?” Tony asked.

“I got their plate. If things go the way I plan, they’ll turn up again soon enough.”

He pouted. It had probably been a while since he’d gotten to hand out an ass kicking. I didn’t really want to know.

I parked the Jeep and turned off the ignition.

“If they come back, call my cell.”

He nodded and leaned back the seat. “How long you think you’ll be?”

“Not long if they cooperate.”

“See you in an hour or so.”

There were only three other cars parked out front, an older silver Volvo, a green late model Ford Explorer and a black Mercedes SL500 Roadster. I got a giggle out of the “LaValle for Senator” bumper sticker on the Explorer.

The goons must have been low on the totem pole to end up with a twenty-year-old car when someone here was driving a hundred-thousand-dollar Roadster. I admired it for a few seconds and considered buying one, but quickly realized it’s not for me. It wouldn’t hold up well in the New England winter and a car I can only drive a few months a year seemed like a huge waste of money, even if I had it to spend. If I was going to do that, it would be a Corvette.

The glass storefront was covered with butcher’s paper leaving only about six inches at the top to let in light. I pulled on the door and it opened roughly, rubbing on the worn metal threshold.

I walked in and looked around. This was obviously at one time a retail operation that had long since vacated the crumbling strip mall. The office was set up with an old gray metal desk, a computer, phone and credit card processing machine. A worn black leather office chair sat behind the desk, a piece of silver duct tape used to repair a tear on the seat back.

The walls were brown wood grain paneling that went out of style in 1982. The floor consisted of simple white squares of worn vinyl. Many of the squares had corners missing where they had broken off and dirt had accumulated. Not exactly a high-class office but from what I knew about the business, they probably moved often and didn’t worry about creature comforts.

“Hello,” I called out.

A tall blonde that reminded me of Karen walked out from the back. She wore a green satin dress that clung to every curve of her body and pushed her cleavage to her neck, black nylons with the seam running up the back, black pumps and carried a long black fur coat. She smiled at me with her perfect white teeth. Her role with the company was obvious.

“They’ll be right with you, honey,” she purred putting on the fur and exited just as a short, dark-haired middle-aged woman came out. She wore a plaid skirt that made her hips look wide as an aircraft carrier and she glared at me over square-rimmed teacher glasses.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’d like to talk to the manager.”

“Regarding?”

“I’m an unsatisfied customer and I’d like my money back.”

“We don’t give refunds for service, sir.”

“Listen, I caught the clap from one of your girls and I want my money back.”

“All our girls are tested monthly for disease.”

“Apparently you missed one.”

“Highly doubtful.”

“Really. Maybe I should just whip it out and let you see all the nasty shit dripping off it.”

She huffed and held up one finger and walked to the back. It was crude but it worked. A few seconds later, a guy about my height but ten years younger and thirty fat pounds heavier, came back with her. He wore a white button-down sweater with a little crest on it and designer jeans with brown suede shoes. The Volvo had to be his.

“I’m Richard, the manager. Nancy says you had a problem with one of our girls.”

His voice was a tad nasal which made everything he said sound like whining.

“Yeah and I’m still taking penicillin for it.”

“Who was the girl?”

“I believe her name was Karen Pommer.”

He and the Nancy exchanged a nervous glance. I’d hit a nerve.

“We don’t have anyone by that name working here,” she said.

“Really. I set up my date with her through your company.”

“You must be mistaken. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do,” Richard said. “You really shouldn’t be here. We generally don’t allow clients into our office.”

He turned to leave and I grabbed his sweater.

“Hold on there, Dicky, I didn’t dismiss you.”

He again looked over at Nancy, who inched her way toward the desk. I was starting to get bored playing this back and forth game.

“Look, I don’t know who you are and I don’t know how you found us, but there is no Karen Pommer working here so please leave,” he said.

“No, I won’t be leaving just yet.”

I punched him squarely in the nose. Not as hard as I could, but it definitely hurt him. There was a sickening crunch and he slumped to his knees holding his face. The woman reached for the phone but she wasn’t calling 911.

“Pick up that phone and I’ll break your fingers,” I growled.

She quickly pulled her hand away and moved to help Richard.

“You won’t get away with this,” he said as he struggled back to his feet.

“Of course I will, you have no idea who I am. Now get me all information you have on Karen Pommer’s clients.”

“We don’t keep records like that,” he said.

“That’s too bad,” I replied and punched him again, this time in the stomach.

He doubled over and blood from his nose dripped onto the dirty vinyl floor.

“Leave him alone,” Nancy pleaded. “You can’t just come in here and demand anything. Do you know who owns this place?”

“Duffy Fitzpatrick,” I replied matter of factly.

She looked shocked.

“He won’t stand for this,” she stammered.

“I don’t really give a fuck if the Corleones are the owners. Give me what information you do have before Dicky really gets hurt.”

I opened my jacket and made sure she saw my .45. Her eyes darted to it and back to me.

“I’ll have to check the computer,” she said.

I motioned to it and she sat down and began typing. Richard straightened up and steadied himself on the desk.

“You know she’s dead,” he said.

I felt like hitting him again, but restrained myself.

“Thanks for the newsflash. Anything over there, Nance?”

“Yes. Would you like me to print it out for you?” she asked.

“That would be wonderful.”

Within a few seconds, the laser printer came to life and spit out a sheet of warm paper. I picked it up and looked it over. There were only five names on it with addresses, phone and credit card numbers.

“This is all of them?”

“She had a very limited and select clientele,” Richard said. “Those men won’t appreciate their names getting out.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not going anywhere beyond me.”

“What are you going to do with that info?” Nancy asked.

“Someone killed her and I want to know who. Speaking of which, who were the two nice gentlemen who were just here?”

“I don’t know their names. They work for Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Richard said.

“Okay, kids, is there anything else I should be asking?”

Neither offered anything so I started to leave.

“Wait. I know. What name did Karen work under?”

Most escorts, like strippers, worked under an assumed name to keep their real one secret. They were usually names like Dallas, Sloan or Tiara. Names few in their right mind would ever name their daughter.

“I think it was Misty,” Richard said.

Karen didn’t look like a Misty but it sure sounded like an escort name.

“Are you sure? I’d hate to have to come back,” I said.

I was damned good at being menacing, especially to someone I’d just bloodied. He shook his head vigorously, all the while holding his nose.

“Absolutely,” he said.

“Thanks. Give Duffy my regards.”

When I got back to the Jeep, Tony was listening to some awful disco station, mouthing the words to the song. It was something about loving you all night long. I got in and turned it off.

“Hey, that’s a good fucking song,” he protested.

“Yeah, a timeless classic.”

He shrugged. Our tastes in music had never been close. It was one of our few major differences other than me having been a cop and him a mobster.

“How’d it go?”

“I only had to hit one person.”

“Just one?”