Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 2 - Stellium in Scorpio

by Andrews

  "Hi," she began nervously. "Is this a bad time?"

  "Not at all," Callie said. "Have you met Elmo?" Rose knelt down and put her pretty manicured hands around Elmo's head, swooning over how beautiful he was. I noticed a man watching us from the hotel. He was a security type with headset and radio.

  "There are some other things I wanted to tell you that I didn't get to say in the sauna. I don't know what they mean," Rose said, and started to get up.

  I touched her shoulder, signaling her to stay on the ground with the dog. "Pretend you're just admiring Elmo, because there's a guy watching us, and I'd just as soon have him think this whole meeting is about your love of basset hounds."

  "Okay." She stroked the Milk-Bone shape on the top of his caramel-colored head. "Every night, money from the tables is put in a vault, and the vault has a slot for the money to go in, but no way to get the money out: no opening, no key, no combination, and no door. They call it the ghost's money."

  It was odd that we'd just heard this tale from Giovanni, and now we were hearing it in more detail from Rose, who seemed overly distressed about it. Rose said "money from the tables. " That’s certainly more than the innocent nightly dollar Gio described. When I asked her why anyone's putting money into a slot for a ghost who protects the hotel was a concern, she said because it was somehow tied in with what was going on with the male performers, something sexual that they talked about among themselves in a dark, joking way.

  "I think some of them double as prostitutes. Joanie told me she was seriously thinking of going to the police to try to put a stop to it. I guess it's gotten worse over the years. First boys, then really young boys. Sometimes they get hurt, depending on who the guy is they're meeting. They talk about that."

  "So you think the money from the prostitution ring goes into this vault?" I whispered.

  "I don't know. ..there's talk, you know, about how much could be in the vault. Guys saying things like, 'Hey, I humped for 400K of it!' Jokes like that."

  "Would Joanie talk to us about it?" Callie asked.

  "I'll ask her," Rose said and then paused. "A very good friend of mine could be put in danger by my talking to you. I might not be able to be in touch anymore."

  "What's your friend's name?" I asked, but Rose ducked her head and wouldn't answer.

  "Be careful. Everyone here plays many different parts. It's fun but it's dangerous. No one is who he appears to be...just like the Boy Review says. I have to go now," she said.

  "Well, Elmo likes you as much as you like him. He's a sucker for pretty women," I said loudly. "Stop by anytime and say hi, and we'll try to get over and see your show."

  "Great." She waved goodbye and proceeded into the hotel. We waited a moment and then took Elmo back up to the room. He'd had meatballs, a walk, and an evening with a pretty girl. What more could a guy ask?

  "Well, I guess now we know part of the dark secret—child prostitution," Callie said.

  I told Callie that while the discussion with Rose was interesting, Rose could be overreacting. After all, she was a young girl in a grownup world. Prostitution was a timeless game, and young showgirls or boys being exploited was a crime, but most likely not a crime anyone would investigate until the story was bigger.

  "Like someone dying?" Callie said, unhappy with my jaded opinion.

  "You could knock out a million prostitution rings, and in a week, like weeds, they'll be back, because there are always creeps who want to run them and naive kids who need a quick buck."

  Callie said nothing in reply and I knew she was thinking about Rose and how deeply involved she might be. I was wondering about the truth behind Rose's statement that everyone played many roles. The performers seemed to roll off the stage and out into the hotel like a thick human fog, morphing into staff and vendors and guests...no one knowing who anyone really was.

  "You're the only one I really know is you!" I said to Callie. "On second thought, you could be an alien!" Callie just smiled at me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Giovanni Gratini's estate was a massive stone and marble structure protruding off a promontory that looked like a large sand dune. The wide circular drive was dotted with valet parkers poised to assume the burden of parking cars fifty feet away from the mansion. The rough-finish stone walkway lit by centurion torches and the night air filled with celebratory chanting that echoed outside the home made me feel as if I were about to join crowds at the Colosseum for a large sporting event. The doorman, looking stiff and starched, held the door for us, and a woman stood by to inquire if we'd like our coats checked. Ten feet farther on, a servant offered us a drink; another ten feet and we were served hors d'oeuvres. Finally, at the end of the food gauntlet, Giovanni, in a purple velvet dinner jacket and black silk slacks, smiled at us as if we were the most important arrivals of the evening.

  "You made it, my lovely friends!" He kissed Callie's hand as I held her drink for her. He had positioned himself against a large sculpted fireplace with a mantel shaped like birds' wings and an oil painting of an Italian opera singer above it. He was obviously a man of drama. The room was sprinkled with young men from various theatrical venues, several we recognized from their pictures in the Boy Review. They stood in gay groups of twos and threes, interspersed with the occasional heterosexual couple, and made smart jokes and drank heavily.

  Off to Giovanni's right, around the massive marble pillars separating the drawing room from the dining hall, came a recognizable figure dressed in a tight-fitting, long-sleeved, low-backed black gown: Karla Black, her massive head of curls looking coiffed in an intentionally disheveled sort of way. She swept into the room, in far greater control of her faculties than when I'd last seen her, and she gave Giovanni a big kiss on the cheek. He ran his hand idly down her back and over her rump but I noticed his focus was divided, half of it going to Marlena, who was giving him the eye from across the room.

  Karla smiled appreciatively at Giovanni and then caught sight of Callie and me. "Hello, I was hoping you'd come," she said.

  "We were glad to be invited." I shook her hand.

  "You asked about the ghost of the ghoul pool, well, you can now say that you've met the ghost firsthand. We hold the party every year at the hotel. It's the most fun. People love it! Hard to get an invitation!" Karla said, in contrast to her earlier statement of knowing virtually nothing about the event. I chalked it up to her having been in a near-drugged state at our last meeting.

  "In fact, you just missed the last one.. .too bad," Karla lamented.

  "We have a friend, though, who made the list. Rose Ross," Callie said brightly as if Rose Ross had won a scholarship.

  "Oh, Rose." Karla elongated the name lovingly. "What a cutie. To be that young again."

  "I like my women just your age, and your height with your looks," Giovanni said gallantly, and squeezed her buttocks right in front of us.

  "Ghostly promises." Karla giggled. "Now you two go enjoy!" Karla moved on to other guests.

  One look around and it was easy to see that this was a hookers and mafia kind of party. The men looked tough and suspicious, the women were dolled up and used up, and the young boys were there for decoration and entertainment. Several of them had a Ouija board set up on a table in the corner, and they were asking questions, watching the planchette move across the board, then squealing over the answers and accusing one another of moving the planchette themselves.

  Callie joined them and asked if Joanie Burr was at the party.

  "Ask that queer over there." One of the young men pointed, and Callie and I strolled over to the handsome, metrosexual man they'd indicated, who was seated at a horseshoe-shaped bar in the middle of the room. He wore a dark pair of pants and a dark shirt and sunglasses despite the dark room. Unlike the very feminine drag queens in all their finery, he seemed to be gay publisher chic, or record industry executive chic. I could imagine him holding down a job in the entertainment industry, marching about with a clipboard, and snapping a pencil down on it in aggravation over
something late or wrong. I wondered what role he played in the Boy Review since he didn't seem to be as exotic as the other performers. He extended his hand as if we were there for a job interview. "I'm Elliot Traugh, rhymes with how, or as my roommate at Princeton once said, 'How now, Elliot Traugh, will you fuck the bull or kiss the cow?' I was having some gender confusion at the time," he said, his tone acerbic. "So you know Karla." Elliot Traugh laughed. "She changes boyfriends more often than I do underwear, but then this whole town's about who's doing who. So are you two with someone?"

  "Each other," I said.

  "That's refreshing." He flipped a cigarette ash onto the floor with disdain. "Most everyone comes here to hook up; you arrived already hooked."

  A female hand slid onto Callie's shoulder, and we all turned in unison to find Rose Ross in our midst. She was smiling radiantly. "I had no idea I'd see you here," she breathed and then swirled around our tight circle to kiss Elliot, who presented his cheek to her as one would a hand to the manicurist.

  "And they're an item," Elliot Traugh said. "Isn't that nice?"

  This was apparently new and startling news to Rose, who perhaps hadn't contemplated that a woman who was a friend of her father's could have a sex life, much less one with me. She stared at us with renewed interest. "Really? You're together-together? Wow." Rose introduced her friend Sophia. I recognized her immediately as the woman we'd spoken to when we went to the theater for the first time. She'd thanked us for being interested in helping her friend Rose.

  Rose could barely take her eyes off Sophia, who was easily ten years her senior. Sophia was taking in the room, aware of her surroundings, seemingly sensitive to what was safe and what could explode. Rose was only taking in Sophia.

  Suddenly, a large, rough man on the far side of the room yanked a woman to the ground by her hair and twisted her arm. She screamed, and he slapped her. As things were about to get decidedly rougher, a gay man stepped up and playfully cupped him in the balls, distracting him from the woman. There was muted conversation between the two, the attacker left for the bar, and the gay man shot the hooker a look that warned her to be more discreet.

  "Rough party," I remarked.

  "They're all on good behavior tonight because it's a mixed bag." Elliot Traugh spoke in a bored way, and his eyes scanned the room, seemingly in search of people more interesting than us. Callie asked Elliot if he'd seen Joanie Burr. Elliot, his focus waning, replied that it was too early. Joanie liked to arrive late and make a dramatic entrance.

  Callie and I had hoped to get Joanie alone and ask her about the very thing she wanted to report to the police, but the odds of that now appeared slim.

  Sophia slipped her small black lacquered makeup mirror out of a thin slit that was her side pocket and began running the lip liner around the edges of her full Italian lips as Rose watched, visibly aroused, if one could judge by the condition of her nipples inside her tight silk blouse.

  "Sophia must be the one who left us the newspaper article," Callie barely whispered.

  "Why do you say that?" I asked.

  "The way she looks at me, as if she's trying to ask if I got her message."

  "She could just be cruising you, in which case I'll be sending her a message," I said.

  "She's not cruising me," Callie said.

  Sophia glanced up at me, then trailed her fingers across Rose Ross's shoulder as she departed to talk to someone else, smiling as Rose involuntarily shuddered at her touch. You’re right. She's cruising Rose, I thought as I steered Callie out into the large ballroom past the massive dining hall. Rose trailed along behind us out of earshot, most likely trying to see where Sophia had landed.

  The ballroom was a sea of mottled terrazzo with gold inlay separating the five-foot squares. The windows on the south and east part of the room were tall and arched at the top, overlooking a beautifully landscaped garden that must have required enormous tending in the midst of the desert. A few other people had made their way into the room, admiring the architecture as much as anything. I asked Callie if I could freshen her drink. She nodded, and I moved back across the floor that made me feel as if I were gliding across ice in my search for a bartender. Rose went with me, saying if there was food I'd need more hands.

  As we walked, Rose leaned in to my ear, ducking her head just slightly to talk to me since she was taller than I.

  "So, how long have you been gay?"

  "Longer than you've been alive," I said, not being particularly interested in young people.

  "So how long have you and Callie been together?"

  "I just met Callie a couple of months ago."

  "Omigosh! So, you're just now...getting together?" She squealed like a teenage girl.

  "Getting together?" I asked, to torture her into having to say what she meant.

  "You know.. .you're just now..." she said, and I gave her a direct and blank stare. "Well.. .dating," she said with quick word replacement. "What's it like exactly?"

  I didn't reply but ordered Callie a Coke and got Rose's bourbon and Seven, an old oilman's drink, and I wondered if she'd picked up the habit from her father.

  "What's dating like?" I finally repeated, teasing her with my tone. She lowered her gaze in slight embarrassment, not at all the confident, arrogant young woman who'd easily accepted Callie's compliment in the greenroom.

  "Dating Callie is the sexiest thing on the planet."

  Rose let her breath out, collected herself, and then followed me back in the direction of the ballroom like a puppy.

  "So who are you dating?" I asked, giving the word her emphasis.

  "I don't know," she answered obliquely.

  "You don't know, which means you're dating someone, but you're confused about who he—or she—is? Does that mean you're dating a drag queen?"

  "No!" The look on Rose's face said she was truly shocked, and I laughed at her uneasiness, remembering what it was like to be in my early twenties and totally inept at answering the questions of women nearly twice my age. However, in fairness to me, Rose would have to learn not to start things she couldn't finish.

  "So, is it Sophia?" I turned and looked directly at her. She reddened.

  "No! Of course not," she nearly shouted at me.

  You've had each other so many times mentally that the rest is just detail, I thought but instead replied, "Too bad."

  It was while we were away that Callie saw the tall female dancer from the Boy Review whom she and I would discuss after the party. The dancer was wearing tight black leggings, black fur balls dangling from her Russian-style boots, her colorful shirt bloused at the sleeve and cut low on her chest. Her waxen hair, black as coal, was combed flat to her head, giving the impression that the head was all of one molded piece like a porcelain doll. She turned gracefully on one foot to leave the room, lost her balance, and fell—her head cracking against the terrazzo, blood spilling from her skull. Callie let out a small yelp and ran to her side. The other people in the room were seemingly oblivious to the poor woman's plight. Callie looked up at the older man standing nearby to ask for his help, then caught his placid expression and stopped herself. Instead she ran through the dining hall and found me. In an urgent whisper she said, "Teague, a woman has fallen on the terrazzo and her head is split open. She may be dead. Come and help me quickly!"

  "I'll get Giovanni," I said, but she held me by the arm.

  "No, I want you to come help her." Callie pulled me with her. We scurried through the dining room and back to the ballroom, where people were milling about laughing and drinking.

  "Where is she?" I asked.

  Callie's body sagged up against me as if to say it was exactly as she'd suspected. "She was right there." Callie pointed at a pristine area of the terrazzo floor. "Right there."

  "So she was moved?"

  "I don't know. I don't know," she said, shaking her head, and yet, I sensed that Callie Rivers did know. The pieces of whatever was happening were beginning to take shape in her mind—pieces that might frighten m
e if she spoke them out loud.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Callie said very little on the drive home. No amount of coaxing on my part was going to get it out of her. Whatever she thought she saw at the party either didn't happen or it happened in the same way it happened in the bathtub in our room. I decided just to give her some space. I opened the moonroof so we could see the bright stars against the dark desert sky, and I turned on the radio. It was a country song about somebody who thought they were picking up a hitchhiker, and he turned out to be the ghost of a famous country singer.

  "Everything's a sign," Callie said, and receded back into her own private world.

  What would living with Callie Rivers be like? I thought. Sometimes she 'd be present, and sometimes she 'd be out in the ether and I'd be with her, but alone. I reached over and took her hand, content to have something to hold on to until she came back.

  She was silent as I pulled up to the valet parking stand, and the plumed boy asked how our evening was. I refrained from saying, "It was just swell: hookers, hoods, and homicide." Instead I settled for the Midwestern version and muttered, "Fine, thanks."

  We rode up in the elevators in silence. After unlocking our bedroom door, I quietly hooked up Elmo and left the hotel room to walk him, leaving Callie to her thoughts. When we returned fifteen minutes later, she'd fallen into bed and was asleep before I'd even had a chance to brush my teeth. Apparently flying around outside her body took its toll. As I leaned over to kiss her good night, she murmured in a half sleep, "Don't leave the bed in the morning, I do want you."

  "I'm not the one who leaves," I reminded her, and she smiled.

  "Can you tell me more about what you saw?"

  "Just a woman in an exotic Russian costume. She slipped, she fell, she died, she disappeared."

  It was evident that she knew nothing more and didn't want to dwell on it.

  With the first rays of morning sunshine, I awoke to Callie's kissing my neck and unbuttoning my nightshirt. I moaned into awareness, loving that the first thing I was feeling as I awoke was her nude body pressed against mine.