The response to that was that someone pumped a Led Zeppelin track over the speakers at a volume that nearly shook my teeth out. I screamed for the unseen sadist to turn it off, which eventually he did, though not until I had been reduced to doing an impersonation of lemon-flavored Jell-O.
A voice over the speakers warned, “There’s more of that shit where that comes from. Just give me an excuse.”
I lay down on the mattress and attempted to think while simultaneously trying to ignore the bar fight that was going on in my head. Not an easy trick, but I managed the big questions. Which side was Darla on? Was she really with some law enforcement agency, or was she just one of Garofolo’s peons? The known facts fit both hypotheses—that’s a big word to wrestle with when you’ve been serially abused with blunt instruments. She was employed at the Alibi, but was she working undercover or just under the gun? Had she been deliberately assigned as my waitress when I visited the Alibi, or was it just chance that I was seated at one of her tables? In retrospect, chance didn’t seem a likely explanation, which tipped the scales in favor of the whole thing being stage-managed by Garofolo’s people, but then that didn’t cancel out the possibility of Darla being undercover. The whole point of her being undercover would be to win Joey’s trust. It was the same story with Yul the bouncer. He could be undercover or a made man. There was no way of knowing. For that matter, there was no reason that Yul and Darla had to be on the same team. If Darla was undercover, she wasn’t going to spread the news. The bottom line was that I had better hope she was working for the good guys, otherwise I was likely to end up as a cheap substitute for ground round in some poor schmuck’s pasta Bolognese in a tourist trap on Sullivan Street.
Then there was the question of how Darla and company had known we were at the motel. Had there been some other vehicle and more hoods involved? Had they followed us? In which case, why had no one intervened when Sandy and I gave Vin and Frankie a blow-dry? And if there was another car around, and it had trailed us to the motel, why did it take so long for Darla and Co. to step in? Had they driven out from the city? That seemed a more likely bet.
And what had they done with Sandy? Was she somewhere nearby? I desperately wanted to see her, and even more desperately wanted to talk to her. She had a lot of explaining to do, but so did I. How did I feel about gender reassignment? Was it the reason why Sandy seemed almost too perfect to be true—because she was somebody’s masterpiece, crafted with scalpels and estrogen? These were heavy subjects to wrestle with in the circumstances in which I found myself. Better just to remember Sandy stretched out on the motel bed, her face, her breasts, her genitals so inviting. Who cared how they got that way?
I was finally roused from these quandaries by the sound of Darla’s voice over the speakers.
“You still breathing, Novalis?”
I pulled myself up to the level of the plate-glass window and looked out. Darla was seated in the control booth, speaking into the producer’s microphone.
“Where’s Sandy?” I demanded.
“Can’t tell you—but she’s okay. Nobody touched her.”
“Because if someone hurt her . . .”
“You can take my word. She’s being handled with kid gloves. We even had a doctor look her over to make sure she’s okay.”
“You mean she was checked out to see if anything had been damaged in transit.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Novalis.”
From the way she said that, I concluded it was probably true. I didn’t have any idea what to make of Darla. She could have been putting on a big show for the sake of Garofolo’s boys.
“Are you the good guys or the bad guys?” I asked, knowing it was a dumb question to ask under the circumstances.
“I take a somewhat existential position on that,” she said. “In the absence of God, it’s up to the individual to decide for himself what’s good and what’s evil, so I have to toss that back into your court, Novalis.”
Bitch!
“How did you find us?” I asked.
“Oh, everything’s up to date in River City. All it takes is a little transmitter in the glove compartment that switches on when someone turns the key in the ignition.”
I wanted to believe that that was the reply of a government agent with access to some technical geek—like that Q dude in the Bond movies. Then again, there was nothing to stop Garofolo’s boys from popping down to one of the electronics surplus stores on Reade Street and laying out a couple hundred bucks for a useful gadget of that sort.
Darla wanted to know how my head was doing. I thanked her for asking and informed her it had enjoyed better days.
“You’re going to need it later,” she said. “Check out the drawer under the mike. There should be some codeine in there, maybe some happy pills, or some of that cool stuff you stick up your ass. I’d like to stay around and watch, but . . .”
“What’s your hurry?”
“You’re the one with time on your hands. All I can suggest is to take it easy—we’ll be back, but it won’t be for a while. If you want pizza or something, press the red button and ask for Anthony, but don’t try anything smart with him. He’s got a PhD in nasty from Sing Sing. If you need to take a crap, ask for a bucket.”
I took a couple of grayish-colored morphine tablets, which hit me harder than I anticipated. The pain subsided somewhat, but I was immobilized on the mattress, semiconscious, slipping in and out of half-buzzed dreams in which I was being held captive by crazed hillbillies, or surprised in the shower by my ex-mother-in-law. There was a wall clock in the isolation booth, but it had been disabled and my watch had been taken away, so I had no idea of the time. I wasn’t really hungry, but I thought about calling for that pizza just for the sake of having something happen. Before I found the strength to do that, however, a male voice came over the speaker.
“Okay, shitface. Dis is Anthony. You got a visitor. I’m gonna open that door in a coupla seconds an’ you’re gonna behave real nice, otherwise I’m gonna take you to the fuckin’ chop shop an’ give you a haircut.”
The door was duly opened to reveal a heavy-duty greaser in a white T-shirt and black jeans—the kind of guy you would trust with your transmission but not your sister. He was about as wide as a flatbed truck, with hair slicked back in a dodo’s ass hairdo, impenetrable dark glasses, and fists the size of cantaloupes. One of them was bunched around another of those big Magnums, which in that hunk of ham looked like the toy cap pistol I toted in my Roy Rogers Junior phase. Behind him was a little Chinese guy in shirtsleeves with a tape measure slung around his neck and carrying some kind of a tool kit in a leather case.
“Dis here’s Charlie Wong,” said Anthony. “Charlie’s gonna measure you.”
“For what?” I asked.
A coffin, maybe? Or a heavy metal overcoat?
“I train in Hong Kong,” Charlie said, “under best British bespoke tailors. I make suits better than Savile Row. Whatever you want, sir—lounge suit, tropical wear, tweed jacket for shooting party.”
The last thing I was planning on was a shooting party.
“If you would be good enough to rise,” Charlie suggested.
He had a nice smile.
“I’m not sure I can,” I told him.
Anthony released me from the shackles, then obligingly yanked me to my feet. I tried to stay upright while Charlie sized me up, then went to work with his tape measure, measuring my chest, my shoulders, and the rest. When he got to the inner thigh he asked, “On which side do you dress, please?”
“He’s talkin’ about your balls,” said Anthony, smirking. “I could slice ’em off for you, Charlie—make for a better fuckin’ fit.”
Charlie liked that joke better than I did. I asked several times what this was all about, but Charlie wasn’t talking and the best I could get out of Anthony was, “It’s gonna be a fuckin’ su
rprise. Don’tcha like surprises?”
Then I was alone in the isolation booth again. After a while, a kid in a Joe Namath sweatshirt and an older hoodlum with his nose split down the middle by a purple scar brought pizza and a giant bottle of Tab. I asked if they couldn’t at least have managed some beer, and to my surprise the kid left and returned with a six-pack of Schlitz. It tasted better than Schlitz. After I’d downed a couple of cans, I laid down on the mattress, thought about Sandy, and eventually fell asleep. I was jolted awake by Anthony, who was back with Charlie the tailor. I had no idea how long I had slept—could have been hours, could have been days—but Charlie had had time to make up something resembling a tuxedo. It was not the finished item, but a black jacket with shawl lapels, hand-stitched, and marked up with chalk lines and with one sleeve missing. I put it on, as instructed, and he marked it up some more.
“A few adjustments,” he said, “it will fit like a glove.”
“Ever try going to a dinner party in a glove?” I asked.
He didn’t get it, and I wished I hadn’t bothered.
Charlie carefully took the jacket off my back and bowed slightly. Then he and Anthony left, though not before the latter looked me over once more as if he was still toying with the idea of relieving me of my testicles. I asked him if I could get a newspaper to read, figuring at least I’d find out what day it was.
“No fuckin’ chance.”
I ate some cold pizza and drank another beer, and was about to take another nap when the kid in the Joe Namath sweatshirt and the bruiser with the split nose returned. They were carrying handcuffs, rope, and what looked like the kind of black hood you put over someone’s head when you’re planning to string him up or stand him against a wall to give the local firing squad some target practice. I tried to tell myself that no one was going to have me measured for a tux if they were planning to whack me. Then again, maybe someone wanted me to look good when they left me outside the Frank Campbell Funeral Home in the back of a dumpster.
“Sorry about this,” said the bruiser, whose name was Dante, and who had a muted, almost inaudible voice, perhaps as a consequence of another scar I hadn’t noticed at first—one that ran diagonally across his throat.
“Some fucking British band booked the studio,” he continued. “Bunch of clowns who pour lighter fluid on their guitars and set ’em on fire. I had to save for six months to buy my first guitar. Took me another three months to learn the chords for ‘The Dodger Song.’ Remember the Almanac Singers? You’re probably too young. Anyway, I got too much respect for guitars to burn ’em. Takes a long time to make a good guitar.”
Dante and the kid tied me up, gagged me with a rag and duct tape, and placed the hood over my head, holding it in place with what felt like a noose.
“Comfy?” asked a familiar voice over the speakers.
Darla. I tried to tell her something you’re not supposed to say to a lady but, thanks to the gag and the hood, it came out like an endorsement for Juicy Fruit gum.
“Save your breath,” she said. “We’ve got to move you, so try to be nice. I’ll be in touch later.”
As she signed off, something that smelled like a cocktail blended from rubbing alcohol, nail polish remover, and rotten fruit was sprayed onto the black hood. My knees turned to curds and whey and I landed on my tuffet. I was aware of being picked up and carried like a sack of potatoes. There were voices that sounded like they were coming from the bottom of a well, then I heard a door open and the noise of a busy street. I was placed in a vehicle of some kind, which seemed to be equipped with pothole-seeking radar. I slipped into a familiar dream in which I was fruitlessly chasing the Looney Tunes Road Runner through a desert landscape littered with old tires and pretty girls sunbathing alongside abandoned swimming pools. In this edition of the dream, all of the girls were the products of gender reassignment, but none looked the worse for it.
TWENTY
When I came to, I found myself in the cellar of an old building with thick stone walls. The hood was gone and I was no longer tied or manacled, but the only door—which had a spy hatch in it, like the door of a prison cell—was a solid-looking job with heavy iron bars reinforcing the battens. It was bolted on the outside, and it took me about three seconds to figure out that it would require the offensive line of the Green Bay Packers, equipped with a battering ram, to separate it from its hinges. Where one wall met the ceiling there was a narrow ventilation shaft that allowed in street noises, but only a midget escapologist could have thought of it as offering any hope of freedom.
The cellar was large, but there wasn’t much room to move around because it was cluttered with crates, cartons, stacks of old newspapers and magazines, and piles of furniture. The latter included a variety of items, from office chairs to what appeared to be church pews. I suspected I might be in for another long wait, so I pulled out a broken-down recliner and made myself as comfortable as possible. I hadn’t been there for more than a few minutes, though, when the hatch on the door opened and Anthony’s ugly mug appeared. I was almost glad to see it.
“Charlie’s here to fit you,” he said, “so no fuckin’ around—okay?”
The door was unlocked and the pair of them entered, Charlie bringing my tux on a hanger, as well as shopping bags from Bloomingdale’s and Saks. The tux fit perfectly and the shopping bags contained a choice of dress shirts and bow ties, plus a selection of patent-leather shoes.
“How did you know my size?” I inquired.
“Took your fuckin’ sneakers off when you wuz snoozin’ ” said Anthony. “Put ’em back nice, an’ fuckin’ tied ’em myself, just like I was your fuckin’ mother.”
I picked a plain shirt and an old-fashioned bow tie so I wouldn’t look like Liberace. There was no mirror but I could tell I came off pretty cool, even if I didn’t feel that way. Whoever was throwing this shindig, I got the sense they’d want to make sure I didn’t overstay my welcome. This might be the last outfit I ever got to wear, but at least it would be better than making my exit in the thrift-store waiter’s suit I used to crawl into when I played weddings and bar mitzvahs with Danny and the Dingalings.
When Charlie was finished they took the stuff away, but Anthony said someone would be back for me soon.
“Don’t go anywhere without me,” he said as he locked the door.
Maybe half an hour later, the hatch opened again. This time it was Darla.
“Showtime,” she said. “We’re going to take you upstairs and clean you up.”
The door opened and I saw that the Yul Brynner stand-in was along for enforcement duty, looking pretty sharp himself in a one-button purple tux and a ruffled shirt, like the front man for some Puerto Rican salsa outfit. Better still, Darla was wearing a pastel-colored crepe number that looked like something Doris Day might have worn on a blind date with Rock Hudson. I followed them up a flight of stairs and into a familiar barn-sized space with Gothic windows covered with shades, though I could tell it was dark outside. Somewhere nearby there were voices, but no one was in sight.
“Know where you are?” Darla asked.
I told her I did.
“Ever take a shower here?”
“I can’t say I have. I might have peed here once or twice.”
“You can do that too,” she said. “I’ll hold it for you if you like.”
She led me to a lavishly appointed bathroom and told Yul Junior to stand guard outside.
“I’m going in to watch Lover Boy take his shower,” she told him. “I want to see if he comes as nicely equipped as you, sweetheart.”
Yul grinned.
“I guess you love your work,” I said as the door closed.
“Cut the crap and take off your clothes,” she whispered. “Let’s get that shower running so we can talk.”
That got me motivated. I pulled off my clothes as Darla turned on the faucet.
“Okay,” I sa
id, feeling very naked but not very sexy, “so who are you?”
“Treasury Department,” she said. “This started as a money-laundering operation, but it’s turning into something very different.”
“Like what?”
“I wish I knew. Whatever it is, it’s got everybody running scared and it involves Sandy Smollett.”
“Garofolo and Sandy?”
“Garofolo’s in the mix somewhere.”
“Where is Sandy?”
“I don’t know for sure. Somewhere in the building probably, but I’m not sure.”
“Okay—this is Yari Mendelssohn’s studio. Where does he fit into the picture?”
“I’m not sure about that either. He’s a pal of Garofolo’s—I know that much—but there’s more to it than that, and Sandy’s the key. Garofolo treats her like she’s made of porcelain when she’s around, but behind her back he talks about her like she’s a total colonic. I overheard him say he wished she’d take a dive off the Brooklyn Bridge. He was talking to Shirley Squilacci, the dyke who looks after the girls. He told her, ‘The cunt is refusing to go through with the deal.’ ”
“Meaning Sandy?”
“Meaning Sandy. Shirley told him, ‘No sweat—we’ll make her see things our way.’ ”
“When was this?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“How come you never called in the cops?”
“And tell them what? You think I’m going to blow my cover because I have a vague bad feeling that something nasty might happen to some broad who has nothing to do with my investigation? Let’s not waste time—we don’t have long. All you need to know is that Joey trusts me—I worked very hard for that—and that’s why I’m here.”
“You must have some idea about what’s going down. Why are you dressed like Doris Day’s stunt double? Why have they fitted me for a tuxedo?”
“I don’t have a clue. I was given cash and told to buy myself something nice, suitable for an occasion. A hat too. All I know is that there’s a bunch of people in a room at the other end of the building. Joey’s there, and that politico type Jack Debereaux—who came to the club once, after hours—plus maybe a couple more people. I’m not sure how many. I didn’t see the others, just heard voices.”
The Girl From Nowhere Page 16