Harbor Nocturne

by Wambaugh, Joseph

The Korean recognized him waddling through the entry door, and he left his drink, stopping the boss before he’d reached the first tables. The boss’s comb-over looked like it had been painted on by a brush that was missing half its bristles. He was about the same age as the Korean but flabby, and he smelled sour from sweat and wine. He might have been Latino, but it was hard to tell.

  “You remember me?” the Korean said.

  The boss looked at the Korean’s face, and at the double-breasted oyster-colored Armani suit, and said, “Sure, you’re the guy that came in here about Lita. Couldn’t dance, but a great-looking chick. Hector came and offered me some green and I let her go to a Hollywood club. I sorta felt like he worked for you. Like maybe it was your club or something?”

  “I got a new job for her,” the Korean said. “She is not in the Hollywood club no more.”

  “No? Well, she didn’t come back here,” the boss said. “There’s the other strip bar down the street. Did you check with them?”

  The Korean said, “I will check her home. Where she use to live when she was working here. Give me the address.”

  The boss got cagey, eyeing the Korean conspiratorially, and said, “We ain’t accustomed to handing out the addresses of employees or former employees, not even to the cops. I don’t think I can do that.”

  “You can do that,” the Korean said.

  The boss peered into those glaring black eyes, and when the big Korean bared his yellowing teeth in what was supposed to be a smile, the boss said, “Well . . . I suppose . . .”

  The Korean produced a fifty-dollar bill, and the boss grabbed it and went to his office, returning in a few minutes with a piece of notepaper.

  He said, “I think she lived at this address with two or three other girls. It’s right here in Wilmington. You don’t speak Spanish, do you?”

  “Everybody understand money,” the Korean said.

  He followed the directions the strip club boss had written down and found a boardinghouse catering to minimum-wage workers. He eyed a group of teenage Latinos slouching on the porch steps next door, drinking beer out of cans. He entered the building and saw plastic numbers tacked to each of the apartment doors. He knocked at number four.

  A Latina in her early twenties opened it and looked quizzically at the Korean, saying, “No English. Sorry.”

  Kim said, “Lita. Where?” Then he tried to remember the Spanish word for “where,” but he couldn’t.

  The young woman shrugged and said, “No aquí. Hollywood. Lita in Hollywood.” Then she pointed vaguely in a northerly direction.

  The Korean dialed Hector Cozzo even before he got back to his Mercedes, glad to see that none of the Latino teens had bothered his shiny new car.

  Hector didn’t think there was any more he could’ve done. He’d spent three hundred dollars on food and booze, as ordered by Mr. Markov, and he’d laid everything out as best he could. The bruschetta was beside the baked artichokes and Brie. There were three kinds of crostini, and he’d gone all out and bought a large plate of smoked salmon and red caviar, along with truffle canapés. And, of course, there was the ubiquitous plate of assorted sushi with wasabi, ginger, and soy sauce. He had a bottle of Vivid vodka on ice for himself and two bottles of Stolichnaya for the Russian, and he’d washed and carefully wiped all of his glasses until they gleamed.

  Hector said, “This ain’t prom night” when Ivana showed up in a coral side-slit dress with spaghetti straps, along with four-inch heels. Her naturally dark hair had been recently dyed a honey blond, and he wasn’t wild about it. He thought if she was going to go blond, then the blonder the better when it came to back rubs and blow jobs. And why the fuck didn’t she just wear her tee and shorts from Shanghai Massage? These bitches. Go figure.

  Ivana had brought her lotions, powder, and towels, arranging them on a small folding table she’d carried in and placed beside Hector’s bed.

  She looked at her watch and said, “Maybe they are not coming, Hector.”

  “Don’t sound so hopeful,” he said. “Do you know how much you’re gonna make tonight? That fucking Russian tips like Frank Sinatra, back in the day.”

  “I admit I am a bit in fear, Hector,” Ivana said, sipping a cold martini. “I know he is generous. Lotus told me that when she was still with us. But this crazy shit about the cut-off arms and legs and feets and hands? It makes me feel like snakes crawl on my back.”

  “Okay, so he’s got some kinks,” Hector said. “Who don’t? But he ain’t one of those guys that asks you to do really spooky stuff with handcuffs and weird objects. Tell him your G-spot’s where only your dentist can see it. Then control your gag reflex during the face rape and you’ll walk outta here with enough green to buy out Victoria’s Secret.”

  His cell rang, and he looked at it and said, “Fuck! This is all I need.” Then he opened it and said, “Yes, Mr. Kim.”

  The Korean said, “Hector, I am down by the harbor looking for Lita. Do you know she run away too? Like Daisy.”

  “So what?” Hector said, but he felt a wave of fear, remembering what Violet had told him about Lita seeing the black car drive off with Daisy. “Why do you need Lita? We got better dancers. If she don’t come back, who cares?”

  “I want to offer to her more money,” Kim said. “You will find her for me tomorrow. You look, you find.”

  “Goddamn!” Hector said. “I’m doing a party tonight. A party ordered by Mr. M. I don’t know when the fuck it’ll end. I gotta get some sleep. I’m being run ragged by everybody!”

  “Tomorrow,” Kim said. “You will find Lita. She don’t know nobody in Hollywood. I think she is back down near the harbor.”

  “Aw, crap!” Hector said. “I guess I can check that strip joint in Wilmington where you sent me to reel her in.”

  “I already check there,” Kim said. “She did not go back there.”

  “Okay, then I’ll get the address where she was staying down there and—”

  “I check that too,” Kim interrupted. “The girl there tells me that Lita is in Hollywood. So she don’t know nothing neither.”

  “Well, how am I gonna find her?” Hector said. “I can’t start asking all over the goddamn Spanish-speaking community down there. I don’t even talk the language except for a few words!”

  “You go down there. That is where she is. Somewhere down by the harbor. I am offering her money to come back and be happy at Club Samara.”

  “Okay, I’ll try,” Hector said. “But if it don’t work, I hope you don’t show your disappointment the way you did last time. My fucking hip is still killing me.”

  When he closed his cell, he felt it again. The fear. Kim wasn’t going through all this just to hire her back. Hector was suddenly out of his depth, with the growing panic of a drowning man.

  The doorbell startled him.

  “I get it,” Ivana said.

  Hector watched her sashay across the room in those sky-highs, thinking, Why couldn’t the fucking Russian just want a girl like Ivana to stomp on mice and gerbils in those four-inch heels, or walk up and down his back until he bled? Something more Hollywood normal, for chrissake! Why did it have to be severed arms and legs that stiffened his sausage?

  Hector was surprised to see a buff, healthy-looking, thirty-something dude walk in. Christ, he looked like he just came from a tanning salon, but Hector could tell the difference. This guy’s tan was real. And he could not detect any limp. Why in the fuck would a guy like this go to T.J. and pay some quack to—

  “Dah-link!” Ivana said, kissing Jetsam on the cheek. “I am full of delight that you have come. We are going to have a special evening.”

  “I’m Kelly,” Jetsam said, offering his hand to the host. “You must be Hector.”

  They shook hands, and Hector said, “Is Kelly a first name or a last name?”

  “Does it matter?” Jetsam said.

  “Not at all,” Hector said. “Not around here. Vodka? Scotch? A martini?”

  “I could pound a brew or two,”
Jetsam said.

  “Sure, I got beer.” Hector went into the small kitchen and took a bottle of Corona from the fridge. He brought it back, asking, “Need a glass?”

  “This’ll do,” Jetsam said, thinking the dipshit really did wear his hair in a mullet. The top and sides were cropped short, and the back of his black hair hung over his collar. And his silky, green-tomato shirt was open halfway down his skinny chest. And those snakeskin knockoffs on his feet? Must be his lame idea of what an up-to-the-minute Hollywood pimp should look like.

  Hector said, “Whadda you do, Kelly?”

  Jetsam thought, What the hell. With Sergeant Hawthorne listening, he might as well take his performance straight to the top and deliver the rehearsal lines. He said, “Right now, I’m all into buying video poker machines in Arizona and selling them to residential casinos around L.A. If you’re, like, ever in the market, get in touch with me. You can easy take in a couple grand a week on one machine. There’s way big potential, bro.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s not really my line,” Hector said.

  They started grazing at the canapé table, and Ivana sidled up to Jetsam and ran her hand over his ass, saying, “You are having a good week in business, dah-link? You are very tense from all the customer problems? Maybe I got to give you the Ivana supreme massage tonight?”

  “That’ll do till Mr. B. gets here,” Hector said. “Let’s keep things at room temperature for now.”

  Ivana scowled for being chastised in front of a potentially big tipper, and went into the kitchen to pout and pour another martini.

  They heard her say in a loud voice, “James Bond is full of shit! Stirred is only way to make fucking martini!”

  Hector shook his head at Jetsam and held his palm up, saying, “Hypersensitive bitches. What can I do?”

  “So whadda you do to pay the rent, Hector?” Jetsam asked, stuffing a cracker loaded with something he thought might be spicy crab into his mouth and washing it down with the brew.

  “I do a little of this and that,” Hector said, lighting a cigarette.

  Jetsam finished the beer and said, “Okay, man, but I told you what I do.”

  Hector knew he couldn’t afford to offend this freak, so he said, “I’m kind of a selector. Like an agent. I find new talent to work at Shanghai Massage and at a few other businesses around Hollywood.”

  “Yeah?” Jetsam said. “Nice job. What’re the other businesses? Massage joints?”

  Hector checked the time on his fake Rolex again and said, “Not jist massage parlors. I find talent for nightclubs, too. You know Club Samara?”

  “Club Samara?” Jetsam said. “I don’t think so. I mostly hang at the happening clubs on the Sunset Strip, with all the wretched-excess chicks.”

  Hector wondered if this fucking pervert was putting him down. He said, “Club Samara is better than any of them short-pour nightclubs that cater to the pimple-and-zit crowd looking for Paris and Lindsay. Club Samara is for grown-up people, like the Russian gentleman who’s coming here tonight to meet you.”

  “The dude must be bucks up, huh?” Jetsam said, moving casually to the ice buckets and checking out the vodka. “To rate all this attention.”

  Hector was starting to get annoyed by so many questions. He said, “All I know is, the guy has a . . . passion for the work that our former doctor done in Tia-juana.”

  “Your former doctor?” Jetsam said. “You mean my Dr. Maurice?”

  “Dr. Maurice took care of us girls real good,” Ivana volunteered, rejoining the party, and Hector could see that she’d had more than one martini in the kitchen. “You can’t sleep, you go to Dr. Maurice,” Ivana went on. “You get too much sleep, Dr. Maurice give you the energy shots. You got something wrong with the . . .”

  “Okay, we get the idea,” Hector said. “He was a regular Dr. Schweitzer. Shoulda been doing missionary in the Congo or somewheres.”

  “Why you are talking smack to me, Hector?” Ivana said, slurring her words. “I am getting another martini, and I ain’t staying here all night waiting for no Mr. B.” Then she stalked into the kitchen to pour another drink.

  Jetsam was getting excited. Ivana had not so much as blinked when he’d mentioned Dr. Maurice during his visit to Shanghai Massage, as though the name meant nothing to her. This was starting to look like a full-scale criminal conspiracy, maybe even involving human trafficking, and complete with a drug-dealing quack to keep the hookers happy!

  “I lost contact with Dr. Maurice after my operation,” Jetsam told Hector.

  “I think he retired,” Hector said. Then he checked his watch again and said, “Where the fuck is Mr. B.? Ivana gets to be a problem when she’s juiced. Goddamnit!”

  “I could deep-throat another Corona,” Jetsam said.

  “Help yourself,” Hector said. “Drink till you hit the wall. If our other honored guest ever shows up, the house belongs to the three of you till tomorrow morning. I’ll be outta here soon as I make the introductions.”

  Jetsam grabbed a brew and then poured himself a double shot of vodka, while Hector crossed the room, sat down on the sofa, and lit another smoke. Just as his cell rang.

  “Oh, shit,” he said, figuring it was the Korean with something else to bitch about. He was stunned to see that it was Markov.

  “Yes?” Hector said diffidently.

  “Has Mr. B. arrived yet?”

  “No, sir,” Hector said. “Have you heard from him?”

  “He had an early dinner meeting at his hotel. It must have gone on longer than he anticipated.”

  “We’ll wait a couple more hours,” Hector said, lowering his voice, “but you know, I got this other guest here. I don’t know how long I can hold him.”

  “Let your girl work on him if you have to,” Markov said. “Everything depends on Mr. B.’s investment now. Things are going badly for all of us.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that idea,” Hector said. “Our friend Mr. K. is leaning on me heavy. He wants me to find the Mexican girl that quit. In fact, he insists. I don’t understand where he’s coming from, and I don’t like any of this.”

  “It will work out if you do as you are told,” Markov said, his tone changing abruptly.

  “Told by you or Mr. K.?” Hector asked, surprised by his own boldness.

  “We speak as one on this issue,” Markov said. “I have had a disturbing meeting with Mr. K. in which he revealed all of the mistakes he has been making of late. The mistakes have been costly and dangerous for business. Mr. B’s investment can save everything. I have gone all out to please him tonight. That is why I am calling. I have arranged for a surprise guest to arrive. At least, I hope I have it arranged. If he does show up, he will ask for a fee for his presence there. Pay him what he asks. All of the moneys you spend tonight will be reimbursed next week.”

  “A surprise guest?” Hector said.

  “It is Dr. M.,” Markov said.

  “Damn!” Hector said. “How’d you find him?”

  “Anything can be done if we are willing to pay for it,” Markov said. “Keep him happy, too, before you leave them alone. Make sure there is taxi fare for all who need it.”

  “Is he . . . okay?” Hector asked, meaning, Is the degenerate crackhead able to communicate on the level of a functioning primate?

  “I did not see him,” Markov said, “but I spoke to him on the phone and he sounded rational, though I am sure he is in need of funds. That is why I think he will keep his word and not disappoint us.”

  “Well, yeah,” Hector said. “He’s probably sucked the price of three Rolls-Royces into his lungs since last year.”

  “We are talking on the phone,” Markov reminded him.

  “Sorry,” Hector said. “Okay, I’ll take care of everything. I always do, lately.”

  When he closed his cell and put it back in his pocket, he sat back and stared at the ceiling until he was aware that the peg-leg guy was standing next to him, like he was trying to eavesdrop. Ivana was pretty much confining herself to the
television room, where she was watching a movie, except when she went to the kitchen for a martini refill.

  “Everything okay?” Jetsam asked, indicating the phone call.

  “Yeah,” Hector said, feeling really tired of this guy and his questions.

  “Was that our Russian guest?

  “No,” Hector said. “Why don’t you pour yourself a drink?”

  “I just did,” Jetsam said.

  “Then have some of that chickpea crostini. It’s really good.”

  “What’s it take to get into your agenting business?” Jetsam asked, and Hector could see that the guy was getting a buzz from the booze.

  “Gotta be in the right place at exactly the right time.”

  “Maybe you could use a helper,” Jetsam said. “I got some time on my hands.”

  “I thought you were busy selling video poker machines,” Hector reminded him. “What’s up with that?”

  “I am,” Jetsam said, “but still. Pink and green? Pussy and money? I could work for free till I learn the business. With me helping out, you could cut your work hours in half. Keep it in mind.”

  Hector was thinking that the only thing on his mind was getting the fuck away from this den of debauchery when the doorbell chimed.

  Ivana stumbled in from the TV room, and Hector thought, Yeah, she’s wrecked already. He went to the door and opened it.

  “Hector!” the guest of honor said, spreading his arms for a bear hug.

  The Russian kissed Hector on both cheeks, and Hector said, “So good to see you, Basil!”

  The Russian had left his suit coat and tie in the limo waiting in front of the house. His white dress shirt was open at the throat, tufts of furry salt-and-pepper chest hair springing out. Jetsam saw that Basil was middle-aged and beefy, with the most amazing head of hair: black except for a streak of white that began at the widow’s peak and swept back to the crown. He was carrying a small photo album in one of his big, hairy hands.

  “You look younger than ever, Basil!” Hector said, slapping the Russian on the back a few times.

  “I am young! Full of blood like a Siberian tiger!” the Russian responded with a booming laugh.