"He said he was taking Alison and the family away for some rest and relaxation."
"He didn't run down a list of possibilities?"
"Come to think of it, he mentioned something about scuba diving in Cabo de San Lucas."
Poe paused. "You're putting me on."
"Yes, I'm putting you on." Weinberg was irritated. "I'm not holding back. He didn't tell me a damn thing, and I didn't pry. Steve has been looking pretty bad. Tell you the truth, I was thinking of eighty-sixing him for a while. He hasn't been much use since she broke down."
Poe tried another tactic to keep the conversation alive. "I'm very concerned for Alison's safety. He took her out against medical advice. She needs medication when she's agitated. Jensen may not know with whom he's dealing."
"Poe, I'm sure he knows his wife better than you. As far as taking her out of the loony bin…" Weinberg scoffed. "Medical advice hasn't done a damn thing for that woman. She's been…unstable for years."
"That's why she should be watched by professionals."
"Look, Poe, if we were having a purely intellectual discussion, I'd say you were right. But I'm not Steve, I don't know what's running through his head, and I've never lived with a woman who had mental problems. The man asked for time to recoup, I told him go ahead. Time for you to move on and get a life."
Poe swallowed his superior's sarcasm. "She's an old friend, sir. I'm concerned."
Weinberg softened his tone. "I know that. But Alison is Steve's wife. If you want to keep your nose in one piece, you don't go sticking it where it don't belong."
Words of wisdom from Lieutenant Mick Weinberg. Poe said, "If you do hear anything, could you pass it along to me?"
"Sure." A beat. "How're you holding up?"
"Actually, I'm doing all right."
"Your face's okay?"
"It's ugly. But it doesn't hurt that bad."
Weinberg chuckled. "Get some rest." Then he clicked off.
Poe depressed the end button, folded his phone, and placed it in his pocket. It was close to nine. His erotic plans for the evening were being eroded away by worry and fatigue. And the prospect of dealing with Mom.
Nothing kills romance faster than a mom.
Despite Poe's reservations, Patricia was glad to have Marine Martin along. If not subtle, he was observant and alert. At six feet tall, Martin was lean, with a turkey wattle, but he had big arms, thanks to daily workouts at the gym. He was bald and very fair and was always on the lookout for skin cancer—one of the reasons he didn't mind working at night. For the assignment, he had dressed as casually as he could muster—khakis and a polo shirt—but he wound up looking more like a lost tourist than an underground man. As they approached the area, Patricia played upon his image.
"I'll do the talking." She wore black pants and a loose tunic top which hid her gun. Up ahead was the black hole. "Just walk around and try to look out of it."
"A tourist from the Needle taking a late-night stroll."
"Exactly."
He raised two fingers to his forehead and brought them down in a crisp motion. "Don't worry about a thing, Patricia. I have experience in surveillance."
"It's a good idea if you don't salute, Martin."
"Roger." As they approached Naked City, he whispered, "Just go and do your duty. I'll take care of the rest."
Patricia wasn't too sure about that. Still, she walked in the shadows and waited for her eyes to adjust. When they did, all she saw was fleeting figures. She'd have to start showing off the bread if she wanted results. Palming a twenty from her pocket, she made it suddenly visible. Immediately, a crack runner approached—a white girl in her teens. She wore a loose skirt and a halter top. She held up a finger, indicating a hit's worth of rock.
Patricia motioned her closer. The girl hesitated, and Patricia made her move. "I'm looking for an action girl."
The teen glanced at her shoes. "For twenty bucks?"
"There's more if I find what I want."
The girl studied her nails. Not making eye contact was part of the game. "For you?"
"For someone who could work a big man."
"Big as in fat?"
"Big as in money…power—"
Abruptly, the teen ran off to a slowing white Honda.
Patricia stood alone, wondering what had just gone wrong. Was it her breath? Not to fret. There were others. Within moments, she saw a young boy coming her way. She shook her head, and the kid did a turnaround and vanished.
Again she bided her time. She didn't have to wait long. Another white female teen approached. This one wore a black minidress. She held up an index finger, the unasked question being a single hit? Yes or no.
Patricia stepped up to her, gave her a once-over. So very young. "Need an action girl." A beat. "Good pay."
"What kind of thing?"
"Just have to be nice to a big man. Someone with lots of money."
The girl shook her head and took off. This time Patricia was upset as well as puzzled. What was she doing—or saying—that was putting them off? She trod deeper into the darkness, then took out a cigarette, exhaling lean wisps of smoke, watching them rise into the overcast nighttime sky.
Waiting.
Suddenly she felt a presence. She jumped, then realized that Marine Martin was at her side. Angrily, she whispered, "What are you doing?"
"You disappeared from my visual field—"
"Martin, I'm miked up to your—"
"Visual contact is the most important factor in surveillance. Sounds are apt to be misinterpreted."
"I need room to work."
He wagged a finger at her. "Safety first, Deluca."
"Can you go now?"
"Your method hasn't met with success. A reexamination might be in order."
"Go!"
Martin tsk-tsked, then left her alone in nothingness. She was annoyed, but grateful for his caution.
She didn't want to wait for the next candidate. Instead, she wanted to make it happen. She replaced the twenty with two fifty-dollar bills. Her eyes swept the scene, caught some feral orbs looking her over. Stepping into the open, Deluca held up five fingers. The kid came forward. "Nickel's worth?"
Patricia showed her a fifty. "I need an action girl."
The girl looked over her shoulder. "What?"
"Routine stuff."
Again the girl's eyes darted about. "Gotta be quick. My man don't like me taking too long. Where's the car?"
"No car. Take a walk with me."
The girl shook her head. "Can't do that. I'm not back in two minutes, he fucks me up."
This time Patricia showed her two fifties. "You willing to be nice to someone?"
"Who?"
"A big man. Lots of money."
The girl's eyes narrowed. "Why me?"
"He likes them young."
"Nuh-uh." She turned to go, but this time Patricia followed. "Lots and lots of money."
"Won't do me no good if I'm dead like the other one."
She started to run. Patricia grabbed her arm. "Which other one? Talk to me."
The girl squirmed out of her grip. "Fuck off!" She sped away.
Patricia started after her, but stopped. She stood in the blackness, panting, wondering what the—She felt herself being jerked backward.
Something hard around her throat!
Choking!
Strangling!
No air!
Looking down…a pair of shoes…
Patricia pounded hard on the instep, grinding down with the full force of her weight. When the pressure around her trachea eased, she grabbed what was around her neck with both hands. Using balance and her weight, she flipped something forward.
Suddenly some jerk lay sprawled out on the ground. And there was Marine Martin, straddling the body, pointing a gun at the man's head. "Police!" he shouted. "Don't move! Don't move a single muscle! Freeze! Freeze!"
Dazed, Patricia was still panting. But her autopilot took out a pair of manacles and cuffed the creep.
"Good
work!" Martin was breathing hard. "Good work!" He started reading the man his rights. Patricia cut him off in midsentence. She grabbed hold of the handcuffs and yanked the moron upward into a sitting position. Bending over his ear, she whispered, "Gun's at your head, asshole. You move, you're brain jelly."
The man nodded. Caucasian. Late twenties. Didn't appear to be tall, but damn he was fat. An enormous overhanging gut. How in God's name had she managed to flip him? Suddenly, her back felt sore. The scuzzball had long, straggly dirty-blond hair and a couple days' worth of beard. Patricia leaned in close. His breath stank.
She asked, "Why did you attack me?"
"Fuck you, pig!" He spat at her.
Patricia wiped the saliva from her cheek, then took the palm of her hand and jammed it upward into the guy's nose. He screamed as blood poured out of his nostrils.
To Martin, she stated, "Looks like our friend here fell down and met with an accident."
Marine Martin gave her a get-a-grip-on-it look. "I can take it from here, Detective."
Patricia ignored his warning. Instead, she grabbed the back of Scuzzball's collar and pushed his face back onto the ground and out of spitting range. Then she spoke slowly into his ear. "This is the deal. I can lock up your uglified face and let you rot. Or if you cooperate, you might even walk."
Sensing escape and possibly money, the man stopped cursing. Patricia pulled him back up and sat next to him, watching Scuzz lick his blood from his upper lip. Reaching in her pocket, she showed the fat boy several fifties.
"See this? Now let's see if you're talkative."
Eying the bills, Scuzz nodded. Marine Martin looked aghast. "I think we should bring him—"
"A minute, Detective." To Scuzz, Patricia said, "First off. Why'd you jump me?"
"You were fuckin' with my girls. You want business, you see me."
"I was asking around for a young action girl. But when I told them it was for a big man with money, instead of being excited, they played rabbit. Explain in ten words or less."
His beady eyes looked upward at Deluca's face. "Give me those fifties and mebbe I kin hep you."
Marine Martin was appalled. "This man is extorting money from you! He belongs in jail!"
"Probably. But I'm just an old softy." To Scuzz, Deluca said, "One fifty is yours if I like your answer, sport."
"I need a tissue. My nose is runnin'."
Patricia looked up at Martin. "Can you help him out?"
Grimacing, Martin pulled a tissue from his pocket and carefully wiped his nose. Afterward, he dropped the soiled paper in Scuzz's lap. "Keep it."
Patricia said, "I'm waiting for an answer."
Scuzz hocked up saliva and spit it off to the side. "A man with money who comes here…only one reason. He wants throwaway meat. Else he be shopping in a rich-ass store. He come here, he wants somethin' he kin toss when he's done. I like my ponies whole. I tell them to stay away from fuckers with promises. If they listen, they usually live."
"So which big man shops here, sport?"
"Don't got you no names 'cause I don't deal. Besides, it ain't the big man who ever shows up. The sale of young meat is all done through brokers. The big man uses his personal stash of whores as go-betweens."
"Who around here deals with the big man's brokers?"
"Stupid motherfuckers. The kind who die in car crackups."
Ali Abdul Williams. "I see."
Scuzz shrugged. "Accidents happen."
"Indeed they do." Patricia gave him the fifty and took out another. "Give me the brokers' names, sport. But make it righteous. Because I can nose a lie. Remember you're still cuffed and I'm still pissed."
Scuzz looked greedily at the money, then at Deluca. "Don't got any name. But for money, I can hep you."
Patricia slipped some bills into his pants pocket. "Speak."
"Nali Abousayed," Sport said. "Hangs around the Lady Slipper. You can't miss him. Fucker's a towelhead A-rab. Wears a big gold robe."
The Lady Slipper was one of Parkerboy's casinos. Deluca said, "Abousayed is the big man's broker?"
"No, he's a zillionaire. But the A-rab gets his women from the Slipper."
Meaning he gets his whores from Lewiston. "Go on," Patricia encouraged.
"One of Nali's favorite whores, I seen her around here, asking to buy young girls."
"What does she look like?"
"Blonde. All his whores are blondes. A-rabs like blondes."
"Can you give me more details than her being a blonde?"
"Get me some pichures. I'll tell you yes or no."
Patricia was skeptical. The guy was pure dirt and was probably talking from his ass. Still, it was a lead. "Slipper's a big place. Abousayed have any favorite spots?"
"He blows fat wads of cash on the tables."
"Dice or blackjack?"
"Baccarat."
Correctly pronouncing it as ba-kara.
Only in Vegas.
THIRTY-ONE
IT TOOK five minutes for Emma to get out of bed, another five to slip on her robe. Her legs seemed to give way under her weight, but she was determined, slowly putting one foot in front of the other. First to the bathroom to empty her bladder. Proudly, she could now do that by herself.
Drained of her water, she suddenly felt parched. Which meant two things: either she could beep Rukmani or she could take a trip to the kitchen in the dark. She opted for independence.
Steady and slow. Keeeeeep going.
As she trudged into the living room, she squinted. Light was pouring out of the kitchen.
A burglar!
A hungry burglar?
More likely it was one of 'em with a bad case of insomnia. And even if it was a burglar, what could he do to her? Shoot her dead? Couldn't be much worse than living like this. Using all her strength, she managed to push open the swinging door.
Romulus looked up, then stood. "Ma? Are you okay?"
"Just a little thirsty."
Poe noticed that her eyes had turned to slits. He immediately shut off the light. "Let's go back in the living room. It's more comfortable—"
"This is fine."
"C'mon." He ushered her back into the grayness and sat her on the couch. "What can I get you? Water? Juice? Soda?"
"How about water?" She gave him a droopy wink. "A little firewater?"
"I wish I could, Mom. Be right back."
Emma closed her eyes and sank into the cushions. When she heard his footsteps, she forced herself to straighten up.
Poe brought a glass of water to her lips. "Here you go."
The water felt cool and fresh. "I'm tired, but I can't sleep."
"You always were a bit of an insomniac. This whole mess probably threw your schedule off completely."
"How do you feel?"
"Me?" He made a pshaw sound. "I'm fine. I went to work today."
"When are you taking me to your house?"
"Sunday."
Despite her fatigue, she brightened. "Sunday?"
"Yes, Sunday." He had already told her. She must have forgotten. "That's in five…well, now it's four days."
Her heart sank. "Four whole days?"
"It'll go quick." Poe smiled. "I'll even cook for you."
"Really trying to kill me off."
Poe gave her a small smile. "Maybe you should try to sleep—"
"This is the first time in a month that we're alone and already you're sick of me."
"I'm thinking of your health, Mom."
"Thinking of your health." She took a deep breath, then let it out. Spidery fingers inched their way up to his wound. She touched him gently. "How are you?"
Again, Poe answered, "I'm fine. Really. It looks worse than it feels."
"You should go to sleep."
"You're right. I will just as soon as I tie up some loose ends."
"I'll wait for you—"
"Ma—"
"I gotta finish my water first."
Picking up the glass, Poe again brought it to her lips. She took the
tumbler away from him. "I can drink by myself."
He sat back on the couch. "It's a real pain in the ass being dependent on other people."
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