by Johnny Shaw
“Our success rate is impeccable,” Kate said.
“Because everyone is dead, I bet. Unnecessary killing.” Andy shook his head. “It’s not about what he knows. It’s what he doesn’t know he knows.”
Andy walked past Kate and headed down the stairs. In the basement, the Chief looked comfortable in his restraints. He watched Andy curiously. The Chief looked like Kate had tuned him up good, but that didn’t stop him from smiling through bloody teeth.
“I prefer to be hit by women,” the Chief said. “It’s a proclivity. There’s an intimacy to a woman punishing me that I find arousing.”
“I did not need to know that,” Andy said.
“I don’t believe I know you.”
“I’m a prisoner slash consultant. Call me Andy.”
“Not the most intimidating name. The name of a ventriloquist’s dummy.”
“Did you hear about Hector Costales?” Andy asked, looking for somewhere to sit but settling on leaning against the wall.
“Bit of a massacre is what I heard.”
“Do you know Norman Hopewell?”
“Knew, not know. Hopewell is dead. Prison fire. What does one got to do with the other?”
“But you knew him?”
“Our paths crossed. Similar lines of work. Parallel interests. A good customer.”
“Tell me what you know about him. Whatever comes to mind.”
Andy heard footsteps behind him—Kate descending the staircase. Arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the doorjamb, she looked unimpressed.
“I’m guessing he’s not as dead as everyone says.” The Chief stared at the ceiling. “He could’ve took out Costales. Military, brutal, organized. Left the kid alive, right? Yeah, he might be the guy. If he was alive.”
“What is Hopewell like?”
“Norman sees himself as a leader of men, prefers to give orders not take them. Loves talking military history, but I don’t think he understands most of it. One of those dangerous muttonheads that thinks he’s smart. Considers himself a legendary pussyhound, but all his stories were about hookers from around the world. Doesn’t seem like it counts as a triumph if all you had to do was pay. Charm, not money, should get you in a broad’s pants. Ain’t that right, Kate?”
“It’s why you turn me on so much,” Kate said.
The Chief gave her a wink as best he could through his swollen eye.
“Shut up. Both of you,” Andy said. He turned to Kate. “How long were these men in prison?”
Using the store phone, Kate called Rocco and told him to meet her and Andy at Madame LaFleur’s brothel.
Agnes would stay and make restitution with the Chief. He was still a powerful man within the community. Penance was due for the loss of his men. They would negotiate the cost. The apologetic healing power of cash, a long-standing Church tradition.
Andy waited by the front door, thumbing through a stack of Jack Chick tracts.
Resting on the ground and looking only slightly healthier, Steve, the man in the brick camo, said, “Hey, buddy.”
Andy nodded. “How you feeling?”
“I’m centered in mind and body,” he said. “But it’ll be a time before I go down the canned soup aisle again.”
Kate hung up and joined Andy at the front door.
Steve reached into his shirt and held out a thin paperback book to Andy. He took it and looked at the cover. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police 12-Week Exercise Program.
“Changed my life,” Steve said. “Next time, you’ll be able to make it onto the roof. Be able to do a chin-up.”
Andy looked at Kate. She shook her head.
“Thanks, pal,” Andy said. “I thought that was between you and me.”
“You’re going to have to suck in your gut until then,” Kate said, patting his belly. “That is, if you want to impress the girls at the whorehouse.”
CHAPTER 26
Let me get this straight. It’s legal to do for free. But if I get paid for the same thing, it’s a crime? The action isn’t illegal. It’s the transaction that’s against the law? That’s not only ridiculous, it’s downright un-American.
—From Geraldine Fossett’s court statement defending herself against a felony charge of pandering. She was convicted but served no time. One year later, she married the judge (1985).
Rocco had arrived before them, waiting in front of a nondescript brownstone in the quiet neighborhood. He leaned against the fender of a car, smoking a cigarette and feeding some pigeons torn-off crusts of bread.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Andy said as he and Kate approached.
“A person doing something is less conspicuous,” Rocco said, handing the cigarette to Kate and dumping the rest of the bread crumbs. “What took so long?”
“Streets are closed. More people out,” Kate said, taking a drag of the cigarette. “Less in this neighborhood, but in the areas where people don’t own washer/dryers, it’s getting worse.”
The smell of smoke had begun to fill the city. Faint, but enough to put a tickle in the back of Andy’s throat.
“You ain’t going to believe it.” Rocco pointed at a Ford Ranchero across the street. Tricked out. Bright red with flames painted on the side.
“I am going to kill that son of a bitch,” Kate said.
“What? Who?” Andy said.
Ben Jigo was surprised to see his coworkers. That’s what happened when you were handcuffed to a bed with two naked prostitutes doing things to you with a candle and its wax, and said coworkers kick in the door to find you in that compromising position. He didn’t appear that put out, although his carnal interest visibly waned.
Andy and Kate followed Rocco into the room. They took in the tableau. Andy had never been to New Orleans, but the red velvet walls and satin sheet made him think of the baroque. The nude women made him think of nude women.
“Hey, guys,” Ben said, grinning. “I was working, but I got a little tied up.”
Nobody laughed.
“Ladies,” Rocco said, “your services are no longer needed. Madame LaFleur is aware of the matter.”
“They haven’t been paid, so if you could toss them a few bucks,” Ben said. “I’m a lot of things, but a cheapskate isn’t one of them. They worked their butts off.”
“Not quite off,” Kate said, admiring their young bodies.
Rocco looked around the room, found Ben’s pants on the ground, and dug through the pockets for his wallet. He pulled out all the money and handed it to the girls.
“Are you crazy? I’m not that generous. That was like a grand,” Ben said.
“Just the tip,” Rocco said with a wink. “Thank you, ladies.”
The two naked women took their time picking up their clothes. Andy realized that it had been a while since he’d been with a woman. He’d been so focused on his investigation that his libido had shut down beyond necessity. The last time he’d masturbated, he’d fantasized about a previous time that he’d masturbated.
One of the girls touched Andy’s shoulder and winked as she passed through the doorway. Unflappable. That was professionalism. True salesmanship. He felt a stirring, a slight motion down there.
“Shut the door, son,” Rocco said.
Nothing like a father’s voice to ruin the mood. Andy closed the door, getting a last look at their bare behinds.
“This is a low for you, Jigo,” Rocco said. “We got a genuine goddamn crisis. City’s burning. People fighting. Thorntons running roughshod. One dead leader. Killers with targets on the loose. Hell, you got a bullseye on you. And we find you here. Like this.”
“You going to uncuff me, Rocky?” Ben asked. “The keys are on the nightstand. Unless Kate wants to explore her curiosity. There’s still some wax, and this nipple was severely neglected.”
Kate sat on the corner of the bed. “Pretty cocky for someone in handcuffs. Although cocky would be an overstatement considering the tackle you’re sporting.”
“They blast the air-conditioning in
here,” Ben said, then turned to Rocco. “Look, I get it. The thing is, I don’t care about all that stuff. About Floodgate or 893 or any of it. I wanted to be a ska guitarist. My uncle made me part of this group, but nothing says I got to be good at it. Or even try. All this shit is happening. Riots, that’s crazy. I figured, hole up somewhere safe. From there, I decided to just hole up. You see what I did? Hole?”
“Yes, we got the subtlety of your quip,” Kate said.
“I’m not good at any of this stuff. On the street or at a desk, it bores me stupid. Can’t excel at something you hate.”
Rocco shook his head, picked up the key, and undid the handcuffs. Ben sat up, putting a pillow over his crotch.
“Don’t tell Pilar, okay?” Ben said. “She’ll kill me. Seriously, she’ll fake-arm-crush my larynx. You know she will.”
“Get dressed,” Kate said. “We’re going to have a long talk about how the rest of this day is going to go.”
Ben opened his mouth to say something, but he saw something in Kate’s demeanor. He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Madame LaFleur looked and sounded the part of a whorehouse madam—pillowy cleavage squeezing out of a tight black corset, and a light French accent. She walked Andy and Rocco through the front room and past three tired, scantily clad women and one wide-eyed sailor in a crackerjack uniform.
“We can talk in my office,” the madam said.
Her office shattered the facade. Andy expected Bourbon Street but got Conglomerated Amalgam Industries. All business. An industrial-strength steel desk that would have looked appropriate in a construction site trailer acted as the room’s centerpiece. Filing cabinets, stacks of papers, a bulletin board with notes. Fax machine and a home computer. There was a “Hang in There” poster with a kitten hanging from a tree, for Christ’s sake.
Rocco and Andy took a seat as Madame LaFleur parked herself behind her desk. She took off her beehive wig and rested it on a mannequin head.
“Thing weighs forty pounds, I swear,” she said, squeezing the back of her neck.
“How’s tricks, Sheila?” Rocco said.
“Same joke every time, Rocky,” she said. “You know how it is. Between the twenty houses, I got upward of four hundred on staff. Always a fire to put out. A boiler out in one place—then we’re out of lube in another. Price of doing business. Priorities met, though. I keep their pensions stable, their medical insurance up-to-date, and the daycare people happy. It’s a logistical nightmare. But as much as I complain, I can’t complain.”
“Paperwork. No matter what you do, there’s always paperwork,” Andy said, more to himself.
“Who is this?” she said.
“Andrea Destra,” Rocco said. “He’s working with us.”
“Andy. Nobody calls me Andrea.”
“You two related?” she asked. “He could be your grandson.”
“How old do you think I am?” Rocco said.
“How old is dirt?” She laughed. “You wouldn’t be the first grandfather bringing his grandson to a whorehouse to make him a man. It’s a tradition in some families.”
“Families have weird traditions.”
“You don’t even know the half of it. Some of them are downright immoral.” The woman stood and held out her hand. “I’m Sheila McCormick. Madame LaFleur is for the customers.”
Andy stood and shook her hand. A firm handshake. “Nice to meet you, Madame—Sheila.”
“You look familiar,” she said. “Did you used to have a regular Thursday appointment at Panda Massage on Exposition? With Kiki?”
Andy shook his head, sweat forming on his brow. “Nope. Not me. I have one of those faces.”
“We need information about some clients you may have had,” Rocco cut in. “Maybe came to one of your shops. More likely a call out, house call.”
“You know my policy about confidentiality,” she said, bristling a little.
“You exploit women,” Andy said, “but you draw the line at giving up a john?”
Rocco put his face in his hand.
Sheila gave Andy a hard stare. “While I can see why you would assume my girls are exploited—there’s a history in this profession—I assure you they are not. There is no coercion. No one forced to do anything they don’t want to. I can’t control what brought them here, but all—all of them—are in a better circumstance. When laws are stupid, I find no reason to obey them. The girls are well compensated, protected, and beyond normal problems, happy. It’s just sex. Leave your Sunday morning morality in your other pants.”
Andy nodded and looked at his shoes, not knowing what to say.
“All of this is new to Andrea.”
“Andy,” Andy said instinctively.
“He used to be a cop,” Rocco said. “They put ideas in his head.”
“Some of our best customers.”
“We need to know about these clients,” Rocco said, “but don’t worry. We’re not going to make the information public. We aren’t going to blackmail anyone. Or hurt them. They’re already dead.”
Sheila McCormick hung up the phone, made some notes on the pad in front of her, and flipped through her Rolodex. Rocco set down the book he’d picked up, The Winner’s Guide to Time Management. Andy had spent his time thinking, although he couldn’t remember what he’d been thinking about. He essentially stared into space the whole time. His brain had probably been so confused that it just needed to shut down for a bit.
“That’s all of them,” Sheila said. “There’s a couple independent outfits, but they don’t keep records, and there’s a chance in hell they’ll talk to me. Got one that fits what you’re describing from Hands On Exotic. They have delivery service. A new regular. Nice neighborhood. Always asked for four women—one of them black or Asian. Every three or four days. Nothing too weird. Five guys, then four. I talked to one of the girls, she said it may have been a hideout, but it could have been roommates who were slobs. Take-out containers and pizza boxes, the window shades always down. They were polite and paid. One of them was Hawaiian or Samoan, if that means anything.”
“That’s them,” Rocco said. “The address?”
“You didn’t get this information from me. You weren’t here.” She tore off the piece of paper from her notepad and slid it across the table. Rocco took a look at it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. We were just there,” Rocco said. “It’s in the same damn neighborhood as those two guards. Is everyone in the Hollow in on this whole scheme?”
Outside the brothel, Andy huddled with Rocco, Kate, and Ben.
“Are we on the same page?” Kate said, directed at Ben.
He nodded. “No guarantees I’ll be any help, but I’ll try. I get it, I guess.”
“Ben and I will head back to the factory, get all the gear and weapons we need,” Rocco said. “You and Andy coordinate with Agnes and Pilar. We’ll need a few of her girls.”
Everyone looked at each other. Nothing else to say. Rocco and Ben walked away in opposite directions to their cars.
Kate gave Andy a light punch on the arm. “How you holding up, sport?”
“When the ocean rages around you and you don’t even have a set of arm floaties, you don’t have to think. You just have to swim.”
“When I picture you in water, I picture you in arm floaties,” she said.
“Manly arm floaties,” he said. “Sexy, manly arm floaties.”
“Very sex—”
But the explosion interrupted Kate. The explosion that knocked both Andy and Kate back into the brick building. The explosion that sent a burst of flame and charred metal in their direction. The explosion that blew out their eardrums and singed their eyebrows. The explosion that killed Ben Jigo instantly.
1929
LONG PAST DAYS
Who brought a cannon to a respectable fight? This was an Auction City street corner, not the Gettysburg Address. There were no limits to a Chinaman’s savagery.
Like everyone else, I looked to Fat Jimmy. He was our boss. H
e must have a plan. Know what our next move was. But he wasn’t looking at the cannon. Or the Chinese. He was looking down the street. At his own pace, a collared priest in one of those priest dresses strolled between the two warring parties.
The priest was short. The size of a boy. But I knew plenty of sturdy bantams. Runts needed to be tougher. Little legs, big balls, what my pal Yodels Tooley used to say. Yodels looked like a racetrack jockey but fought like a drunk gorilla.
The priest wasn’t Yodels. But must’ve had matching testicles. Two armies watched. A thousand men. On the brink of large-scale murder. The small man walking into no man’s land. Fat Jimmy’s barricade on one side. A Chinese mob with a damn cannon on the other. The priest, no weapons. Not even a Bible. Smiling as if he just got cake.
The shouted swears of Fat Jimmy’s boys stopped. A few crossed themselves. Glanced around confused. Stared out at the mad monk.
I’d always known priests were crazy. Too many commandments. All these things you can’t do. No touching girls. Heaven ain’t worth it. No wonder priests drank.
A long-haired Chinaman stepped forward from the mob. A foot taller than the men next to him. Their leader. His wispy beard sideways in the breeze. He reached back to one of his men. A sword appeared in his hand. Long and curved, oriental steel stained with blood.
Voices called out from among Jimmy’s men.
“The Chink’s going to kill the father.”
“Should we shoot?”
“Don’t worry. He’s got God on his side.”
“Right now, I’d rather have the devil.”
The Chinaman took two steps forward. The priest reached into his shirt and pulled out some sheets of paper. Held them in the air. Waved them like a white flag. He would probably say what he did next was beseech. He beseeched. Shouted strange words in the direction of the Chinese. A white man talking in that crazy oriental felt wrong. The Chinaman answered back. The priest responded.
“What the hell are they saying?” someone asked no one.