by David Hosp
“You can begin at the Kiss Club. Our friends in the department tell us that’s probably where this guy bagged his last girl.”
Tigh rubbed his neck. “This may slow down my collections,” he offered.
The old man frowned. “Fuck that, Tigh. If you weren’t carrying so many stiffs, that wouldn’t be an issue. You figure out how to get both done.”
Tigh got up and picked up his ledger. “Uncle Vinnie, it’s been a real pleasure, as always.”
The old man laughed again. “Boy, you got a fuckin’ mouth on you.” Tigh was nearly at the door when the old man called out to him. “Tigh!”
He turned around.
“When you find this little fuck, we don’t want him talkin’ to the cops—or to anyone else, for that matter. He can give his explanations to Saint Peter, you got it?”
“Sure, Vin. Any particular reason?”
The old man shook his head. “A psycho like this don’t deserve a lawyer, or a fair trial.”
Tigh studied the old man for a few seconds. “Is there anything else I should know about this, Vinnie?” he asked.
Vinnie shrugged. “I do what I’m told. Just like always, you know.”
Tigh nodded. “Yeah, I know, Vinnie. Just like always.”
Chapter Seventeen
OFFICER PAUL STONE SAT at a corner table in the Kiss Club. He was dressed in his best bar-hopping clothes for the evening: black pleated slacks with a tight knit polo shirt, open at the neck. He stirred the soda water on the table in front of him and smiled to himself. This sure beat the hell out of walking a beat in Southie in his uniform. Finding that body was a stroke of luck, he thought. When the call went out for a young officer unknown to the usual players in Boston’s nightlife to work undercover on the Little Jack case, Stone’s prior connection to the case gave him an advantage and won him the assignment. It was also possible, he thought, that Lieutenant Flaherty might have felt badly about the way she’d treated him during their first meeting. Whatever the reason, Stone was just happy to be off the beat and doing real investigative work. It was an enormous opportunity for him, and he appreciated it.
Never mind, of course, that he had no idea what he was looking for. The Caldwell girl—Number Seven, as most people knew her—had been in this bar on the night of her death, that much had been confirmed by the bartender during the investigation. He hadn’t been able to remember if she was with anyone, so it remained possible that Little Jack had met her here before he killed her. But so what? Even if Little Jack did meet her at this bar, Stone thought, what was the likelihood he’d return to find another victim? And even if he did, how was Stone supposed to differentiate between a serial killer leading a hooker to her death and a pervert leading a hooker to a hotel room?
That was what he’d been instructed to do, though: hang out at the Kiss Club every night to “see if anything turns up.” Personally, he thought his presence at the club was an indication of how desperate the investigation had become, but he hadn’t expressed that thought to the brass.
From his seat, Stone watched the patrons as closely as he could without attracting attention. The Kiss Club was a typically sleazy singles bar, with men and women sliding in and out of easy conversations in an endless game of musical chairs. Many of the men were still in suits or the contemporary equivalent “business casual” that dominated the modern workplace, clearly having come from work for a good time out. Judging from the amount of booze that was being tossed down, work might proceed at a slower pace the next morning, but that was to be expected. Other men fell into a different category—local wiseguys looking for a play, or conducting their own business.
The women were a similar mix. Some were regular young businesswomen out for a walk on the wild side, or looking for a story to share with their friends, or trying to prove to the men they worked with that they deserved membership in their boys’ club. Others clearly earned their livings working in places like the Kiss Club—high-class prostitutes looking for clients. Most of the working girls sat at the bar, and although they were dressed a bit more provocatively, they were difficult to distinguish from their amateur counterparts. The line between sleazy and chic had been blurred by fashion trends, as satin chokers and shorter skirts became more popular. It was no longer the clothes that identified the professionals; it was the eyes. Stone could spot them a mile away. They scanned the crowd like those of sharks swimming in a school of fish; cold and dark and calculating.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” The question came from Lou Salandro, seated at Stone’s table. He’d noticed Stone looking across the bar at two of the better-looking barflies. One had shoulder-length brown hair braided down the back and was wearing stiletto heels that could pierce skin. The other was a redhead, her hair cropped close to her alabaster face in a retro-eighties style. They were both sitting at the far side of the bar with a good view of their prospects.
“You know, I could probably get you a freebie, if you’re interested.”
Stone turned his head to look at Salandro, evaluating him carefully. He was a small-time player in the Anguillo crew, which was an offshoot of New England’s Patriarcha crime family and was fighting for greater control of the turf in downtown and Chinatown. It seemed like it couldn’t even be called “organized” crime anymore, though. Too many factions had split apart and turned on one another, and the FBI’s use of informants had succeeded in inflicting heavy damage on La Cosa Nostra. Salandro had been busted several years back by Kozlowski for selling heroin, and he’d become a fairly reliable informant for the Boston Police Department. He continued to work minor scams for the family, and was suspected of running girls and dealing marijuana, but he stayed away from anything the department considered “serious” crime. As a result, the police left him alone, and he provided Kozlowski with a stream of useful information. Kozlowski had set up a meeting between Stone and Salandro so that Stone wouldn’t look out of place.
There was nothing about Salandro that Stone liked. He had big, thick lips that bubbled out in front of a round, red face and were kept moist by a thick tongue, which he slipped out of his mouth constantly. His chin seemed to recede in an unbroken slope from his lips to the bottom of his neck, and then from there into a concave chest. The inward slope was only arrested by the swell of Salandro’s belly. Stone wondered how the Anguillo crew had survived this long with specimens like this running its errands.
He shook his head, indicating he would not need a “freebie” from the prostitutes at the bar.
“You sure?” Salandro kept up. “They do a tandem act you wouldn’t fuckin’ believe.” He slipped his tongue back and forth between his fingers in an obscene gesture. Stone just looked at him, revolted. Salandro let rip a belly laugh that left him doubled up, coughing.
“Suit yourself,” he said when he caught his breath. Then he whispered, “Just like Kozlowski—straight as an arrow, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess you could say that. But then, you could also shut the fuck up, if you knew what was good for you.”
Salandro held up his hands in surrender. “No need to be un-civil. I was just trying to be cooperative.”
Stone shook his head and returned his attention to the rest of the bar. Salandro was a worm. Stone had known people like him growing up in Southie, where walking a straight line was sometimes a challenge. But Stone’s parents had drilled a sense of duty and morality into him, and he had managed to weather the temptations of his youth. He was willing to use Salandro if it could aid the investigation, but he’d never have anything but contempt for him. That he was giving information to the cops and betraying his friends in the process only made him more of a worm in Stone’s eyes. In the end, with or without Salandro’s help, Stone found it difficult to believe they’d accomplish anything sitting at this place.
He looked around the bar again and sighed. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was better off walking a beat.
Finn couldn’t believe he’d found his way back to the Kiss Club. It had been at least
two years, and he’d only been to the hole-in-the-wall once before—with Natalie. It was during that exciting time when he and Natalie were together. The intensity of their relationship had taken him by surprise, but so much of it seemed focused around their work lives. She was full of questions about the firm and its politics, and it took several weeks before she realized Finn would never be in a position to help her in the long run. She ended it soon after that, and he’d been wounded for a time. He’d spent his entire life on his own, though, and he knew he’d survive.
She’d surprised him back then by bringing him to the Kiss Club, but then, she’d surprised him in many ways. He remembered that she wore the tight leather skirt with the matching jacket and lingerie that night—the outfit she was found in. He realized at that moment that she indulged her passions more than he’d suspected.
The memories had brought him back here. He didn’t know why. It felt like he was searching compulsively for something he couldn’t put his finger on. He scanned the crowd for her face, recognizing the futility, but unable to stop himself. He was on his fourth gin and tonic, and the bar was becoming gauzy in his eyes. More than once he thought he saw her. Perhaps, he thought, he’d never been completely honest with himself regarding his feelings for Natalie. He was beginning to realize that he’d harbored the hope, unarticulated even to himself, that they’d be together in the end. It was absurd, he knew, given who she was. She was too tough to survive in any type of true, long-term romantic relationship—as he was, for that matter. But he felt her loss sorely nonetheless.
He was glad when the woman sauntered over and asked him for a light. It felt like she’d thrown a rope down into the hole he was digging for himself and dragged him back to reality. It took him a moment to respond, but the sound of his own voice reinforced the notion that he was still among the living.
He realized quickly that she was working him. She leaned in toward his shoulder, letting her breasts linger against his arm, laughing coquettishly when he looked down in surprise. She laughed at his lame attempts at humor, and hinted he should buy her a drink so that they could both be more comfortable. It was all too predictable.
At first he was hurt when he realized she was a professional. Like all men, he’d wanted to believe she was bowled over by his looks, or his humor, or his mere presence. It was the ego that the best prostitutes played to, not the libido. The temporal limitations of sexual gratification were more often than not overshadowed by the lingering pleasure of feeling strong, and confident, and irresistible. That illusion was shattered for him when she asked what he did for a living.
“I’m a lawyer,” he replied.
“Ooh,” she cooed. “I just love lawyers. They’re so sexy.”
At that moment he knew she was playing him. In his eight years of being a lawyer, not a single woman had ever found anything sexy about the law.
Nonetheless, Finn was grateful for the company. He needed human contact, even if she’d be angry when she realized he wasn’t looking for sex. Besides that, he noticed she resembled Natalie. She had the same blonde hair, and there was something in her eyes that seemed familiar. In his inebriated state, it was enough. So, he bought her a drink, and then another and another, and let the drama between them play itself out.
It was one-thirty before anything happened. Stone hadn’t moved from his table in more than three hours, and his patience with Salandro was wearing thin. While Stone continued to sip at his soda water, Salandro switched from gin to vodka to tequila. It was clear that the man had a remarkable tolerance, but as the evening wore on, he began slurring his words, and his comments became increasingly annoying. By one o’clock, he was sufficiently lubricated to share his opinions on law enforcement in general and the state of the Boston Police Department in particular. It was not a good idea.
“You see, the problem with the entire system is that the cops need the criminals to justify the money that’s spent on law enforcement. The more crime you have in a city, the more the city will spend on cops. So, when you think about it, the cops have to make sure there’s someone out there breakin’ the law. It’s just a fact.”
Stone glared at him. Not only were his theories demeaning, but his tone and his diatribe risked blowing Stone’s cover. The bar had cleared out to a degree, and there was no one sitting within earshot of their table, but that didn’t excuse Salandro’s behavior. If it wouldn’t have caused a scene, Stone would have just beat the hell out of him right there. As it was, though, he had to sit there and take it.
“Just look at this ‘investigation’ you got here. One guy kills seven sluts and the city throws an endless stream of cash at the cops to catch him. Never mind that prostitution is illegal, so the guy is actually cutting down on the number of crimes that happen in Boston.” He lowered his voice and leaned in to Stone. “Shit, the PD has already spent a couple hundred bucks on my drinks alone tonight.” Salandro laughed at his own joke, slapping Stone on the shoulder. Stone shot daggers at him with his eyes.
“And in the end, it doesn’t count for shit. The police department ain’t gonna catch this guy; we’re gonna catch this guy.”
“What are you talking about, Salandro,” Stone hissed. “There is no ‘we.’ You and I are not a ‘we.’ ”
Salandro laughed again. “No, not you and me. I mean we. The organization.”
Stone looked at him, not comprehending.
“The organization,” Salandro said again. “You know, the family—or maybe those stupid Mick thugs in Southie. Those of us who actually live out here.” He leaned in again. “Those of us who, whether you like to admit it or not, really control this town.”
“Yeah?” Stone mocked. “And how is the family gonna catch this guy?”
“It’s already happening, my friend. The word went out last week. Fifty thousand cash to anyone who nails this sonofabitch—an extra ten if he’s brought in dead, so no fancy-ass lawyer can’t get him a walk. I’m telling you, with that kind of incentive, someone is definitely gonna find this guy.”
Stone looked skeptical. “Why would the mob want to get involved in police work?”
“I don’t know, but that’s the word. Hey man, look at it this way; who makes the money off the hookers? You start knocking them off, it’s bad for business. Besides, the way the organization sees it, this pervert has no morals. When we kill, there’s a reason that makes sense. It’s over money or power or turf, and it’s usually within the rules. This fucker just kills for the sake of killing; like it’s fun or something. That’s fucked up, and people around here don’t like it. So they figure they’ve got to do something about it.”
Stone couldn’t believe he was actually listening to this lecture on “morality” from a scumbag like Salandro. It made him feel sick to his stomach. He was about to tell Salandro to get the hell out of his face when he noticed a commotion at the bar.
It started innocuously enough. A young man in his mid-thirties was sitting at the bar, talking to one of the working girls. The man didn’t seem the type to rely on hookers to find companionship. He was good-looking and well dressed, with dark brown hair and a sharp, intelligent face. She was clearly working him hard, and had been for more than an hour. Stone had seen them earlier, but noticed nothing unusual, at least not for a couple in the Kiss Club. He certainly hadn’t seen anything that would have suggested the volatile exchange at the bar.
Everything was fine for an hour or two. Finn continued to buy the young lady champagne cocktails as she leaned in toward him. The drinks were a small price to pay for the temporary illusion of companionship, and he found himself feeling a little better.
Then she put her hand on his thigh, and began rubbing higher and higher, dragging her fingernails across the fabric of his pants, grinding into him with her palm. Her face was just a few inches from his and her perfume was overpowering. It made him more light-headed than the alcohol. She whispered in his ear, “Let’s get out of here and go to your place.” As she whispered, her hand slipped fully up the inside o
f his thigh underneath the bar, and Finn felt himself tighten with desire.
For a moment he actually considered it. What would be the harm? He was a grown man, and the thought of human contact, even in its basest form, was undeniably appealing. No one could begrudge him the momentary escape.
He wouldn’t do it, though. Even as he felt his desire swell, he knew with an unavoidable certainty that to accept her offer would demean his pain.
He smiled sadly as he gripped her hand under the bar and pulled it away.
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” he said.
“Why?” she asked. “Are you married?”
He shook his head and almost laughed. “No,” he began.
“Because I don’t care,” she interrupted. “I’m not going to tell anyone. It can just be our little secret.”
Even in his drunkenness Finn realized that half of the woman’s appeal was her resemblance to Natalie. He was tempted again, but he bolstered his resolve and stood firm.
“No, I’m sorry, I just can’t.” He knew he’d never be able to explain it to her satisfaction, so he didn’t even try.
“What the fuck do you mean, you can’t?” She said it loudly, making Finn uncomfortable. He suspected that was her goal. “You’ve been sitting here for an hour and a half, buying me drinks and sending me signals, and now you decide you can’t?” Her eyes scanned the bar, looking for another potential mark, but it was late, and the place had cleared out. She realized the evening was going to be a total loss and she was livid. She leaned in again and grabbed him between the legs.
“Do you know how much men pay me for an hour and a half of my time?” she said through clenched teeth.
“Sadly, probably less than they pay me,” Finn joked. It was the wrong thing to say, but he was just trying to lighten the mood. Not amused, she gave a firm squeeze between his legs, pulling Finn’s testicles away from his body, inflicting gut-wrenching pain in a quick, merciless strike.