Hark! (24 page)

“Friend of mine told me. Remember the girl I was with the night you picked me up…”

“Or vice versa,” he said.

“Whatever,” she said. “Do you remember Wanda?”

“I remember her. She of the thong panties.”

“How do you know that?”

“She showed me. When you went to the ladies room.”

“So why'd you pick me instead?”

“Ah, but
you
picked
me
, little Lissie. You've got it backwards. The punto reverso!”

“The
what
?”

“Exact quote! Perfect, Benvolio!”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“
Romeo and Juliet
, Act Two, Scene Four. The brittle exchange between Benvolio and Mercutio. ‘The
what
?' says Benvolio. ‘The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes,' replies Mercutio. ‘These new tuners of accents!' ”

“That explains it, all right,” Melissa said.

“What'd she say? This Wanda person?”

“A fat cop was around asking about me. She had to tell him about Wednesday night.”

“
Had
to tell him? Nobody
has
to do anything, Lissie.”

“He was about to bust her!”

“So she told him
what
, exactly?”

“That the three of us were at the Olympia last Wednesday night, and I went home with you.”

“Is that all?”

“She described you.”

“Did she tell him my name?”

“She didn't know your name. Neither did I, at the time.” She hesitated, and then said, “I still don't know it.”

“Adam Fen,” he said.

“Sure.”

“And this cop? Does he have a name?”

“Ollie Weeks. He's a detective up the Eight-Eight. They call him
Fat
Ollie Weeks, most people.”

“Is he going to cause us trouble?”

“He's looking for me,” Melissa said. “I suppose that could be trouble. If he finds me.”

“If he finds you, he finds me,” the Deaf Man said.

“Is what I meant.”

“So make sure he doesn't find you.”

“I got no desire to meet him, believe me.”

“You still haven't told me where you were.”

“Uptown. Lining up tomorrow's Junkie Parade. Talking to Wanda.”

“I was worried you might have run out on me.”

“And miss the big payoff?” she said. “
Whenever
that may be.”

“Soon,” he said.

“
Whatever
it may be,” she said.

“You'll find out.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Meanwhile, there's something else I'd like you to do for me. Tonight.”

“My place or yours?” she said, and tried a smile.

“There's a man I want you to meet,” he said.

So what else is new? she thought.

T
HE WAY
M
ELISSA
understood this, there was this Greek violinist named Konstantinos Sallas, who was staying here at the Intercontinental Hotel with his wife, his violin, and his bodyguard. It was the bodyguard who interested Adam, the bodyguard who had information Adam needed, the bodyguard Adam wanted her to sleep with, if she had to, in order to gather this information.

Melissa had never slept with a bodyguard before.

Neither had she ever clasped
anyone
to her bosom, so to speak, with the express purpose of getting information from him. She felt a little bit like Mata Hari, especially wearing the black shoulder-length wig. Adding to this
femme fatale
image was a strappy little slinky little black silk shift Adam had bought for her that afternoon, on the assumption that she'd be coming back to the apartment, which of course she had.

It was now three minutes past midnight on the ninth day of June.

According to Adam, it was the bodyguard's habit to stop into the hotel bar for a glass or two of ouzo after he'd tucked in the violinist each night. Adam did not know the bodyguard's name—he had only observed him from a distance, here at the hotel and on his accompanying walks to the concert hall. But he gave Melissa a fairly good description of him, and she knew to expect a burly, bearded man some six feet four inches tall, barrel-chested and dressed entirely in black, including the black shirts and ties he wore with his black silk suits. He sounded less like a Greek bodyguard than one of the Hollywood agents she'd known on the Coast before she got busted that one time when she was but a mere slip of a girl just learning the trade, before Ambrose Carter taught her what it was really all about, girlfriend. She did not particularly enjoy sex with big hirsute men. But in anticipation of her share of the seven-figure payday,
whenever
that might come,
if
it ever came, she would have gone to bed with a gorilla.

So where the hell was he?

 

O
LLIE'S REASONING WAS
that if he couldn't find the john she'd picked up last Wednesday night, then he just had to find Melissa Summers herself. No shortcuts this time, he guessed. Just the tireless legwork of the truly dedicated public servant.

It wasn't that he gave a damn about one dead Negro pimp more or less, which word he enjoyed using to describe so-called persons of color because he knew it pissed them off—not pimp, but Negro. Which words were eponymous, anyway. Or synonymous. Or whatever. Negro and pimp. In his experience, all the good criminal endeavors that used to be operated by decent white crooks were now the sole province of evil, grasping, upward-striving Negroes. He sometimes wished for a return to slavery. Wish in one hand, he thought, and shit in the other. See which you get first. One of his mother's favorite expressions, though not within earshot of his darling sister Isabel, who was probably still a virgin.

What primarily disturbed Ollie was that some little tart thought she could come into
his
neighborhood,
his
precinct, in the dead of night, and pump two nine-millimeter slugs into somebody, into some person's
back
and
head
, no less, white or black,
anybody
, it didn't matter to Ollie. What mattered was the violation of his
turf!

So watch out, Melissa, he thought.

Beware!

The Large Man is on the prowl, and he's gonna find you, you better believe it, ah yes, m'little chickadee.

In his mind, he sounded like W. C. Fields.

He wondered if Melissa Summers even knew who W. C. Fields was—what was she, twenty years old, something like that, in her twenties somewhere?

A prostitute.

In her twenties, and a prostitute.

No, a murderer.

Murderess.

Whatever.

And he was gonna get her.

 

H
E LOOKED LIKE THAT
guy in the Harry Potter movies, whatever his name was, ask any ten-year-old. The big bearded guy with the pot belly and the gruff voice. Except that he was wearing a black suit, and a black shirt and tie, black socks, and highly polished black shoes. The Harry Potter guy dressed up like a gangsta, gee! Or a bodyguard, she guessed, if this was her man, which she had no doubt he was.

She was sitting at the bar when he came in. Big ox of a man barging into the hotel lounge like he owned it. Steely blue eyes flicking this way and that like a cop expecting street trouble. Satisfied that no one was about to jump him, he sat some two stools down from hers, giving her a quick once-over before he ordered a double ouzo. Just a sideward flick of those ice-blue eyes, but Melissa didn't miss such things, Melissa was a pro.

She was expecting some sort of Greek accent—wasn't he supposed to be Greek? The ouzo and all?—but no, he sounded as American as she did. Ordered the double ouzo, checked out the bar mirror as if he was scanning the room, but she caught that sideward glance at her again, he was aware of her.

“I never tasted ouzo,” she said, bold as brass, turning toward him. “What's it like?”

“Do you like licorice?” he asked.

Turning to face her. Smiling encouragement. Nice smile. Blue eyes becoming warm and friendly…well, why shouldn't they? Good-looking girl sitting alone at the bar strikes up a conversation? Hey, what am I, a fool?

“Oh, it's like some kind of liqueur, is that it?” she said.

“Yes, that's exactly what it is,” he said. “Thank you,” he said to the bartender, who had just put his drink down. “Would you care to taste it?”

“Not if it's sweet, no,” she said.

“Depends on what you think is sweet,” he said.

Little bit of come on there?

She smiled.

“Cheers,” he said, and lifted his glass and sipped at it. “Actually,” he said, “it's made from…may I?” he asked, and without waiting for permission, moved over a stool so that he was sitting right alongside her now, big shoulders crowding her. “Jeremy,” he said, and extended one enormous paw.

“Melissa,” she said, and took his hand.

“Nice to meet you. Sure you don't want a little taste?”

“Maybe later,” she said, and smiled.

“I was saying,” he said, picking up his glass again, holding it up to the light, “ouzo's a combination of pressed grapes, herbs, and berries. It's the star anise that gives it the licorice taste.”

“That's what I don't think I'd like. The licorice taste. Candy's candy, booze is booze,” she said, and smiled.

“Oh, this is
booze
, all right, believe me. Eighty proof.”

“That strong, huh?”

Intending a little innuendo there, which he seemed to miss.

“Some ouzos are even stronger,” he said. “Your Barbayannis is ninety-two proof. That's forty-six percent alcohol.”

“That's strong, all right,” she said, trying again.

“It's not produced in any other part of the world but Greece, you know. In fact, it's the Greek national drink.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“Well, I spend a lot of time in Greece.”

“Doing what?” she asked.

“My job.”

Avoiding the question. She tried again.

“Doing what?” she asked.

“I'm a personal bodyguard.”

“No kidding?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Gee. I don't think I've ever met a bodyguard before.”

“Well, that's what I am.”

“Come to think of it, that's what you look like. Big and…well, strong.”

Get it? she thought.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Though I guess you don't have to be big or strong if you carry a gun, am I right?”

He said nothing.

“Are you carrying a gun?”

“Shh,” he said, and winked.

“I'll bet you are.”

“It's licensed, don't worry,” he said.

“I guess you'd have to. Carry a gun, I mean. I mean, if you're a bodyguard.”

“Well, you never know.”

“What does he do, anyway, your boss? Is he a diamond merchant or something?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he said, and smiled.

“So why do you need a gun?”

“Well, I'm a bodyguard. Like you said.”

“Why does he need a bodyguard?”

“You never know,” he said, and smiled again.

“Is he a movie star or something?”

“Not quite.”

“How can you be ‘not quite' a movie star? Is he a rock star?”

“Close. He's a musician.”

“Ah.”

“A classical musician. A violinist.”

“What's his name?”

“Konstantinos Sallas.”

“Wow.”

“A mouthful, I know.”

“Is he Greek?”

“Yes.”

“Which is why you drink ouzo.”

“Which is where I
learned
to drink it, yes. But he performs all over the world.”

“That famous, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Which is why he needs a bodyguard, I guess.”

“Well, not only that.”

“You sure he's famous? Cause I have to tell you, I never heard of him.”

“Take my word for it.”

“So you just follow him around day and night, is that it?”

“Not night,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” she said, and lifted her glass, and sipped at her drink, and looked over the rim at him, eyes raised like an innocent virgin.

“Are you a working girl?” he asked.

Busted.

“Yep,” she said.

“How much for the night?” he asked.

 

T
HE STREET WAS FULL
of working girls.

Good-looking, too, many of them. This always surprised him. You expected scaly-legged whores, you got these sleek racehorses instead, they looked like they could be actresses or models, but here they were on the stroll. Selling themselves on the street. He could never figure it out.

Well, most of them were bag brides. Sold themselves to feed their habits. Most of them, in fact, it was their pimps got them hooked. So they'd be like slaves to the nose candy or the chick or the bazooka, whatever shit they were on, and that was it. They didn't care what they had to do to get the money to pay for it, or in most instances the shit itself, supplied by Mr. Pimp, that's a good girl, here's your tecata, baby, go do yourself.

Still…how could these good-looking young girls, most of them—well, some of them—let this happen to themselves? Where along the line did they…you know…
fall
into this? How did it happen? Well, he wasn't a sociologist, he was a cop, and a cop had to ignore such poking and probing, appropriate terms when a person was considering the plight of the poor downtrodden streetwalker, but that's the way it was, Charlie, and who gave a shit? Not me, Ollie thought. But still, he wondered.

He got his first lead to Melissa Summers from a black hooker who told him she'd spotted her Monday in Poison Park up on the Stem…

“Berrigan Square,” she said.

“What was she doing there?” Ollie asked.

“Chattin up the poison people, you know.”

“What do you mean, chatting them up?”

“Axin 'em diss an dat.”

“Like what?”

“Some a dem cotton shooters, they do anythin for bread, you know.”

Like you, Ollie thought, but didn't say.

“What was she asking them to do?”

“None of mah business.”

“What time was this?”

“Monday afternoon sometime.”

“Thanks, honey.”

“Doan ‘honey' me, Big Man. Juss lay a nice slice on me, you know whut I'm sayin?”

Ollie slipped her a double-dime.

 

C
ARELLA NEVER USED
to worry about money.

Now he worried about money all the time.

Three in the morning, he was awake worrying about money. There used to be a time when he thought his salary was enough to satisfy all their needs. Well, not the base salary. But overtime boosted the base by a tidy little sum each year. Bought them anything they needed, everything, clothes, food on the table, vacations down by the shore, whatever. They never wanted for anything.