The Myron Bolitar Series 7-Book Bundle (14 page)

Nine
P. M.

Myron called Jessica. He filled her in on his dean discovery.

“Do you really think Kathy was having an affair with the dean?” Jessica asked.

“I don’t know. But after seeing his wife, I’d tend to doubt it.”

“Good-looking?”

“Very,” Myron said. “And she knows her basketball. She even cried when I got hurt.”

Jessica made a noise. “The perfect woman.”

“Do I detect a note of jealousy?”

“Dream on,” Jessica said. “The fact that a man is married to a beautiful woman does not preclude him from having affairs with pretty co-eds.”

“True enough. So the question is: How did Dean Gordon get his name on this infamous mailing list?”

“I haven’t got a clue,” she said. “But I too found out something interesting today. My father visited Nancy Serat, Kathy’s roommate, the morning he died.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know yet. Nancy just left a message on my machine. I’m meeting her in an hour.”

“Good. Call me if you hear anything else.”

“Where are you going to be?” she asked.

“I work nights at Chippendale’s,” Myron said. “Stage name Zorro.”

“Should be Tiny.”

“Ouch.”

An uncomfortable silence engulfed them. Jessica finally broke it. “Why don’t you come by the house tonight?” she asked, struggling to keep her tone level.

Myron’s heart pounded. “It’ll be late.”

“That’s okay. I’m not sleeping much. Just knock on my bedroom window. Zorro.”

She hung up. For the next five minutes Myron sat perfectly still and thought about Jessica. They had first started dating a month before his career ended. She stayed with him. She nursed him. She loved him. He pushed her away under some macho disguise of protecting her. But she wouldn’t leave. Not then, anyway.

Esperanza opened the door without knocking. She looked at him and snapped, “Stop it.”

“What?”

“You’re making that face again.”

“What face?”

She imitated him. “That repulsive lovesick-puppy face.”

“I wasn’t making any face.”

“Right. You disgust me, Myron.”

“Thank you.”

“You know what I think? I think you’re more interested in getting back in Jessica’s pants than you are in finding her sister.”

“Jesus, what the hell is with you?”

“I was there, remember? When she left.”

“Hey, I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

Esperanza shook her head. “Déjà vu all over again.”

“What?”

“Take care of yourself. Bullshit. You sound just like Chaz Landreaux. Both of you have your head up your ass.”

Esperanza’s dark face reminded him of Spanish nights, golden sand, full moons against starless skies. There had been moments of temptation between them, but one or the other had always realized what it would mean and stopped it. Such temptations no longer came their way anymore. Aside from Win, Esperanza was his closest friend. Her concern, Myron knew, was genuine.

He changed subjects. “Was there a reason for your unannounced entrance?”

“I found something.”

“What?”

She read from a steno pad. Why she had a steno pad he could not say. She could not take dictation or type a lick. “I finally tracked down the other number Gary Grady called after your visit. It belongs to a photography
studio called—get this—Global Globes Photos. Located off Tenth Avenue, near the tunnel.”

“Sleazy area.”

“The sleaziest,” she said. “I think the studio specializes in pornography.”

“Nice to have a specialty.” Myron checked his watch. “Any word from Win?”

“Not yet.”

“Leave the photographer’s address on his voice mail. Maybe he’ll finish in time to meet me.”

“You going tonight?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Esperanza closed the pad with a snap. “Mind if I tag along?”

“To the photography studio?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you have class tonight?” Esperanza was getting her law degree from NYU at night.

“No. And I’ve done all my homework, Daddy. Really I have.”

“Shut up and come on.”

Hookerville.

There were all kinds. White, Black, Asian, Latino—a verifiable United Nations of prostitutes. Most were young, very young, stumbling on too-high heels, like
children playing dress-up, which in a real sense they were. Most were thin, dried-up, needle tracks covering their arms like dozens of tiny insects, their skin pulled tightly around cheekbones, giving their faces a haunted skull look. Their eyes were hollow and set deep, their hair lifeless and strawlike.

Myron muttered, “Don’t they know they’re making love to what’s already dead?”

Esperanza paused, thinking. “Don’t know that one.”

“Fontine in
Les Misérables
. The musical.”

“I can’t afford Broadway musicals. My boss is cheap.”

“But cute.”

He watched a blond girl in sixties hot-pants negotiate with a sleazeball in a Ford station wagon. He knew her story. He had seen girls (boys sometimes) just like her get off the bus at the Port Authority, a Greyhound bus that had originated in West Virginia or western Pennsylvania or that great, barren mono-expanse New Yorkers simply referred to as the Midwest. She had run away from home—maybe to avoid abuse, but more likely because she was bored and “belonged” in a big city. She had high-stepped off the bus with a wide smile, mesmerized, without a penny. Pimps would eye her and wait with the patience of a vulture. When the time was right, they would sweep down and claim their carcass. They’d introduce her to the Big Apple, get her a place to stay, some food, a hot shower, maybe a room with a Jacuzzi and dazzling lights and a cool CD player and cable TV with a remote. They’d promise to set her up with a photographer, get her a few modeling gigs. Then they’d teach her how to party,
really
party, not that candy-ass shit she’d done in Hicks Falls with some beer and a zit-infested senior pawing at her in the backseat of a pickup.
They’d show her how to have a good time with the prime stuff, the numero-uno white powder.

But things would change. Someone would have to pay for all these good times. The modeling job would fall through, and she couldn’t just be a freeloader. Besides, the partying was more a need now than a luxury. Like food or breathing. She could no longer exist without a snort or a pinch from her favorite needle.

It didn’t take long to plummet and hit bottom. And once there she didn’t have the strength—not even the desire, really—to get up.

She ended up here.

Myron parked. He and Esperanza got out of the car silently. Myron felt his stomach churn. It was night, of course. Places like this existed only at night. They fled with the onslaught of sunlight.

Myron had never been with a whore, but he knew Win had engaged their services on plenty of occasions. Win liked the convenience. His favorite spot was an Asian whorehouse on Eighth Street called Noble House. Back in the mid-eighties, Win and a few friends would have what they called “Chinese night” in Win’s apartment—Hunan Garden would deliver food, Noble House women. The truth was, Win had no feelings for women. He didn’t trust them. Whores were what he wanted. It wasn’t just the lack of attachment. Win never let women attach. But prostitutes were throwaways. Disposable.

Myron didn’t think Win still partook in such events—not in this disease-ridden era—but he didn’t know for sure. They never talked about it.

“Pretty spot,” Myron said. “Scenic.”

Esperanza nodded.

They passed a nightclub of some sort. The music was loud enough to crack the sidewalk. A teen—Myron couldn’t say if it was male or female—with green spiked
hair bumped into him. Looked like the Statue of Liberty. There were lots of motorcycles, ear and nipple rings, tattoos, chain jewelry. A constant whore chorus of “Hey, baby” pelted him from every conceivable angle, their faces blurring into one mass of human debris. The place was like a carnival freak show.

The sign above the door read
CLUB F. U.
The logo was a raised middle finger. Subtle. A chalkboard read the following:

Myron could see through the open door. People weren’t dancing. They were jumping up and down, heads lolling lifelessly as if their necks were rubber bands, their arms tucked against their sides. Myron focused in on one kid, maybe fifteen years old, lost in the violet bliss, sweat matting his long hair to his face. He wondered if the group onstage was Pap Smear or Rectal Thermometer. Didn’t matter. Sounded like someone had jammed a rutting pig into a Cuisinart.

The whole scene was like Dickens meets
Blade Runner
.

“The studio is next door,” Esperanza said.

The building was either a disastrous brownstone or a small warehouse. Whores hung out the windows like shreds of leftover Christmas decorations.

“This is it?” Myron asked.

“Third floor,” Esperanza answered. She did not seem intimidated by the surroundings in the least, but she had come from streets not much better than this. Her face
remained a placid pool. Esperanza never showed weakness. Her temper flared often, but for all their times together, Myron had never seen her cry. She could not say the same of him.

Myron approached the stoop. An overweight whore stuffed into a bodysuit that doubled as sausage casing licked her lips and stepped in front of him.

“Hey, yo, want a blow job? Fifty bucks.”

Myron tried not to close his eyes. “No,” he said softly, lowering his head. He wanted to offer words of wisdom, words that could transform her, change her circumstances. But he just said, “I’m sorry,” and hurried past. The fat girl shrugged and moved on.

It was a walk-up. No surprise there. The stairwells were littered with people, most unconscious or maybe dead. Myron and Esperanza carefully climbed over them. A cacophony of music—everything from Neil Diamond to what might have been Pap Smear bellowed through the corridor. There were other sounds too Broken bottles, shouts, curses, crashing, a baby crying. An orchestra from hell.

When they reached the third floor, they saw a glassed-in office. No one was inside, but the pictures on the wall—not to mention the bullwhip and handcuffs—left little doubt that they had arrived at the right place Myron tried the knob. It turned.

“You stay out here,” he said.

“Okay.”

He moved in “Hello?”

No one answered him, but music was coming from the other room. Sounded like calypso music. He called out again and stepped into the studio.

Myron was struck by how professional the setup was. It was clean, brightly lit, with one of those big white umbrella things you always see in photo studios. There
were half a dozen cameras set up on tripods, and overhead was a variety of different-colored lights.

Of course, the setting was not the first thing that struck him. Other things caught his eye first. The naked woman sitting on a motorbike, for example. To be accurate, she wasn’t fully naked—she had on a pair of black boots. Nothing else. Not a look every woman could pull off, but it seemed to work for her. She had not seen him yet, intensely studying the magazine in her hand.
The National Sun
. Headline: Boy 16 Becomes Grandmother. Hmm. He stepped closer. She was big-breasted, very Russ Meyer, but Myron could see scars under the large swellings. Implants, the fashion accessory of the eighties.

She looked up, startled.

Myron smiled warmly. “Hi.”

She screamed Piercingly. “Get the fuck out of here!” she shrieked, covering her chest. Modesty. So rare nowadays. It was nice to see.

Myron said, “My name—”

Another piercing scream. Myron heard a noise behind him and spun. A skinny kid wearing no shirt stood smiling. He popped open a switchblade, a maniacal grin plastered across his face. His Bruce Lee–like build shimmered in the light. He crouched low and beckoned Myron forward. Very
West Side Story
. If only the kid would snap his fingers.

Another door opened, and red light leaked out. A woman stepped into view. She had what looked like curly red hair, but Myron couldn’t be sure if that was her color or if it just appeared red because of the light from the darkroom.

“You’re trespassing,” she said to Myron. “Hector has the right to kill you where you stand.”

“I don’t know where you got your law degree,” Myron
said, “but if Hector isn’t careful, I’m going to take away his toy and shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

Hector giggled. He began to toss the knife back and forth between his hands.

“Wow,” Myron said.

The topless model fled to the dressing room, which was cleverly marked
UNDRESSING ROOM
. The woman from the darkroom stepped fully into the studio and closed the darkroom door. Her hair was indeed red, more like burnt auburn actually. Her skin was what some might call peaches and cream. She was maybe thirty and looked, strange as it might sound, perky. The Katie Couric of the porno world.

“Are you the owner?” Myron asked.

“Hector is very good with a blade,” she replied coolly. “He could slice out a man’s heart and show it to him before he died.”

“That must liven a party.”

Hector stepped closer. Myron did not move.

“I could demonstrate my skills in the martial arts,” Myron began. He quickly withdrew his gun and aimed it at Hector’s chest. “But I just showered.”

Hector’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Let this be a lesson to you, Blade Boy,” Myron continued. “Half the people in this building probably carry guns. You go around waving that toy, and someone without my tender heart will ace you.”

The redhead did not seem taken aback by the gun. “Get out of here,” she said to Myron “Now.”

“Are you the owner?” Myron tried again.

“You got a warrant?”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Then get your ass out of here.” She undulated a lot when she talked. Her hips and legs in constant motion.
She signaled to Hector, who closed up the switchblade. “You can go, Hector.”

“Not so fast, Hector,” Myron said. “Get in the darkroom. I don’t want you getting any ideas about coming back with a gun.”

Hector looked toward the redhead. She nodded, and he went.

“Close the door,” Myron said.

He closed it. Myron walked over and pulled the dead bolt.

The redhead put her hands on her hips. “Happy now?”

“Nearly ecstatic.”

“Now get out.”

“Listen,” Myron said with his melt-’em, warm smile, “I don’t want any trouble. I’m just here to buy some photographs. My name is Bernie Worley. I work for a new porno magazine.”

She made a face. “Do I really look that stupid? Bernie Worley, here to buy some photographs. Give me a fuckin’ break.”

There was a sudden noise. People. Lots of them. A commotion, even by this place’s standard. In the corridor. Right where he had left Esperanza. Alone.

Myron turned and ran, feeling his heart leap to his throat. If something had happened to her—

He threw open the door. Dozens of people surrounded Esperanza, most kneeling. She stood in the middle, smiling and—he couldn’t believe it—signing autographs.

“It’s Pocahontas!” someone shouted.

“Make mine out ‘With love to Manuel.’ ”

“You’re still my favorite!”

“I remember when you beat Queen Carimba. What a fight!”

“That Highway Hannah. Such a dirty fighter. When she threw salt in your eyes, I could have killed her.”

Esperanza caught Myron’s eye, shrugged, went back to signing old matchbooks and scraps of paper. The redhead followed him out the door. When she saw Esperanza, her entire being lit up. “Poca?”

Esperanza looked back up. “Lucy?”

They hugged. They stepped back into the studio, Myron following.

“Where you been, girl?” Lucy asked.

“Here, there.”

The two women kissed. On the lips. A little too long. Esperanza turned around. “Myron?”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes are bulging.”

“They are?”

“I don’t tell you everything.”

“Apparently not,” he said. “But at least I know why my startling good looks didn’t faze your friend.”

Both women found that laughable. “Lucy, this is Myron Bolitar.”

Lucy looked him up and down. “He your boyfriend?”

“No. Just a good friend. And my boss.”

“He looks like a guy I know, worked a kinky show at a club down the street. He had this act where he peed on different women.”

“It wasn’t me,” Myron assured her. “I have enough trouble peeing in a public urinal.”

Lucy turned her attention to Esperanza. “You look good, Poca.”

“Thanks.”

“Out of the wrestling game, huh?”

“Completely.”

“But you’re still working out?”

“As often as I can.”

“Nautilus?”

“Um-hmm.”

“It shows,” Lucy said with a wicked smile. “You really look hot.”

Myron cleared his throat. “Hey, how about those Knicks?”

The women ignored him. “You still taking pictures of the wrestlers?” Esperanza asked.

“Not much anymore. I’m mostly into this shit.”

Esperanza looked back at Myron. “Lucy—that isn’t her real name, we just call her that because of her hair—she used to do the promo photos of all the wrestlers.”

“So I gathered,” Myron said. “Do you think she can help us out?”

“What do you want to know?” Lucy asked.

Myron handed her the copy of
Nips
. He pointed to Kathy’s picture. “I want to know about this,” he said.

Lucy studied the photograph for a second. “He a cop?” she asked Esperanza.

“A sports agent.”

“Oh.” She did not ask for further elaboration. “Because this could get us in trouble.”

“How so?” Myron asked.

“The photograph. The girl is topless.”

“So?”

“So it’s illegal. Topless girls aren’t allowed in 900 ads. We’re going to get screwed if the government sees this.”

“We?” Myron repeated. Again the clever interrogation techniques.