XXX Shamus (11 page)

When he took over the business, Hopper was owed a favor from Villeponteaux leftover from back in the day. He used it while working on a divorce. Ended up with the husband nearly castrated, still salvageable, but freaked enough to give up the house and raise the child support. That cleared the slate.

Hopper was about to chalk it up again.

He asked once what the mentor had to do in return. The mentor let out a breath, coughed, and said as if before a firing squad, “I’d rather die than play that memory again.”

The man who opened the door smiled, instantly remembering Hopper. “Been too long, too long.” He shook hands firmly even though he was stooped some now, toothless. He shuffled and fidgeted, his body rebelling. He paid no mind to the beaten man Hopper was supporting. Villeponteaux surely had an idea of why Hopper was bringing him this gift, so no reason to say things aloud that were better left, technically, unthinkable.

“Come on in, please. Want coffee? Want tea?”

“I’m fine.”

“Hey, I don’t mind making it. Just takes a little longer these days.” He held out his jittery hand. “Got the Parkinson’s, see? But I’ll fight it until it whips me.”

Hopper followed behind the shuffling man, closed the door, and waited as Villeponteaux went down the hall to get…something.

Figg sneered. “You leaving me with your grandfather, then? Expect him to keep me in line?”

“Don’t speak.”

A gurgle, maybe a laugh. “Right. He’s going to bore me to death, is that it?”

Hopper felt sorry enough for the guy to not take the bait. Let him have a few moments of superiority before things got ugly. Hopper dumped Figg on the plastic covered couch. All the furniture, plush new stuff from La-Z-Boy, was covered in plastic, and the hardwood floor was barely visible except at the edges of large spongy rugs. The TV looked to be from the seventies, the color way off with half the screen bathed in blueish hues, playing a
Three’s Company
rerun on TV Land.

Figg spread his arms across the back of the couch and leaned his head back. “Could you get me an ice pack while you’re up, please? And I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine.”

Villeponteaux’s shuffle grew louder and he came back into the room with a sawed-off shotgun, worked the slide and kept coming at Figg, taking aim—

—and—

—he blew Figg’s fucking leg off at the knee. Figg howled like a dog and Hopper threw up on the rug. Blood dripped off the plastic, the ragged nub now a leaky faucet. The leg was shredded.

“He’ll stay put,” Villeponteaux shouted to Hopper over the howling. “Something like that?”

Hopper wiped his mouth and nodded, wishing he’d just stowed Figg in his trunk.

“I need a reason,” Villeponteaux said. He wasn’t a complete sadist. More like impulse control issues.

“Underage porn,” Hopper said. Quick to add, “Not little kids. Teenagers. Pregnant girls.”

Villeponteaux nodded. “Well, don’t we all get a kick out of seeing cheerleaders and prom queens taking a pipe up the ass? Is there more to it?”

“I’m tracking one of his stars who’s gone missing. I think I’m on to something, but he might get in the way.”

A long sigh from the old cop. “Makes money off these girls, eh? I’m sure you know bringing him here means…well, it means what it means.”

Hopper said, “I know,” and pulled the money from his pocket. Four hundred dollars. Naïve, that’s what he was. Soon as he saw the leg separate from Figg’s body, Hopper realized that he couldn’t use Villeponteaux for babysitting jobs. Figg didn’t have much longer to live. A day or two, maybe, until Villeponteaux was tired of him. Jesus.

“When I’m ready, I’ll let you know what I need,” Villeponteaux said.

Hopper said, “All right,” and started for the door. Too many mistakes. He wasn’t a killer, but he didn’t know what to call
this
.

Figg reached out a hand as Hopper passed, trying to grab hold, “No, don’t go, please, this is, no.” Crying. “I won’t tell anyone. I’ll say it was a car wreck. Take me to the hospital. Anything. I’ll pay you. All my money, please, god, please.”

Yeah. That’s what Hopper should’ve done. Should’ve taken the offer, scooped up the crippled pornographer and carried him to safety. That was the right thing to do. Apologize to Villeponteaux for wasting his time, let him keep the money. Yeah.

The old man with the shotgun said, “Keep walking, young man.”

Hopper looked back. Didn’t like the stone cold expression he got in return.

“Don’t you dare,” Villeponteaux said.

Figg said, “Please,” again.

Hopper moved towards the door. “Thank you.” Open, out, close.

In the car, he prayed. Prayed to any God that would listen. Anyone who would absolve him. All he felt was Southern sunlight filtered through windshield glass.

Hopper deposited the check given to him by the babydaddy’s daddy soon as the bank opened. He turned his cell phone on and saw that he had five missed calls from Divinity. Only one from his sister. He called her first.

“You needed me?”

“Why didn’t you answer?” she said.

“Sleeping.”

“I’m not feeling up to seeing you tonight.”

A wave of relief. “That’s fine. I might need to go out of town for a few days anyway.”

“Where?”

“Not far.” Lying to his sister felt righteous somehow. “Hunt down a witness.”

That scoffing noise. “Playing detective, okay. Whatever.”

“You need anything before then? Are you okay?”

After a long silence, Sister said, “You want to know if I’ve gotten my period or not. Why can’t you just ask that instead of pretending? Be a man about it.”

“Well?”

“You’re begging, aren’t you? You can’t
stand
the suspense. But I guess that’s the only way to teach you a lesson.”

She hung up.

A bad sign. Maybe it wasn’t his. Maybe it was Colin’s. Knowing Sister, she’d let Colin believe it was his—she didn’t expect him to stick around anyway—even if it wasn’t, maybe even holding back the truth from Hopper unless some test results showed otherwise and made them tabloid stars overnight.

All about power with her. She’d even use her womb if that’s what it took to wield some.

Next call was to Divinity, who sounded panicked, relieved,
concerned
. Hopper grinned and tried not to let that leak into his words.

“I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t—where have you been?” she said.

“I’ll tell you about it in a little while. Last night kept going into the morning. But I got results.”

“You know you can call me anytime. You know that.”

“I’m sorry. Things were moving fast.”

He told her to make a reservation for Las Vegas, explained enough to satisfy her.

Divinity said, “Make it two, then. If you’re going to Vegas, I’m going, too.”

“Look, it’s only for a few nights. It won’t be any fun.” He didn’t sound too convincing. On purpose.

“Sure, no fun by your lonesome self. Bring me along and it’ll be unforgettable.” She lowered her voice. “Maybe we can fuck on a craps table.”

“They won’t let us—”

“Joke. I’m
jo-king
. No, but maybe in a bathroom or something. Spice it up. I want to fuck you in a bathroom stall and then immediately go place a huge bet on the roulette wheel.”

Hopper said, “If you want to.”

First stop was home. A change of clothes for the day after a scalding shower. He put on his jeans and navy blazer, white shirt underneath barely able to contain his upper-body mass. He needed to project strength today, drop the pushover act and do some strong-arming, especially with the counselor bitch Ivana.

He drove to the high school and parked, took a stroll around the perimeter to see what he was dealing with. Metal detectors at the front doors? Security guards? None here. It was one of the nicer districts, of course. A stunning mirror opposite to what many schools in the city were like. This one had a lawn, nicely trimmed, and clean walls and sidewalks. Bikes chained to the rack, no worries about them not being there at the end of classes.

He figured they would have security cameras, though, so he didn’t want to draw suspicion. Instead, he found the front office and smiled, told them he was a parent who wanted to talk to Ivana about his daughter.

“You have an appointment?”

Hopper shook his head. “It’s something that came up suddenly. Well, I found out today, if you know what I mean.”

The secretary knew what he meant, showed it in her smug expression. Probably sex. Mostly sex. At least it wasn’t drugs, or if it was, it was only Mom’s Paxil or something. Maybe a Vicodin now and then. They didn’t get weed until college.

She gave him directions to the counselor’s office, a few doors down. Hopper found it, stepped in, found her name on an interior office door and pointed to it. “She in?”

The girl at the front desk was probably a senior doing this instead of study hall, one that was bright enough to make good grades and smart enough to know they weren’t her only path to success. Long blonde hair that never went out of style, petite, wearing one of those shirts that bared the midriff, in this case a little bit of bulge that Hopper liked. He wondered if this was another of Ivana’s targets, or already working.

The girl gave a blank nod and went back to web-surfing. Hopper walked over to Ivana’s closed door, opened it without knocking, and stepped inside.

She was on the phone, playing at being a counselor, had the rhythm down. Her desk was covered with teacherly things: files, Post-Its, highlighters, a stapler. “Oh, I understand. It’s just that his being in jail will still have an impact on his extracurricular activities. I know you’ve bailed him out, but there’s a still a trial coming. Of course, unless you fix it, sure. Until then…”

Her head turned, expecting the assistant maybe. Instead, she got Hopper. He closed the door and towered over her, his finger poised above the phone cradle, ready to disconnect.

She said into the phone, “Mr. DeMarinis, could I call you back shortly? I know, I know, time is money. Something’s come up I need to deal with. What? A fight. I need to break up a fight.”

Hopper’s finger pressed the button.

“I can’t find Figg,” he said. Play the lie out, see where it led.

She replaced the phone and slumped back in her chair, a coy look in her eyes. “That’s not what I heard last night.”

“I mean this morning. Maybe he got spooked. In the meantime, you’re the one accountable here. Who’d you hook Yasmin up with in Las Vegas?”

Ivana was delighted to be found out. Her foot on the floor guided her swivel chair left and right “Not so fast, not so easy. You’re supposed to ferret it out, not
demand
an answer.”

“You seem to know a lot about private eyes.”

“I’ve seen enough movies.”

“You’re also full of shit. It’s all wrong but you think you’re an encyclopedia.”

“Oh, I like that.” She slipped her hand into the waistband of her skirt, rubbed herself. “More, come on. What else you got?”

Hopper crossed his arms. “What the hell is up with you? You’re not afraid of prison? Honestly, we’re talking a long time in prison—”

“A woman’s prison.”

“—and public humiliation, never get a job again. A sex offender, posters of your face and name on every lightpost of any neighborhood you try to live in.”

She bit her bottom lip and made a sweet squeaking noise. Then, “I like the sound of that. I’ll get what I deserve. You’re here to protect me from that? Is that the threat?”

“Who said I’d protect you?”

“Promise me you will and I’ll tell you what you want to know.” She rubbed faster. “Oh, yeah, that’s fucking good. You protect me and I won’t let anyone else see the tape of you and me doing kinky things in my car.”

Hopper’s stomach flipped. Yet he realized how obvious it should’ve been. “Really?”

“I’ve watched it several times now. You’re a natural in front of the camera. Just thinking about your huge cock makes me want it again.” She arched her back, opened her mouth wide and spasmed as the orgasm rendered her mindless.

“No cameras in here, though, right?”

She eased up and melted in the chair, smile on her face, hand still in her lap. “Don’t you wish. Are you asking for more?”

Hopper grabbed the stapler off Ivana’s desk, rushed around to her side, and slammed the base of it against her fingers. He heard a crack, the pinkie giving up, and slapped his hand over her mouth from behind.

She screamed into his palm, none of the sound escaping. Tears ran over her cheeks and pooled at Hopper’s fingers.

He said, “I’m not doing any more role-playing. I’m starting to think the only reason you went to college, got a degree and got this job was to role-play with teenage girls all day. Well this time it’s a sixteen-year-old girl. I want to find her and tell her how much her family misses her.”

Ivana nodded. Insincere, probably couldn’t focus because of the pain. Her free hand held tight against her other one, still beneath her skirt. Hopper worked the recorder out of his jacket pocket, set it on her desk so she could see it was recording. Then he pressed “Stop.”

“I’ve got you admitting to some things. You’re experienced with blackmail, obviously, so you know how this works. I want to know where I’ll find Yasmin in Las Vegas. I want to know that she’s okay. Then, I’m going to get her. Nothing you can do about it unless you want to end up on the losing team, understand?”

Another nod, a real one this time. Hopper eased his hand off her mouth and backed off around the desk. He lifted the recorder, started it up again.

“Who did you send her to?”

“You broke my finger.”

“In self-defense. Now, who?”

It took another minute of watching her squirm before the iron lady wilted. Yeah, Hopper really felt sorry for her. Hard not to. A predator, maybe, but not a killer or rapist. Some would disagree, call her worse. She took advantage of horny teenagers. The only difference between she and they: Ivana had authority.

The answer came: “It’s a couple. Vince and Jessica Weedgardner.”

“Bullshit.” Hopper grabbed the stapler again, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it like a hammer again.

Jackpot. She held up her good hand and said, “No, wait, really. See?”

One-handed shuffle through the files on her desk, finally bringing out a Palm Pilot, working a few buttons, then turning the screen to Hopper. He leaned in, saw the names, just as she said, and a phone number. He grabbed a Post-It and a highlighter, jotted the number down.

“Weedgardner?”

“A seventies porn name. He worked back then, acted, then directed. The wife did stuff in the late eighties. She’s twenty years younger than Vince. Both of them caught HIV, so now they run their own production company. Great health plan. They don’t want what happened to them to happen to their actors.”

“They do this pregnancy fetish thing?”

Ivana was grunting between words. “A little. Some of everything. But mainly the glam stuff. Yasmin was going to do some preggie, then after the baby, transition to traditional flicks.”

“She’s keeping the baby?” Hopper hadn’t thought to ask before.

“Why not? She’ll have all the money she needs for day care. We’re talking a rich young mother.”

One more question, for curiosity’s sake. “How many other underage girls have you turned to Figg or the Weedpullers or whoever?”

In spite of the pain, she grinned. Hot damn pure lust. “Nine.”

Teeth clenched, seething. Hopper knelt beside Ivana and helped ease the hand from her skirt, gentle like a nurse. There was a cut, bleeding a little, across the pinkie and ring finger. The pinkie was purple, black, swelled up bad, and crooked.

“That’s broken, yes indeed.”

“God, it hurts.” She leaned her head against Hopper’s and said, “I hate you.” The words had no venom. More like a wronged girlfriend.

“I’ll take you to the hospital. Can’t believe you slammed it in a classroom door like that.”

“Funny.”

“You want me to take you?”

She sighed. “Okay. Will you sit with me the whole time?”

Maybe it was the guilt he felt about Figg, or Ivana’s pouty girl routine, but he said, “Yes, the whole time.”