He found the bar, walked in and slid on to a high stool.
The female bartender approached him. She wore a short black leather toga which barely covered her large bosom and ample ass. 'Cocktail?' she said, eyeing him up and down. 'I can make you the Club Erotica special.'
He wasn't interested but asked anyway. 'What's that?'
'Vodka, rum and orange juice, with a touch of Cointreau.' She winked. 'Guaranteed to keep your engine turning over.'
'You got non-alcoholic beer?'
'I might be able to find one.'
Try hard,' he said, surveying the scene. Several women were gathered at the bar, all on the look-out for a suitable mate. A fat businessman accompanied by a chubby blonde sat at one of the small round tables clustered at the far end of the room, and two young men in shirt-sleeves and jeans hovered together over in a corner.
Oh, Rita, Rita, what brought you to a place like this?
Excitement. Rita was an excitement freak. Unfortunately he'd never been able to satisfy her cravings, although their sex together had always been hot - physically there'd never been a problem.
The black-leather-toga woman returned with his drink, placing it in front of him.
'I got a question,' Michael said.
She leaned her elbows on the bar, her large breasts tipping towards him at an alarming angle. 'Me, too.'
'You first,' he said, taking a gulp of his non-alcoholic brew.
What's a good-looking guy like you doing in a place like this?'
'My turn?'
'Shoot.'
'You know anyone called Heron Jones?'
'You're kidding? Right?'
'Not kidding.'
'Everyone knows Heron.'
'You want to enlighten me?'
She licked her lips eyeing him speculatively. 'You a cop?'
'Why would you ask that?'
'Cause you smell like a cop,' she said, smirking, as if she knew something he didn't. 'Now don't get me wrong,' she added, 'I got a yen for that cop smell.'
Ignoring her knowing look he kept going. 'So how come everybody knows Heron Jones?'
'Cause he's famous.'
'Not famous enough for me to have heard of him.'
She threw back her head and laughed. 'Heron Jones has the biggest dick in captivity. And he brings it here three nights a week and shows it off in the private room. Anybody wanting to use his... services... pays big. But, honey, you don't look like you'd be interested in guy's services.'
He pulled out a picture of Rita, not the Polaroid, but a head shot he'd taken on their honeymoon. 'You ever seen this woman in here?'
She took the picture and studied it for a while, 'Y'know, honey, I honestly don't remember them unless they're like Heron and have something special to offer. Take a look around this place... they come, they go, who cares?'
'So you don't recognize her?'
'Maybe she was here.'
'How long ago?'
'She your girlfriend?'
'Ex- wife.'
'Coupla months, I'm not sure.'
He showed her the Polaroid of the man. 'Is this Heron Jones?'
'Oooh, baby, you could get arrested for carrying this around.' She gazed at the Polaroid and began giggling. 'Yeah, that's Heron all right. The King of the monster cockadoodledoo! He sure inherited big?'
'Is he here tonight?'
'You can catch him in the private room. I promise you - it's a real sight.'
One of the women was edging along the bar towards him with a determined expression. She finally reached her destination. 'I'm choosing you.' she announced, placing a well-manicured hand firmly on his arm.
'Excuse me?' he said, backing away.
She was all over him. 'Tonight. You, me - a very... sexual experience.'
'I'm on probation,' he said, standing up.
She looked confused. What?'
'It's complicated. Pick somebody else.'
* * *
Quincy pulled up outside Club Erotica wondering what Michael had gotten him into now. Amber was not pleased. They'd just been sitting down to get cozy and listen to a little Luther Vandross on the stereo when Michael had called.
'Gotta go,' Quincy said, as soon as he'd hung up.
'Why?' Amber demanded, already looking mad.
'Cause Mike needs me.'
'Can't he do anything by himself?'
'C'mon, sweet thing,' Quincy said persuasively. 'Me an' Mike got a cotta history between us. His kid is missing. Be a little understanding, baby. Think about what you'd do if one of our kids was missing.'
Amber was a soft touch, she'd caved in without too much of a fight.
He'd kissed her, taken off, and now he was standing outside this sleazy clip joint.
The jerk at the door refused to let him in until he handed over thirty bucks cash. Thirty freaking bucks! Mike owed him big time.
Once inside he went straight to the bar. Michael wasn't there. He approached the amazon in black leather stationed behind the bar. 'Somebody leave a message for me?' he enquired.
'Blonde, brunette?'
'Male. Good-looking.'
'Oh,' she said. 'You a cop, too?'
How come they always remembered Michael? 'Where is he?'
'In the men's room.'
Thanks.'
Quincy entered the John just as Michael was zipping up. 'This is some dump you dragged me to,' he complained. 'What's the story?'
'I came across some pictures and a note. She'd written down this club and the name of a guy. Rita's around somewhere, I got a feeling.'
Shaking his head, Quincy said, 'You an' your feelings - it always leads to trouble.'
'I gotta find my kid, Q.'
'I know.'
'Rita's into something. I don't want Bella exposed to it.'
'So why are we here?'
'We're waiting for Heron Jones to finish.'
'Finish what?'
'Making out with a line of women. In case you hadn't guessed, this is a sex club.'
Quincy let out a long low whistle. 'Jeez!' he said. 'Just what I need to go home an' tell Amber. She'll go nutso.'
'Not if you keep it to yourself.'
'Amber an' me, we don't have secrets.'
'Maybe now's the time to start.'
Quincy wrinkled his nose. 'So who's this Heron Jones, a male hooker?'
'The club pays him to perform here. He services as many women as will pay the hundred bucks to see him.'
'What is he - Superman?'
'Kinda.'
'And the story is we gotta hang out until he finishes?'
'That's it.'
'Shit, Mike, nothin' with you is ever easy.'
By the time Heron Jones emerged through the back entrance it was past midnight. Michael and Quincy were waiting in the parking lot. They used the element of surprise, approaching him from either side.
'Let's talk,' Michael said.
Heron eyeballed them, trying to decide whether to make a run for it or not. No way. He was sure they were cops, the fuckers had the attitude. Squaring his shoulders he went for the innocent pitch. 'Listen, guys, whatever ya wanna stick me with, I didn't do it, OK? Every time there's a freakin' robbery in this neighbourhood you're on my case. I'm straight now, guys. I'm screwin' for a living - what more do you want?'
'Whyn't we take it over here,' Michael said, grabbing his arm and hustling him in the direction of a streetlight.
'Whaddaya want from me?' Heron grumbled, making an unsuccessful attempt to shake free. 'I ain't done shit, man. Y'can ask anyone.'
Michael thrust one of the Polaroids in front of his face. 'You know this woman?'
Heron took a quick glance. 'They all look the same in the dark.'
Take another look,' Michael said menacingly. 'You recognize her or not?'
'Dunno.'
'Do you?' Michael said, pinning his arm behind him in a vice-like grip.
'Yeah, I know her,' Heron said sulkily. 'So freakin' what?'
'Who is she?'<
br />
'Some bimbo used to come to the club.'
What happened to her?'
'Why?' Heron asked, his lips twisting in a sneer. 'Is the douche bag dead?'
Michael spun him around. 'You know something we don't?'
Heron threw up his hands. 'OK, OK. I don't know nothin' about her 'cept I got her a job in the movies.'
'What movies?'
'Mary Poppins, what d'ya think?'
'Are we talking porno here?' Quincy interjected, waving his arms in the air.
'I didn't force her to do nothin',' Heron said sullenly. 'This broad got off on performin'.'
Michael slammed him against the side of the brick wall. 'Where is she now?'
'Man, you're hurtin' me,' Heron complained.
'You listening, asshole? Where the fuck is she?
'Dunno,' Heron whined. 'Who gives a shit? I don't...'
Before he could finish Michael swung back and whacked him hard across the mouth.
'Aw, sweet Jesus,' Quincy groaned.
'You feel like answering me now?' Michael demanded.
Heron reached up, gingerly touching his face. 'She's livin' with a producer - only you didn't hear it from me.'
What's his name?'
'Some old guy calls himself Daly Forrest.'
'Where's he live?'
'Look him up in the phone book. All those producer dudes are listed. I think you broke my freakin' tooth.'
'When I find him, she'd better be there,' Michael said threateningly. 'Or we'll be back. And next time it'll be more than your tooth. Now get outta my sight.'
Heron ran off to his truck without a backward glance. He might be a big man in the bedroom but his balls didn't travel well.
'You're gonna get us in major trouble,' Quincy said wearily. 'You can't go around pretending we're cops. I got a private investigator business I gotta protect.'
'What's the matter, you think he'll file a complaint?'
'No, Mike. I'm just saying we gotta be careful.'
'All I'm interested in is finding my kid.'
'I know that.'
'OK, so I do what it takes. Let's go run a check with the DMV, find out who this Daly Forrest is and get his address.'
'Sure, Mike.'
'And after that we'll pay him a little visit.'
* * *
Daly Forrest lived in an expensive high-rise on Wilshire. The porter at the desk stopped them in the lobby and asked who they were visiting.
'Daly Forrest,' Michael said, flashing his badge.
The porter was duly impressed. 'Fourteenth floor. Apartment 1403.'
Thanks,' Michael said, adding as an afterthought, 'oh, and be sure you don't announce us.'
The porter nodded, only too happy to oblige.
'Somebody's gonna bust our sweet asses,' Quincy muttered as they marched through the marble foyer. 'I'm telling you, Mike, we can't keep getting away with this crap. Bury that fuckin' badge of yours, it ain't legal here.'
'It ain't legal in New York either, but so what?' Sometimes he got off on taking it to the edge, especially when he had a purpose.
They rode up in the elevator with a smartly dressed woman clutching a small Pekingese dog under one arm. She gave them an uptight rich-woman-being-gracious smile. Thin scarlet lips, white stretched skin and capped teeth. She got off on the tenth floor.
'How come women always smile at you?' Quincy asked, poking his gums with a toothpick.
'Anyone ever told you you ask dumb questions?'
'It's 'cause you're such a handsome sonofabitch,' Quincy mumbled enviously. 'Me - I got the personality. You got the looks. Lucky asshole.'
There were only two apartments on the fourteenth floor. Daly Forrest's had a red lacquered door and a shiny brass knocker.
'Seems he had an urge to smarten the place up,' Quincy remarked, rubbing the door with his thumb to see if the paint came off.
Michael pressed the buzzer, waited a few minutes then pushed again.
When Daly Forrest finally appeared he was not what either of them expected. He was an older distinguished-looking man, with a shock of white hair, a snow-white goatee beard and wire-rimmed steel spectacles. He wore a paisley silk robe with a tasselled sash and black velvet monogrammed slippers. He did not have the look of a man who produced porno films.
'Can I help you?' he said, speaking in a clipped English accent.
'Daly Forrest?' Michael asked politely.
'That's correct. I repeat, can I help you, gentlemen?'
'We're investigating a case.'
'Did something take place in the building?'
'That's right,' Michael said. 'We need witnesses.'
'I've been home all evening,' Daly replied. 'I doubt I can be a witness.'
'And your companion?' Michael asked, trying to see past him into the apartment.
'What companion?' Daly asked, standing firm at the door.
'Rita Polone.'
'Miss Polone is not here,' Daly said, stroking his goatee. 'Furthermore, she does not live here. What gave you the impression she did?'
'The case we're investigating,' Michael said, speaking slowly, 'involves Miss Polone.'
'In what way?' Daly enquired, not pleased with this intrusion on his privacy in the middle of the night.
'We need to talk to her,' Michael replied, getting an uncomfortable feeling about this man.
Daly stared them down, cold as an Arctic winter. 'I repeat -she's not here.' His hand was on the door, ready to close it.
'So, all we need is her address and we'll be on our way,' Quincy said, sensing this jerk was going to cause them trouble.
'Let me see your identification,' Daly said, suddenly getting nasty.
Michael didn't take a beat. 'Certainly,' he said, reaching into his jacket and flashing his badge.
Daly Forrest was no fool. 'That's a New York City Detective's badge,' he said sharply.
Still unfazed, Michael said, 'Yeah, we're working on an out-of-state case.'
Eyes steely behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, Daly said, 'I wish to check with your captain, kindly give me his number.'
Quincy was starting to get fidgety. 'Tell you what, whyn't we come back,' he said, cracking his knuckles - a nervous habit which drove Michael nuts.
Daly glared at them both. 'I suggest you don't,' he said, slamming the door in their faces.
'Goddamn it!' Michael said furiously.
'Let's get outta here,' Quincy suggested. 'Before he calls the real cops.'
'He knows where she is,' Michael muttered, almost to himself.
'Yeah, an' he ain't telling us.'
'He will.'
'Not tonight.'
'We'll see.'
'Mike,' Quincy pleaded. 'Tomorrow is another day.'
Michael turned on him angrily. 'No shit?'
* * *
Early in the morning Michael was back without Quincy, who was busy working on a blackmail case for a studio honcho. He parked across the street staking a prime spot for himself, enabling him to watch all the comings and goings from Daly Forrest's building.
He'd slept fitfully, knowing that today he was finally going to find out where Rita was. How he hated her for taking his kid and putting him through this. As soon as he found her he planned on consulting a lawyer to see if he could get full custody of Bella.
Yeah, and how was he going to pay for it? He had to rent an apartment, hire a part-time nanny, and God knew what else.
Major priority - get a steady job. Quincy had offered him a partnership in his PI business, and it wasn't such a bad idea. They were a good team, and Quincy had assured him that working for the studios was nice and easy - nothing life-threatening like their days in New York. He was considering it. After all, he had a year to make up his mind whether he wanted to go back to New York or stay in LA.
I need a drink.
The thought nagged at his subconscious, forcing him to pay attention. Almost immediately he felt a dryness in his throat and the urgent desire to down some
thing cold and alcoholic.
Christ! This was not good. He'd been sober almost four years and he didn't need to be thinking about breaking the pattern of sobriety. Although he did think about it. Once in a while. When things got tough and he knew there was an easy answer to dull the pain.
The good thing was that the programme had taught him to be smart enough to know it was the wrong answer and would eventually destroy him if he succumbed. It was about time he got himself to a meeting.
It hadn't been easy getting sober and there was no way he was going to blow it - however strong the temptation.
Lighting a cigarette he desperately tried to curb his subconscious, choosing to think only positive thoughts. Had to work the programme again, he hadn't attended a meeting in months. He needed validation.
Daly Forrest emerged at ten forty-five and got into a chauffeur-driven Lexus.
Michael followed the car as it left the driveway and sped along Wilshire going towards downtown.
Early in the morning he'd had a friend in the department in New York run a check on Mr Forrest. He'd found out that Daly was a sixty-three-year-old naturalized American who'd lived in LA for fifteen years. During that time he'd written and produced a slew of soft-core porn films, moving into the real thing three years ago. He wasn't doing anything illegal, but he was dangerously close. Two years earlier he'd been arrested in a dramatic case involving an imported snuff movie, but the prosecution were unable to prove he was sufficiently connected and he'd gotten off.
Daly had no wife, no family and he was rich. That's all Michael knew. It was enough to scare him. Rita was a wild card, a wealthy man like Daly Forrest could persuade her to do anything.
He followed the Lexus all the way to Hancock Park, slowing down while he watched it pull into the driveway of a large house on a quiet side-street. Daly emerged from his car, spoke to his driver for a few moments, then sent the car away. He entered the house with a key, slamming the door behind him.
Michael parked across the street and sat in his car for five minutes before getting out and approaching the house.
It was a beautiful morning, no smog and the birds were singing. The front porch of the house was alive with a breathtaking display of purple and orange bougainvillea. A skinny black cat slunk around the corner and vanished from sight.
Instead of approaching the front door Michael decided to follow the cat around to the rear, keeping an eye out for anyone watching him.
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