The Alex Shanahan Series

by Lynne Heitman

“He’s right about this,” Irene said, with palpable unease. “You should come with us.”

  Angel addressed herself to Tristan, as though Irene wasn’t even there. “Why don’t you back off and let her make up her own mind?”

  “I hate the sound of my name coming from your mouth, Angela, dear, because there is no way of knowing just what has been in your mouth.”

  “That’s funny, coming from a sky fag like you.”

  “Better a sky fag than a sky whore.”

  Angel took her excoriation in stride, but I found myself looking around, hoping no one from my building wandered by. Tristan turned me to face him and put a hand on each shoulder. “Alexandra, I’m trying to help you.”

  “I know.” I could feel his will pressing in on me. Irene’s, too, both trying to get me to walk away. I didn’t look at Angel, but I could feel her eyes on me and I had no doubt that this was the tipping point. Regardless of whether or not I had passed the test in Chicago, I had one more thing to do. I had to declare my allegiance in front of my friends. My real friends.

  I looked at Tristan. “‘They may be hookers, but they’re our hookers.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Did you say that, Trissy?” I had never heard anyone else use Irene’s nickname for Tristan. Angel wielded it like a scalpel.

  I made myself look directly into Tristan’s eyes. I wanted to signal somehow that I didn’t mean it, that this wasn’t me.

  “If I get in trouble,” I said, “I hope you will defend me.”

  But it was too late. A subtle shift in the currents had tilted the sidewalk from starboard to port, and I had let go of the railing and rolled across the deck.

  Angel wasted no time moving in to claim her prize. “Let’s go, doll.” She looped her arm through mine. “We’ve got some serious celebrating to do tonight, and you’re the guest of honor.”

  “Let’s go, T.” Irene was in full arbitration mode. “Alex, we’ll go out another time. Just call one of us when you’re feeling better. We’ll be … well, you know where we are.”

  They were still on the curb staring when I settled into the limo with Angel and several of her crew. I took one last look at Tristan from behind the smoked glass. I could see him, but he couldn’t see me.

  As it ever was.

  I woke up the next morning sitting on my couch, fully clothed, blinking into bright sunshine. The blinds were all open. My window was wide open, and Jamie’s disembodied voice floated in from the kitchen, where the machine was recording his message. It must have been the phone that had finally pierced my thick skull and brought me back to life, such as it was. From the angle of the sun, I knew it was late. I knew something else, too. If I didn’t finish this case fast, I would need a stint in rehab.

  I dragged myself out to the kitchen for some much-craved liquid refreshment, grabbed a carton of orange juice, and punched up Jamie’s message. The machine announced the time and date stamp for the call. That it was eleven-forty was alarming enough, but Jamie’s message was what made me really feel the pain.

  I had promised him another run this morning. I’d completely blown him off, and he was worried. I’d have to call him back when I was coherent and make up an excuse. Maybe I would tell him that I overslept. That wasn’t a lie.

  After threatening to fall down all night, the leather pants were ridiculously hard to peel off. They had molded to my body which is apparently what happens when you leave them on too long. The red sweater was going right to Goodwill the second I had a free moment. It had made me sneeze all through dinner. After having promised me a party of my own, Angel had spent little time with me, leaving me to fend for myself with the exotic Sylvie. At twenty years old, she was the one I wished the most had never showed up on our radar screen. Last night, she had been the only one in the group with any time for me. She had wanted to know who had done my eyes, because I looked so good for my age. I considered that a compliment. I considered it sad and depressing that she was thinking of getting hers done.

  I shuffled to the shower, wondering if the whole thing had been a clever ruse on Angel’s part to weaken my defenses for our first real meeting this afternoon. If it had been, it worked. I was a wreck.

  The second I got my hair soaped, the phone rang. I stepped out and padded into my bedroom, leaving a trail of soapy water across the hardwood. There were few people for whom I would interrupt a hot shower. Felix was one.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Shanahan?”

  “Hey, Felix. What’s going on?”

  “I got into Arthur Margolies’s computer last night. Ohmygosh. Wait until you see this. I pulled it up, and I was, like, holy cow! You are not going to believe what I found.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The way Harvey flushed was like no one I’d ever seen.​ The crimson started at points below each ear, then worked its way like twin flames up the sides of his face and joined at the bridge of his nose. He was in full bloom thirty seconds into Monica’s video. The fact that his monitor was old and the picture wasn’t as sharp as mine might have prevented a stroke.

  What we were looking at was a man’s penis. Actually, it was a man in naked repose on a bed of garish, fringed pillows, but all I saw was his penis, because it was the biggest one I’d ever seen. Granted, my sample universe was not vast, but this thing was a redwood. It towered majestically above his pubic briar patch, just one more of the mighty muscles this man had on casual display.

  Harvey reached for his mouse and froze the image. “What are you showing me?”

  I reached past him and restarted it. “That’s Arthur Margolies, one of the hookers’ clients, and you need to see this.”

  “I cannot imagine why.”

  Into the frame crawled Monica, also naked, with breasts so large and heavy I was concerned about rug burn as she moved across the floor on all fours toward her prey. I hadn’t remembered them being that large—each bulbous mass was roughly the size of her head—but I had been concerned with other things at our last meeting.

  “Is that Monica?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And this man is Arthur Margolies?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Felix confirmed it. He trolled around in the guy’s computer and found photos of him, mostly with his kids.”

  “Your friend Felix? You showed this to him?”

  “He sent it to me. I asked him to check out Margolies’s computer, so he hacked in. The guy apparently tried to erase everything connected with Monica, e-mails included. Felix only found this because it was buried in some obscure download file. Margolies probably doesn’t even know he has it.”

  With her head poised at the man’s pelvis, Monica waited a teasing moment before moving in. The participants joined as promised—her lipstick around his redwood, his fingers in her hair—and commenced the dance. It was a slow, slippery rhythm at first, which built within seconds to a theatrical crescendo of bucking and flopping and twisting and grinding all accompanied by a sound track of amazingly loud closed-mouth moaning (hers) and wild, spasmodic grunting (his). I had already seen it a couple of times… well, maybe more than a couple… so I didn’t find it that titillating anymore. But Harvey’s blood pressure seemed to be rising as he watched the display.

  “Is there,” he wanted to know, “a point to this?”

  “It’s coming up.” When the image was right, I froze the pair in sticky postfellatio glow. “There.” I pointed to a tiny row of type at the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. “See this?”

  He leaned in. “Barely.”

  “It’s a series of numbers and letters that Felix thinks is some kind of filing tag or catalogue code. That’s what it looks like.”

  “Implying there are more videos like this?”

  “Of other men. It could be. The code has part of this man’s last name in it.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’m not sure. One thought is that this extortion gig is a cottage indust
ry for Monica, and she does this to lots of clients. I really, really want to talk to her.”

  “Why?”

  “If it’s true, she’s putting Angel’s whole empire at risk. It’s great leverage for us. Monica has been in this game for a while. I think there is a lot we can learn from her.”

  He blinked at the screen.

  “I mean, in terms of Angel’s operation. Felix is trying to track back and get into Monica’s computer to see what he can learn. We might find a whole catalogue of these videos.”

  “Have you had any luck finding her?”

  “No. She doesn’t answer any phones. OrangeAir claims they don’t know where she is. She’s on leave is all they’ll say. Tristan could probably find her using his union connections, but we don’t seem to be speaking to each other at the moment. I’m still working on this one.”

  “And Angel?”

  “I’m headed that way now. We’re supposed to meet at four o’clock.”

  He inspected my outfit—T-shirt, sweatpants, and running shoes. “Where are you meeting?”

  “Apparently I’ve wandered into some kind of endurance test. Party all night and work all day. We’re meeting at the LA Sports Club. She wants to work out.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I had never been in the LA Sports Club, the trendy workout facility that was part of the new Ritz-Carlton development. When I stepped off the elevator, I was confused. The club’s reception area, with its muted colors, marble floors, and hushed ambience, was like the lobby of an expensive hotel. I thought maybe I’d come in at the wrong entrance. But then I looked beyond the front desk and saw the glassed-in weight room in the background. Same as any other weight room—except for the plush midnight-blue carpet.

  I went to the desk to check in, then through to the locker room. Judging solely on the basis of locker rooms Angel frequented, I would have to say she led a pretty upscale life. I stowed my gear and went out. Angel was nowhere to be found, and I had plenty of nervous energy to burn, so I started without her. I was finishing my last reps on the leg lift when I felt two strong hands land on my shoulders and commence a brisk massage.

  “Darlin’, you have got some good tone going on there. I’m impressed. You’re nice and hard. But so tense.” Angel had arrived.

  I shrugged out of her grasp and climbed off the machine. She handed me the towel that I’d hung on one of the spars. “What’s got you so tied up in knots? Do I make you nervous?”

  “Tied up in knots is my normal state of being.” I used the towel to dry my face, found my bottle of water, and took a long swig.

  She laughed. “If that’s true, doll, then you need to get yourself laid. Again.”

  Angel was decked out in black tights and a hot-pink top that guaranteed maximum cleavage and made her look like a World Wrestling babe. She took my seat at the leg lift.

  “Add ten more pounds for me, would you?”

  I added the weight, and she started lifting, setting a rapid pace. I hated doing leg lifts, but she had a sturdy set of quads that rippled under her tights as she worked them. When she was finished, she asked for another ten pounds, which I added.

  “Tell me,” she asked, “exactly how this little arrangement between us would work. Did you bring me some more names? I liked that last batch you gave me.”

  “Three sessions to start. You get one-third every time you pay me. I get a check, and you get a disk.”

  “Paid how much?”

  “Three thousand dollars a day.”

  The chest press had been in use my first time through. I saw that it was free, moved to it, and set my weight at the usual level. I was halfway through my first set of reps when she pulled up next to me.

  “I don’t know too many gals,” she said, “worth that kind of money. I am, of course, but you seem a little … inexperienced.”

  “That’s chump change to you, Angel. You make that much in a few hours’ work, and we’re both experienced, just at different things.”

  I finished my first set, and she motioned me off, stopping first to add more weight. She did an elaborate chest press with lots of squeezing that caused her cleavage to expand and contract accordingly.

  “What if I don’t like your terms?”

  “You can call up McKinsey and Company, and I’ll go out to LA. Start-ups are generally less risk-averse and more aggressive than going concerns.”

  She finished her set, and I rotated in. I knew I should reduce the weight, but I went with what she had lifted, which was a mistake that I appreciated the second I started. I struggled mightily to get through three reps. I had to rest after the fifth. When she smiled broadly at me, I thought it was because I had failed to match her little strength test.

  “What?”

  “Start-ups? Risk-averse? I’m starting to get you now, doll. You’re scared. You don’t think you can do it.”

  “Do what?” I started on the sixth press, but my arms shook badly. She moved in and spotted me, pushing on the machine’s arms to help me complete the motion.

  “All this high-and-mighty bullshit about not wanting to turn tricks, you think men wouldn’t be attracted to you.”

  I let go of the press. The weight dropped, the arms snapped back, and she barely got her hands out of the way in time. Oops.

  “That’s what all this steely professionalism is about.” She walked around in front of me as if to take in the whole view. “It’s all over you. It’s in how you dress, how you do your hair.” She could have been referring to my dowdy running shorts and raggedy Bruce Springsteen T-shirt from a concert ten years ago. “The way you move. You don’t know how to use your body. You have no idea what it’s like to walk into a room and have every man in the place want to throw you down and have his way with you.”

  “Sounds romantic.”

  “Sex is never about romance, darlin’. Don’t you know that? It’s about power. It’s about one person getting over on another.” She shooed me off the seat and added yet another ten pounds. This time, when she pressed, it was all about showing off her strength and not her cleavage. She had to work it. The effort raised the muscles in her neck and throat and distorted her face into an angry grimace. “Make them your victim before they do it to you.” She dropped the weights, finishing the last press with a loud clang, a fitting exclamation point.

  I stood to the side and watched her catch her breath. “I’m not looking to make any victims,” I said. “I’m looking to make some money and stay out of trouble.”

  “Well, they do say this is a victimless crime, so maybe we can do some business.”

  “Good.”

  “All you have to do is tell me about the last man you fucked.”

  “What?”

  She gave me a breathy smile and a wink. “If you want me to show you mine, you have to show me yours. Come on, sugar, a few litte details just so I know we can be friends. If you can’t do that, or maybe you don’t want to, we’re done talking. Besides, I want to know that you can get your nose out of the air long enough to put it someplace useful.”

  She moved off the press and over to a corner where the large exercise balls were stored on a rack. She took one down, sat on it, lay back, and started doing situps with her hands behind her neck.

  “The last man I was with was the trick in Chicago. Is that what you want to know about?”

  “Oh, God, no. Tricks don’t count. The last man you cared about.”

  So, this was how it was to be. She liked making people strip with their clothes on, which was not that surprising when I thought about it. She was an exhibitionist herself. She wouldn’t trust anyone who wasn’t. I could make up a story, but I had the sense her bullshit detector was pretty sensitive. Or I could take something that really did happen and spin it into something she might like. I went over and took down a ball for myself.

  “The last man I was with held a powerful position in the company where I worked.”

  “At Majestic? Ooooh. This sounds good. Tell me everything, because
you know you want to. Give me all the sweaty details. Was he worth it? Was he good? Did he have a big dick?”

  “It ended badly, at least for me. I lost my job.”

  “Was the sex good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did he like to do it?”

  “Why do you need to know this stuff?”

  “I like to hear you say it, because I know you don’t want to. Why did you do it? What was it about this man?”

  “He liked to take what he wanted, and he lived his life as if there were nothing he couldn’t have. He could be a real bad boy, which could be very appealing. He was smart and sexy and charming. And I liked his power.”

  “There it is. That’s what did it for you right there.”

  “Maybe. Until he used it to threaten and humiliate me. Eventually, he fired me. When I told him I’d sue him for sexual harassment, he told me he would have his lawyers turn me into a public joke. I knew he could do it. I knew him well enough to know he would. I backed down. I lost my career and everything I had invested in that company.”

  “You made a mistake.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I mean, in how you came at him.” She rolled her ball closer, until our knees almost touched. “You can’t threaten a man like that with a lawsuit. It wouldn’t scare him.”

  “There wasn’t much that scared him.”

  “Everybody has something to hide, and everybody has something to lose. You have to find what it is, those deep, dark desires that a man—or a woman—has no choice but to give in to. For some men, it’s young girls. For others, it’s boys. Some get off on getting beaten or dressing in women’s lingerie. When you know those things, that’s when you truly have control. You find what it is that can hurt them, and then you squeeze until you get what you want.” She curled her fingers into a fist to demonstrate. I looked at her face, and I knew there was nothing in this world she would not wrap those fingers around and squeeze to get what she wanted.

  “I’m guessing you’re not a big fan of romantic love.”

  She laughed. “Love is for losers, darlin’. It’s nothing but another form of payment, when it comes down to it.”