The warehouse district is where the trolley car ends and the train station resides. It’s also the midway stop for the legendary City of New Orleans railroad. The ever-punctual train had become my alarm clock, helping me to keep track of my life. It tells me when it’s eleven P.M. and time to douse the lights, as it departs for Chicago. The morning whistle gets me up each day as it races toward New Orleans. I love the transient feel of the area. It’s a home for restless souls who long to be on the move, yet still need a place to lay their heads late at night.
My rented loft was home for now, but it would never beckon for me to permanently stay. High ceilings and tall windows not only gave it an open feeling, but provided fertile space in which a labyrinth of cobwebs gleefully played. Their gossamer network created an elaborate design on the plaster canopy, crawling in spiderlike fashion down along the windowpane. I liked to imagine the delicate filaments were lace curtains, in a nod to the tony dwellings a few blocks away.
The radiator hissed, not happy with the heat it was forced to provide, and the cold wooden floor creaked as it expanded. I walked to the kitchen and placed my glass in the sink. When I looked back up, the last vestige of light had been doused, its departure as silent as a life that’s been taken away. I shrugged off the shiver that goosebumped my skin, and headed into the bathroom to shower and change.
Terri was dressed and waiting when I came back out, and I was surprised to find that his long blond curls were gone, replaced by a sleekly chic new wig. I did a double take, astonished at the transformation.
Terri preened and turned, showing off his new do. “Farrah Fawcett’s staying home tonight. I’ve decided to up the charm factor and go more Sharon Stone. So, what do you think?”
“You look absolutely stunning,” I answered truthfully.
He was dressed in an elegant, tapered shirt and the finest of soft wool pants.
“You know, you might want to consider losing the Goldilocks look yourself,” Terri suggested, lightly pulling back my red hair.
“No way!” If I gave up my badge of youth, who knew what would go next? First my waist would thicken. Then my rear end would sag. I didn’t even want to imagine what else might start drooping!
“Okay.” Terri sighed. “But you don’t see Sharon Stone running around with that long mop anymore. And just think about how Farrah looks.”
“Yeah, but then there’s Cindy Crawford. She hasn’t cut her hair yet,” I countered.
Terri gave me a disdainful glance. “I have only one word for you, Rach. Younger.”
Neither my pride nor I answered as we headed for the door.
“You know perfectly well you look gorgeous, Rach. For God sakes, I’ve been doing your makeup myself! All I’m suggesting is that we lop a few inches off the bottom and do a little shaping. It’ll give that mop of yours more style. It’s not as if I’m trying to drag you down to Rio for some nips or tucks—though when it’s time, you can be sure that I’ll tell you!”
Wynona’s impenetrable jungle of hair popped into my mind. My fingers wandered up into my own primeval forest of curls, and got tangled in the undergrowth. Hmm, Terri just might be right.
“I’ll think about it,” I agreed, secretly appeased to know I didn’t yet need to be carted off to a plastic surgeon.
We walked down a flight to Vincent’s floor and rang the bell. Six feet, five inches of rock-solid muscle opened the door and bade us enter.
Terri flitted beguilingly by the man who could have passed as half human, half sequoia. I followed behind, hoping to pick up some pointers on how to ooze charisma and yet act natural, but my thoughts were abruptly interrupted as I was attacked from the rear.
Two thick arms wrapped themselves around my chest, pinning my arms to my sides. I instantly placed my left leg behind Vincent’s right leg. Then, dropping down, I wrapped my hands under his knee and quickly lifted his foot off the ground. The action caused Vincent to lose his balance and he fell to the floor with a crash. The room shook with the resounding thud.
“Very good. But you still should have been more prepared for the unexpected,” Vincent lectured from where he lay on his back.
A former wrestler, Vincent had taken me on as a tenant under one condition: if I was going to live in the isolated warehouse district, I’d have to allow him to teach me some wrestling moves. The fact that I was a wildlife agent had made him all the more adamant.
“What happens if you can’t get to your gun in time?” he’d demanded. “You gonna charm some thug into crying uncle while he lets you slip the cuffs on him?”
His point had been well-taken.
Vincent picked himself up and brushed a few specks of dust off his burgundy velour jumpsuit. “By the way, Ter, you look like a million bucks. Do I detect a hint of Sharon Stone?”
Terri nodded, and his near-perfect complexion blushed beneath its light cover of Chanel oil-free foundation.
“Nice touch,” Vincent’s ringside baritone approvingly rumbled.
Enough talk of fashion. The aroma wafting from the kitchen had my attention.
“Mmm. What smells so good?” My latest diet scheme was to skip one meal a day, but so far, its sole effect was to make me absolutely ravenous.
“I thought we’d start with a little antipasto while we wait for Gena to join us.” Vincent waved toward the platter of food that sat artistically arranged on his coffee table. “After that, we’ll have homemade ravioli stuffed with ricotta and spinach, along with a Caesar salad.”
Though Vincent’s demeanor was that of the most refined maître d’ at a five-star restaurant, his face belied the illusion. A long-ago broken nose had never been fixed, a scar ran along his jaw, and one eye drooped just the slightest bit. Vincent’s chestnut hair was pulled back in a ponytail, Steven Seagal fashion. All this sat atop two hundred and seventy-five pounds. If I’d first met the man in a dark alley at night, I’d have run in the opposite direction.
“I’m leaning toward having a nice Bordeaux with dinner. What would you say to a bottle of ’95 Clos de Marquis?” he asked.
“Sounds like heaven to me.” I considered it astounding good fortune to have wound up in his building. Apparently nobody else had wanted the place due to the preexisting tenants: an army of roaches as stubborn as ghostly “never surrender” Confederate soldiers. It wouldn’t have surprised me to discover their bodies arranged to spell “Yankee, Go Home” one day. It had taken all of Terri’s housekeeping skills to clear the place out, but I knew it was a temporary victory. The day Terri left, the infantry would be back in full force to reclaim their territory.
As for Vincent, he was a man of many talents—most of which lay in the adult entertainment field. He’d originally started out as a porno filmmaker, cashing in on such timeless classics as MacBabe, King Leer, Tits ’n Ass Dronicus, Much Ado About Dick, and The Merchant of Booty. Unfortunately, his odes to Shakespeare ended up spoiling him. After their success, he refused to produce or direct any other films unless he considered them of a literary or artistic nature. Needless to say, his star in the porno industry instantly plummeted.
He’d taken his profits and plowed them into his own topless bar, which he’d termed the Shakespearean pub of the eighties. However, even that undertaking eventually lost its allure—mainly due to the mob, which muscled its way into the money-making venture.
Vincent then searched for a venue where he could go it alone, yet express himself artistically. One look at his thick neck rising above beefy trapezius muscles, and the choice was a no-brainer. He successfully became a professional wrestler.
Soon he was no longer Vincent Margules, but Mad Dog Vin, AKA the Body Snatcher, wrestling for the WCW in Atlanta. His career lasted for a few years, until Vincent’s body began to feel as if it had been chewed up and spit out by a meat grinder. From there it was a natural progression to founding the Mad Dog Vin School for Professional Wrestling in his hometown of Memphis.
Vincent considered the institute the capstone of his career. It was here th
at he took young up-and-coming wannabes and molded them into the entertainment stars of the future. The regimen included grueling hours of wrestling moves and microphone skills, along with the latest in stylish costume selection and—Vincent’s own specialty—how to pick a crowd-pleasing persona. He’d tapped into a virtual gold mine. The wait list just to be evaluated for admittance already ran well over a year.
I’d once told him I didn’t understand the allure of watching two sweaty guys pummel each other into the ground. Rather than being insulted, Vincent had taken the time to explain the finer points that he felt I was missing.
“This isn’t just about a couple of bozos beating each other up. What you’re witnessing is an entirely new American art form, known as sports entertainment. On its most basic level, you’ve got athletics, rock music, and soap opera plots all rolled into one neat package. But of course, what actually is taking place goes much deeper. I like to compare it to what the mythologist Joseph Campbell once wrote,” Vincent said thoughtfully. “Humans inevitably re-create ancient myths with each generation. Well, that’s exactly what wrestling does these days. The characters interact while working out a variety of primordial urges involving jealousy, rivalry, feuds, and rebellion. We solve all our differences in the ring without guns or knives, or even the whisper of murder. Personally, I like to think of what we do as a therapeutic form of public service.”
It was just possible that Vincent was on to something. I’d gone to visit his school once, and bumped into a student dressed as an executioner. Under his arm was a mannequin’s severed leg. I’d been crazy enough to ask what he was doing. He proceeded to explain that he was modeling himself after his favorite pro wrestler—one who carried around a head.
“But don’t you think that’s a little gruesome?” I’d inquired.
“Not if you view it in psychoanalytic terms. Actually, my wrestling idol, Al Snow, says that what I’m expressing is healthy. I’m projecting a nonverbal cry for help. Isn’t that cool?” he said, grinning from ear to ear.
I’d asked no more questions, but let the make-believe serial killer keep on walking past.
“Here are more munchies for you to nosh on. I know you’re probably hungry.”
Vincent added a platter of scrumptious fried calamari to the table.
Hmm. The word nosh hadn’t been in Vincent’s vocabulary before Terri’s arrival.
“Which reminds me, Rachel—you’re looking a little pale these days. I don’t think you’re getting enough vitamins, the way you eat. Here’s a list of supplements I want you to take. You can look it over while Terri helps me in the kitchen,” Vincent added.
Terri threw me a kiss and wriggled behind the ponytailed behemoth. Talk about being slow on the uptake! I now realized what Terri’s infatuation with Memphis was all about. Evidently he and Vincent were whipping up more than a soufflé every day while I was at work. Much as I hated to admit it, I was envious of their relationship. On the other hand, maybe Terri could teach me how to go about meeting a straight version of Vincent.
Perhaps my line of work was restricting my social life. After all, my days were spent hanging out with the likes of Hickok, along with a cast of characters who viewed the world through the scope of a rifle.
A rhythmic knock at the door broke into my thoughts, and I got up to answer it. I was presented with Miss Gena Withers’s sinuous arrival. One arm casually snaked its way up the wall, further lengthening her already knockout figure. She pushed off like a luxury liner about to set sail, and slithered into the room to give me a peck on the cheek.
“Hello there, darlin’. Long time, no see,” she purred in throaty greeting.
I didn’t bother reminding Gena that we’d had dinner together only last night. Instead, I observed her slinky entrance in a tight lime-green dress with fingernails perfectly painted to match. A head full of long cornrows swayed with each sensuous roll of her hips. At twenty-eight years old, she was one of the most gorgeous women I’d ever met. Gena worked her way to the sofa, where she lowered herself onto the seat with the slightest hint of a provocative moan. Then she flashed me a smile as bright as a traffic light.
“So, what do you think?”
“Very Eartha Kitt.” I nodded approvingly.
“Great! That’s just the effect I was going for.” The next moment, her eyes lit upon Vincent’s tempting array of appetizers. “Wow, look at all this terrific stuff!” Gena proceeded to dig in as if she’d never heard the word calorie.
God, how I hate people who have a fast metabolism. I was also beginning to think twice about hanging out with women under thirty.
Gena was the tenant on the top floor, right above me. She’d been working as a bookkeeper for one of the largest junkyards in the South when I’d moved in. That changed after she accidentally opened a drawer she wasn’t supposed to, and discovered that the owner kept two very different sets of books—one which recorded the junkyard’s true profits, and one for the IRS. Gena quickly decided that a career change was in order if she didn’t want to wake up one morning and find herself in jail. Vincent came to the rescue by pulling strings with one of his former porn stars, who’d started a small overnight shipping company called World Express after losing the battle with cellulite.
Memphis is the busiest cargo hub in the world, with fifty thousand imports and ninety thousand exports passing through its portals each day. Not only did Gena’s new job with World Express give her security, but there was also never any question about having to work evenings. An important factor, since that was when she indulged in her life’s greatest passion.
Gena loved to sing the blues more than anything else. God must have known it, as well. She’d been endowed with the kind of deep, throaty voice that sensuously wrapped itself around each note and didn’t let go until the music was throbbing. As if that weren’t enough, it also drove every man in the room crazy with lust. Anyone with her looks and talent was destined for great success. She was building a devoted following at a local club where she sang a few nights each week. The place was off the beaten tourist track and patronized by true music aficionados. Owned by her cousin Boobie, the Blue Mojo was a down-and-dirty dive. But the joint was beginning to be packed weeknights, as well as on the weekends. It wouldn’t be long before she left for bigger pastures.
Terri came out of the kitchen with a Caesar salad in hand. “Now that’s the way I want to look in my next life!” he said, gesturing toward Gena. “Like a young Vanessa Williams.”
“Well then, you better be sure you get yourself a black mama,” she saucily retorted. “And while you’re at it, put in an order for a good dose of soul.”
“That and a set of free weights would help. Gena’s been sticking to the workout plan I set up for her,” Vincent pointedly added as he walked into the room. “She’s also taking the same supplements I recommended for you, Rachel.”
“Ooh, yeah. A few bottles of vitamins, along with some liposuction and plastic surgery, and I’m sure we’ll be able to pass ourselves off as twins,” I retorted.
But I secretly vowed to get the supplements and start taking them right away.
Vincent announced that it was time for dinner, and we took our places at a table so beautifully decorated it would have made Martha Stewart weep. As I was feasting on homemade ravioli, I suddenly realized the wealth of information that was probably sitting right there with me.
“Vincent, how much do you know about caviar?” I inquired.
“Only that it’s a gift from the gods. Each tiny gem is a perfect pearl of nature. Every bite, black velvet on the tongue. Its morsels erupt in a taste sensation incomparable to anything else in this world,” he rhapsodized. “What else could you possibly need to know?”
There was no doubt about it; I’d found my caviar connoisseur connection.
“What are you, crazy or something? I’d never stick those disgusting little things in my mouth.” Gena shivered.
“Maybe that’s because you haven’t tried the right kind of roe
,” Terri responded, ever the peacemaker.
“Oh, bullshit! You can call it whatever you want, and it won’t make any difference,” Gena insisted. “It’s still nothing more than revolting, unfertilized fish eggs.”
Vincent uncorked another bottle of Bordeaux and refilled everyone’s glasses. “That’s fine. Either you like it or you don’t, and Gena has a right to her opinion. But if you’re going to indulge, the important thing is to know exactly who you’re buying from.”
“Why is that?” I questioned, eager for a thumbnail education.
“Because otherwise you can get stuck paying big bucks for what you think are primo eggs, such as beluga. Unless you’re a connoisseur, it’s all too easy for someone to pass off inferior quality caviar.”
“So do you think there’s a lot of consumer fraud going on?” I probed.
“Undoubtedly.” Vincent swirled his wine, sniffed, and sipped. “But there are other reasons for making sure you eat only the very best roe.”
Gena grabbed that and ran with it. “Probably because the stuff can make you sick as hell. Maybe even give you mad fish disease, right?”
“Not at all. This isn’t bad hamburger meat we’re talking about. The fact is, there are those who claim that good caviar has special powers,” Vincent said tantalizingly.
Okay. Now I really was interested. “Such as?”
“Well, it’s said to work as a laxative, as well as to prevent hangovers. But what it’s most famous for is being the one food which truly is an aphrodisiac.”
“I’m all for that!” Terri piped up.
I noticed Vincent’s hand slide over and give Terri’s leg a squeeze.
“Where do you guys get these fractured fairy tales?” Gena demanded. “That and oysters! Have you ever noticed that it’s only slimy things sliding down your throat that are supposed to get you all hot and bothered? Personally, I don’t need any help when it comes to turning a man on, thank you very much.” She toasted us with her glass. “We had a box of those things break open at work the other day, and the room smelled like a scummy fish tank for hours. They were all over the damn floor, and believe you me, our janitor wasn’t any too happy about having to clean them up. The stuff is repulsive!”
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