by H S Peer
I found the stairs next to the elevator and headed up to the third floor. The hall was semi-dark with some of the lights out. The carpet muffled my footfalls. I found the solid wood door with the carved sign announcing Rainbow Productions. I tried the handle on the off chance it was open. No such luck. The hallway was empty, I went to work with my lock-picks. Twenty seconds later the deadbolt snapped open. I replaced the lock-picks in their case and pulled the small pry bar from my waistband.
When I’d been here before I’d scoped out the alarm - my professional interest. There was nothing that would give me any trouble. It was a basic alarm system, something designed to keep smash and grabbers out. Getting around it was easy. I slipped on my gloves, opened the door and closed it behind me. There was a beeping from the alarm console. I had 30 seconds or so before the alarm went off and the cops responded.
I walked to the console and looked at it. It was a typical keypad and a number of lights. Now, the armed light was flashing. I pushed the prybar into the crack between the console and the wall. I pushed it as far as it would go and reefed down. It moved but didn’t come loose. I reseated the prybar and pulled again. The console came off and fell to the floor. The beeping stopped. Bare wires ran out from the wall where the console was.
It was simple. Without the console, there was no brain in the system. With the brain gone there was no way for the alarm to sound or contact the police. I made sure the wires were separated, I didn’t want any of them touching and causing a short circuit. Relatively safe for the moment I headed down the short hall to John Smith’s office. The door was locked.
I made short work of it and entered. I drew the blinds and snapped on the desk lamp. The room was as I remembered it with video covers mounted and hung on the walls. Against the wall was a bank of filing cabinets. It always made me laugh that in movies or novels the hero always found something incriminating in a filing cabinet. In real life, things don’t go that way. You don’t leave evidence where the police with a search warrant can find it.
Surprise, the cabinets were locked. My picks went to work again, and I started rifling through the drawers. After a few minutes, I found Cindy’s personnel file. I opened it and scanned the contents. There were publicity shots with Cindy in various states of undress and a contract. I read it. Cindy was signed to do five films for $30,000. Not a lot of money. But all porn stars made their bucks going on the road and headlining at strip clubs. I replaced the file.
I tried to find financial statements but couldn’t. There were only files on projects in production, scripts and numerous starlets’ headshots. I closed the drawers and sat down at the desk. If nothing else Mr. Smith was clean. The blotter was clear. There was a phone, a mug full of pencils and a lava lamp. I tried the drawers. Another surprise, locked. I snapped the drawer open with my pry bar. Smith would know someone was here but he would anything after looking at the alarm panel.
There was a box of Roughrider condoms, a fountain pen, some correspondence from a video duplication company and a carbon of a bank deposit slip. I pocketed it and closed the desk drawer the best I could. It was time to leave. I turned off the desk lamp.
I left the office, relocking it as I went. I left the building and headed for my car. Once inside I drove back to the Liar’s Breath and parked in the alley. Inside I had Biscuit get the rest of the Dom from the fridge, and I retired to the office. I was juiced. No matter how routine the job there’s nothing like a little break and enter to get the blood flowing.
Safe in my fortress of solitude I pulled the deposit slip out of my pocket. I sipped some Dom and examined it. Apparently, Mr. Smith had deposited $15,000 into an account at the Greater New York Bank, an establishment I knew well. I remembered the photo of Amber standing in front of the bank and realized I had a clue in my possession. Probably the first. The Greater New York Bank had been started in the 70s with mob money. Its mandate was to launder money for various criminal factions. It had been investigated by the Grand Jury three times, but to no avail, they were still in business. I had an operating line of credit for the bar at this establishment. They didn’t look so much at financial statements as they did at street reputation. Even if the bar didn’t make any real money, they knew I was good for whatever I borrowed.
So Rainbow was involved with the Greater New York Bank. I wasn’t surprised. Rainbow, as a porno production company, wasn’t expected to be squeaky clean. So they borrowed money from a less-than-scrupulous bank, that didn’t really prove anything. While $15,000 was a sizable deposit that in itself didn’t prove anything. Like me, they could have a loan, a line of credit or simply a bank account they were depositing to. I found a file folder in a drawer of assorted office supplies and placed the slip into it. I opened the office safe and put it inside. Safe, for the moment. Sure, it was a piece of evidence linking me to a B&E, but I was betting that would never be reported.
I finished the champagne and grabbed my coat. The place had nearly emptied out. I’d make the bank deposit tomorrow, I told myself. Still amped up I headed home. I parked, walked to my apartment and flipped on the TV. I found an old Cary Grant black and white flick sat with a glass of brandy and half a pack of cigarettes. I drank, watched, smoked and laughed in the appropriate places. Somewhere along the line, I fell asleep, still in my street garb, my gun digging into my back.
Chapter 25
I greeted Thursday morning, should I say afternoon, the way I did most days, with an extra-strong cup of black Sumatran coffee. I order it over the Internet from a small roaster in California. I am fussy. It was just after 2:30 and I opted to forgo breakfast for lunch at the Liar’s Breath.
I ordered a turkey club and fries and sipped a pint while I scanned the financial papers. Most of my stocks were in the black although doing nothing remarkable. My arm throbbed and I asked Biscuit for a couple of Tylenol. I could have easily gotten something stronger. The right request to the right person in the bar and I could have a pail of Percocets. I didn’t do that stuff; it was too easy to get hooked. With my already addictive personality, I figured I didn’t need anything else to worry about. I smoked a cigarette and sipped at my beer and watched Biscuit draw drafts and mix drinks. I don’t know much about him, never really have. He was once a biker and got sick of the life. I saw something in him when I was recruiting a new bartender two years earlier. His resume listed two years of high school and little else, that’s what 20 years of living on the wrong side of the law will do for you. All the same, I gave him a chance, and I wasn’t disappointed. He never said much unless he had to. Now he virtually ran the place, hiring and firing the staff, all the ordering, and dealing with suppliers.
He was a marvel at what he did, and I was lucky to have him. As an owner, I’m not really all that hands-on. Sure, I collect a paycheque because I need some income to claim on my taxes, but I do very little for the money. I go to the Liar’s Breath to socialize, make connections and set up scores. It all looks excellent on paper.
My lunch arrived, and I scarfed it down. Sometimes I think I should eat healthier and hit the gym more than once a month. For a thirty-something tough guy, I’m in good shape. The time will come, I realize when I’ll have to be more careful about what I eat. There was a history of Diabetes in my family, and I don’t look forward to the day I might be afflicted. My metabolism was still good, I didn’t get fat, and so. The day would come, likely after 40 when I had to be careful. I would rue the day.
The waitress had just taken my plate when Jerome walked in. Out of the darkroom, he looked too pale. There were dark rings under his eyes. Even his too small suede coat had yellow chemical stains on it. Tucked under his arm was a large envelope. I had forgotten all about Jerome and was happy he had appeared. He ordered a gin and orange juice, a left-handed screwdriver, and sat on the stool next to me.
“What do you have?” I asked.
“Your prints, as requested.”
“Anything remarkable?”
“Some self-portraits and a lot of other stuff t
hat didn’t make any sense.”
“Like what?”
“Photos of buildings with a woman standing in the foreground,” he said.
“Recognize any of them?” I asked sipping my beer.
“None. And no, I didn’t make any copies although there were some very nice shots of a breast,” he said.
I nodded. Jerome finished his drink and rose to leave. I pulled my money clip from my pocket and slipped him a hundred, more than the job was worth but he had hand delivered it, and he was discreet. Jerome thanked me and left, trailing the smell of developer behind him.
I knocked on the bar for another pint and opened the envelope. Jerome had been right; the first dozen photos were that of Cindy, naked, stretched out on her bed, taken with a remote release. She was attractive if you could say that about a dead woman without sounding morbid. There were a couple of close-ups of her breast, at least I figured it was her’s. In this era of breast augmentation, Cindy was natural and time had been kind to her, she was still as pert as a teenager.
The self-portraits finished I moved on to the rest. They were of Amber, again standing outside various buildings. From the leaves on the trees, I guessed the photographs had been taken the fall before. The building were all the same, crumbling tenements in the city’ poorer districts. That led nowhere. There was no way for me to ever find out what these buildings were. I could drive around for a week and never find one. From different the angles, the buildings would look identical. The second last photo in the stack caught my eye.
Amber was standing on the cracked sidewalk of another deserted street. Off to one side, on the last inch on the right-hand side of the photograph was the image of an open convenience store. From the sign, I could see it said, “…ar Variety. Your lotto headquarters” I pulled the negatives from the envelope and held them up to the light. There might have been more, and Jerome cropped it out when he made the print. Alas, the negative looked almost the same as the print.
I went to my office and pulled out the yellow pages for the Bronx. I don’t know why, call it a hunch. The area looked burnt out, and I was guessing that is where it was. I flipped to the listings for convenience stores. There were pages, but I was only looking for one that ended in AR. After twenty minutes of reading through the ads, I found what I was looking for. The listing said, “Star Variety, Your Lotto Headquarters.” I knew I had it. I jotted down the address and left to get my car from the garage.
I gassed up and had the attendant wash my windows. I rewarded him with a ten-dollar tip for a job well done. That out of the way I headed for the Bronx. I was armed and had little to fear. The carjacker that tried to get my Saab was in for a little surprise. It was almost time to put the Saab away for the winter. I didn’t want it ruined by road salt and grime. I’d drive the Jeep with its four-wheel drive for the winter, that was if I didn’t take off for warmer climes.
After a couple of wrong turns, I found the part of town I was looking for. I parked the car at the curb and set the alarm. There were a group of homeless men up the block, some black, some white, standing by an oil drum with a fire burning in it. They looked as desperate as the neighborhood with its crumbling buildings and empty streets. I asked who wanted to make twenty bucks. They stared at me with vacant eyes. One of the white guys, one with yellow teeth and greasy hair smiled and said, “Me.”
I asked him to watch the car and slipped him two tens. He agreed and left the warmth of the oil drum to sit propped against a building by my car. I hadn’t seen anyone in blocks. It was if humanity had ceased to exist in this part of the city, that a neutron bomb had detonated and left nothing but buildings. But there were people there, squatters watching from shattered windows at every move I made. One of the more adventurous ones might try to roll me. That would be a mistake, possibly a fatal one.
I found the Star Variety store standing on one corner, as dejected as the rest of the neighborhood. The front windows were dirty and covered with bars. I wasn’t interested in it, at least not yet; it was the building next to it I wanted.
Once upon a time, it had been a housing project of one sort or another. Concrete, cracked and filled with weeds, surrounded its base. There was a green area, now brown with the frost and cold, holding some teetering play equipment. I guessed the main building was twenty stories high. Most of the windows on the lower levels were smashed and even from across the street I could smell the dust and rats that infested the place.
I crossed the street and circled the building. I pulled the eight-by-ten from inside my jacket. Yes, I was in the right place. I found the main doors, long since broken and replaced with sheets of plywood. There was a condemned sign from the city mounted on the bricks. It was full of .22 bullet holes. The plywood moved easily enough. There must have been more than a hundred people squatting in a building like this. I probably wouldn’t see any of them. They would have headed for upper floors at my approach. I pulled the penlight from my pocket and shone it around the lobby. It was all you would expect from such a place. Bullet holes, faded and dirty floor tiles and water-stained walls. The elevator doors stood open. There was a trail through the muck in the lobby so I knew someone must be around.
I looked around the main floor. I poked my head in several apartments and found nothing but graffiti, used condoms and crack vials. Away from the windows and any hint of daylight the stairwell looked ominous. I walked to the second and then third after looking around. I hoped I didn’t have to search the whole building. Not that I thought I would find anything anyhow.
I hit paydirt on the fifth floor in apartment 506. There was a urine-stained mattress in one corner and empty cheap wine bottles in the other. But unlike the rest of the building the windows were clean, which meant one of two things. Either the person squatting here had a clean fetish, or someone else had used the apartment for some other purpose. Who needed clean windows? Someone making a movie was what came to mind. There were multiple footprints in the dust on the floor, but that meant little. Perhaps whoever used this room was very popular. I ran my light over the walls. In one corner was a table, battered and scarred. It wasn’t as dirty as you would expect in these surroundings. Except for a layer of dust, it was relatively clean.
The baseboards were gone, probably taken by the men by the fire to keep warm. Against the wall, two feet away from the mattress was a bulb. I picked it up. I’m no expert on electrical implements, that’s what my electrician is for. I turned the bulb over in my hands. It was blown, I knew that much, the inside of the glass was black. It was large, nearly two inches long and from the look of the element inside, powerful. I pocketed it and knew I had found what I came for. There was no point in searching anymore. All I had was a light bulb, possibly theatrical, a stained mattress, a lot of footprints and clean windows. All of it added up to very little.
Through the darkness of the stairs, I found my way back down to the lobby. Once outside I was happy to see my car still in one piece. The man I had paid was still on station, only now drinking from a bottle in a brown paper bag. I guess my money had already been given to a local merchant. I crossed the side street to the Star Variety.
The door creaked with age as I pushed it open. The linoleum was cracked and faded. The goods on the shelves looked like they had been there a very long time. A Thai man sat behind glass with bottles of cheap wine and cigarettes. I approached. He must have taken my suit in and pegged me for an outsider right off the bat.
“Can I help you sir?” he asked puffing out his small chest.
“I need some information.”
“Like directions? I’m always happy to help. For a price.”
“Something like that.”
I pulled out my money clip and slipped a twenty into the space under the glass. The Thai made it disappear with surprising dexterity.
“The building next door,” I started, “Anything strange happen there lately?”
“The Pointe Towers?”
“I guess.”
“Lots of strange things
happen there. Prostitution, drugs, you name it.”
“What I’m thinking of happened last fall.”
“My memory is a little bit hazy,” he said. He spoke without a hint of an accent.
I slipped him another twenty.
“Now I remember. It was October, just before Halloween.”
“What happened?” I asked.
He scratched his right temple and said, “A bunch of cars showed up one day, right out of the blue. No one knew what to make of it.”
“What kind of cars?” I asked.
“Cadillacs. One day there was a big panel truck, and they spent the morning unloading a bunch of equipment.”
“What kind of equipment?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
The guy was a shark. I fed him another twenty.
“Film equipment.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes. I used to work in a place by Central Park. I watched film crews set up all the time.”
“How long were they here?”
“Three days.”
“Any idea what they were doing here?”
“No. I figured it was either porn or a low budget horror flick.”
“Did they come in here?’
“Sure. Bought beer, smokes, and sodas. They were all pretty well dressed. Not my usual clientele,” he smiled. One of his front teeth was black.
“Did you ever hear the name of the production company?” I asked.
“No, nothing like that. They didn’t really talk to me, you know?”
I nodded, thanked him and left. I slipped the guy watching my car another ten and got inside. Everything seemed to be in place. I lit a smoke and pulled away from the curb. I drove back to the Liar’s Breath.
I ordered a Philly cheese steak sandwich and sipped at the Scotch that Biscuit sat before me. After eating I added Cindy’s photos to the file folder in my safe and retook my stool. There were no answers here, only more questions. What had Rainbow filmed up in the Bronx, a really low budget flick or something else? Had Rainbow even been involved or was it all supposition? A third Scotch improved my mood but not my thought process. I decided I’d had enough for one day and put it out of my mind.