by L. A. Morse
“Yeah. You might say that. How did the setup seem to you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve heard of things like this before—and it’s not a bad idea—cautious, careful, maybe save a lot of money. But somehow it just didn’t seem right, though I can’t say why. I know one thing, though. That Acker is a tough customer, so cool he’s a little scary.”
“You took the job, I assume.”
“Of course.” He looked shocked that I thought he might have done otherwise.
“Did you say you knew me?”
“He asked. I said I knew who you were, that’s all.”
I thought for a minute. The situation might be legitimate; Acker’s explanation might be real. But I didn’t think his wife was after money. One thing seemed certain, though; if Acker hired Stubby, he didn’t send Mountain after me. There’d be no point.
Out of curiosity I asked Stubby what he was getting for the job. He looted only slightly embarrassed when he told me a figure that was nearly four times his usual fee. Stubby laughed when he saw my reaction, and said that Acker accepted without any hesitation.
“This is a man who’s so careful and cautious, so tough and cool, and he agrees to pay an outrageous fee like that?” I said.
Stubby thought for a second. “Yeah, you’re right. It is curious. I didn’t think about it at the time. I guess I was too happy at landing a big fish. What’s up?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” I told him about the warning I had received.
“You think Acker sent the monster?”
“It doesn’t look like it, but I don’t know. Do you think Acker might have hired you, not because he was worried about his wife, but because he was worried that I might find out about something else?”
“That could be.” He thought for a bit. “You know, I think there’s something strange going on at that factory or whatever it is.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t say. It just doesn’t feel right. That’s supposed to be a pretty successful operation, isn’t it? Well, it didn’t feel that way. It seemed a little like a place where a fire’s going to start, you know, sort of accidentally on purpose.”
“You think that’s what it is?”
He shook his head from side to side. “No, it’s not that. I been in enough places like that to know—I even helped torch a few in my younger days. But the place just feels wrong in some way, like those other places felt wrong, and my instincts are pretty good.”
I knew they were, and that helped along the feeling I had that Acker was into something more than long-legged girls who didn’t mind being beaten a little. Stubby and I agreed to help each other out on this, since it looked like it might be mutually advantageous. Stubby clearly didn’t feel much loyalty to his Acker, especially if there was a chance to get more out of it than his fee.
I took out a smoke and saw that I was out of matches. Stubby dug around in a pocket, pulled out a book, and pushed them across to me. I lit my cigarette and started to pass the matches back when I noticed the cover. It was shiny black with an embossed chessman on the front. Tiny gold letters on the spine said “Black Knight.”
That seemed to be coming up a lot lately, just like when you see a new word for the first time, you keep running across it for a while. I asked Stubby where he got the matches and he shrugged.
“Come on, think,” I said. “Where’d you get them?”
“Why?”
“Just tell me.”
He screwed up his dried-apple face until it was nothing but creases and wrinkles, his jaws chewing away like mad. He cleared his throat and spat loudly.
“Acker,” he said.
“You sure?”
“Must have been. Why? What’s it mean?”
I shook my head. I didn’t know, but somehow I wasn’t too surprised at the connection.
“Okay, Sam, I know you. You never give anything away.”
“Not if I can find a buyer. And I don’t know if this is worth anything.”
Stubby knew better than to push it, and we discussed how we should proceed.
“Acker won’t be expecting anything from you for a while,” I said, “so we’ll get together in a couple of days and work out something to give him. We’ll make it good so he’ll think you’re earning that ridiculous fee.”
Stubby tried to look offended. “It’s not so ridiculous. The client wanted results, and he’s going to get them.”
“If not in the way the client intended.”
Stubby made a face and spat. “Screw the client.”
Not a bad philosophy in this business, particularly since most of our clients would try to do it to us if we gave them the chance. Most of the time, being honorable meant getting fucked... or not getting paid. But for some reason I was going to try to be straight with my Acker.
“In the meantime,” Stubby said, “I’m going to nose around a bit and try to find out what Simon Acker’s up to. I’ll see if I can see what makes his business seem so funny. What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
I was sure, but there was no percentage in telling Stubby. I’d let him follow his own line and I’d follow mine. Maybe they’d meet somewhere, and if not, I didn’t want Stubby getting in my way.
We agreed to keep in touch and pass on anything of interest.
I left Stubby sitting at his table. The two hookers had fallen asleep across theirs. One Arm Shifty was practicing a difficult three cushion shot and making it look easy. Jack didn’t bother to look up from her magazine as I went out.
TEN
Since the Black Knight Club popped up every time I turned around, I figured I’d better keep on with it to see where it took me. You don’t have to be in my business very long before you begin to appreciate the importance of accidents and coincidence. You can plan fully, prepare carefully, and work hard, but an awful lot of the time, coincidence will make you or break you. You look really hard for the key piece of information, and when you stop looking because you decide it doesn’t exist, you trip over it and everything falls into place. A lot of veteran cops know this, and it turns them into gamblers or mystics.
I wasn’t either, but I follow signs when I see which way they’re pointing, and that was why I was up in the hills looking for Nicky Faro’s house.
I went by it twice before I found the number. It was easy to miss since all you could see was a small mailbox next to a narrow driveway that was mostly hidden by thick shrubs. The house was one of those little bungalows found throughout the Hollywood Hills, stuck down below the road and completely screened from everything by trees and bushes. These houses used to be some of the few cheap places in L.A. where you could have nearly total privacy, but they’ve become pretty popular now and are no longer so cheap.
I parked up a ways on the road and walked back down to the driveway. There was a car parked at the bottom of it, so it looked like somebody was home. I didn’t bother to call first because I figured this Faro guy was another one of those that it’s better to visit unannounced.
I walked on the thin strip of grass next to die gravel drive so I wouldn’t make any noise and quietly started moving around the house, looking in the windows. The third window I went to looked into the living room, and I saw that someone was indeed there.
Rock music was playing very loudly and a couple were dancing around pretty actively. They were both naked. The woman was short and had a heavy, pale, fleshy body that was starting to lose its firmness, and a pair of the largest breasts I had seen in a long time. “Cantaloupes” was an understatement, but her breasts seemed to bounce in an unnatural way, and I figured they were shot full of silicone. Her hairdo and her heavily made up face told me she was a pro.
The guy—who I took to be Faro—was dark complexioned with wiry black hair. Tall and bony, his body was seemingly without either fat or muscle. He also had a huge, erect cock that must have measured fifteen inches, and was the kind of attribute that was only seen in stag films�
��usually on bulls or donkeys.
They danced around a bit with the forced enthusiasm common to paid relationships. Her enormous breasts looked like they were balloons about to lift her off the ground. He looked like he could win a three-legged race by himself.
He motioned her to get on her knees. He came up and jammed his cock between her breasts, which she pressed around it with her hands, and he started pushing and thrusting. It looked like it was a good time to make my entrance.
I went around to the back, where I had seen the door was open. The screen door was unlocked and I silently went in. I crossed to the living room.
His back was to me as he worked away, and the woman saw me first. She screamed. He whirled around.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Census Bureau.”
“What the fuck do you want?” he spat at me.
Before I could answer he was moving across the room to a desk in the corner. I had seen movements like that often enough to know what was coming next, and I started moving as well. I was at the desk as he got the drawer open, and by the time he pulled out the gun—a good old .45 automatic— I was throwing a hard right that caught him flush on the jaw. He crumpled joint by joint like a marionette until he lay in a pile on the floor. Oddly enough, his cock remained stiff and straight.
The woman was no longer screaming, but was glaring angrily at me. She seemed used to this sort of occurrence.
“What do you think you’re doing, buster?”
“It’s not your concern,” I said, “but your friend will be all right.”
“Man, I don’t care if you off the schmuck. It’s just that—” She cut herself off, came over next to me, and tried, but failed, to took seductive. “I like you. I like strong men. He’ll be out for a long time. Why don’t you and me have some fun. I’m really special, baby. I’m worth it.”
She took my hands and put them on her breasts. They felt like overly inflated beach balls. She started to rub her belly up against me, I gently pushed her away.
“Maybe later,” I said. “Now you’d better go.”
“Shit! You goddamn son of a bitch. How’s a working girl supposed to get along?”
She was right. I asked how much she was going to get.
“A bill.”
I saw Faro’s wallet on the desk. I took out four fifties.
“Here’s two bills. Forget you were here.”
“I been at the beauty parlor all afternoon. You’re okay, honey. Sure you don’t want me to take care of you quick? On the house. I really am good.”
I told her good-bye. She shrugged, threw on her clothes, and was out the door in about a minute. I heard her go up the drive, and soon a car started on the road.
Faro was still out, and looked to be for some time. I lifted him onto a straight-backed chair and tied him securely with a couple of neckties I found. I wanted to look around without worrying about him coming to and sneaking up behind me. I pocketed his gun. You never know when a loose weapon might come in handy.
There was nothing to be seen in the kitchen, bedroom, living room, or bath, except that Faro was a piss-poor housekeeper. There was also a door that was locked. I could probably have found the key in about two minutes, but what the fuck, who can be bothered? Two good kicks and the door splintered open.
Behind it was an elaborate darkroom setup, with lots of good quality equipment and some expensive cameras on a shelf. Faro hardly seemed the type to have this kind of hobby, but then I saw the prints on the drying rack and everything came a little clearer.
The pictures might be called action shots, but the kind of action that goes on behind closed doors. Each picture involved a couple—not always of different sexes—engaged in some not-too-conventional sexual practice, often employing exotic costumes or implements. The pictures were not posed, and, from the lighting and the angle, I gathered that they were candid shots taken with a hidden camera. I only recognized one face in the bunch, that of a well-known Hollywood actor who was entangled in a complicated posture with an extremely young girl. I began to get a clearer notion of the Black Knight Club.
There was a metal file cabinet with a heavy padlock on it. In view of what I had already seen, its contents were tantalizing, but I couldn’t open this without a key, and I decided it was time to have a chat with Faro.
He was just coming around and was not especially pleased with his condition. He yelled and cursed and threatened me, but he was hardly in a position to do anything about it. I asked him about the club. We danced around that a bit and all I got out of him was that I was in big trouble, and that if I didn’t let him go, there wouldn’t be enough of me left to feed to a small dog. Hardly the kind of cooperation you expect from someone who is tied bare-assed to a chair with his hose hanging over the seat.
“If anyone’s going to be dog meat, pal,” I said, “it won’t be me.”
“Oh yeah, fuck face?” Clever, very clever comeback.
“I wonder what your boss would do if he found out one of his trusted employees was a police snitch.”
“He’d laugh,” he said somewhat uncertainly.
“Would he? Not if he knew that that trusted employee was playing it cute with Detective Thomas Ratchitt of Vice.” Faro paled and his bony face took on the appearance of a skull. “Tell me what I want to know, or I’m going to throw you to the sharks.”
He protested some more, but finally realized that he had no choice.
Faro had been at the club just under two years—it had been operating for about three or four—and he said he was a kind of general assistant. He then confirmed some things that I already knew or had suspected. Basically, the Black Knight was a very expensive whorehouse that specialized in fairly kinky stuff. They put on fancy sex shows for the members, and there were a number of back rooms for more personal endeavors. There was a lot of S-M, a good deal of elaborate costume fantasies, and a fair use of children. In all categories there were hookers of both sexes, depending on the clients’ persuasions or momentary interests, and the club’s specialties could be combined in any variety of ways to meet all possible scenarios. Naturally all this came high. Faro didn’t know for sure how much, but it was a lot, and you had to be pretty wealthy or want it very badly to indulge yourself. Faro recognized a few celebrities who made use of the facilities, but other than that, he had no idea who the members were. One of the features of the club was the guarantee of complete security. I let that pass for the time being.
A guy named Freddy Lascar ran the club. Faro stayed with that story for a while, but after I put on some more heat, he said that Lascar was just fronting for someone. Lascar ran the day-to-day operation, but if there was a big decision to be made, it was referred somewhere else. Faro didn’t know who was behind Lascar. He said he had never heard of anything or anyone called Domingo, and I believed him.
He had heard of Mountain, though. When I mentioned the name he went pale again and started to sweat. Mountain had served as the club’s muscle for a while, but there were a couple of incidents where he used a little too much of it. He had broken up one of the club’s girls pretty badly while he was taking his pleasure with her. I had trouble imagining what that monster liked to do, but I knew it would have to be rough on his partner. It was, and the girl was in an institution for life. But Faro said that was more of an annoyance than anything else. The real trouble came when Mountain messed up one of the members—the host of a TV game show. Faro didn’t know the reason behind it, but the guy had to spend a lot of time with a plastic surgeon before he could face the cameras again. It was hushed up pretty well, but some of the other members heard about it and got nervous. Mountain was yanked soon after that. Faro didn’t know where he went, but Mountain still came to the club every so often. He would spend a few minutes with Lascar and then leave. I showed Faro the picture of Linda Perdue, the missing girl, but he said he’d never seen her.
Naturally there was a big fix in, and Ratchitt was getting to be a wealthy man as a result. Faro was on the payroll be
cause the Vice cop wanted to know about anything unusual going on at the club. Faro figured Ratchitt wanted to be able to up the ante if something happened, but Faro said he’d only given the cop garbage.
Throughout all this, Faro had grown increasingly nervous.
“Hey, man, that’s all. I don’t know any more. It’s a very tight operation there. If they hear I talked to you, I’m finished.”
“Then you better make sure they don’t. And if I find out you haven’t been straight with me, you’re just as finished.”
“I’ve been straight,” he said. “Now will you let me go? My arms are killing me.”
“A couple more questions.”
“Hey, man, I don’t know anything more.”
“Tell me about the blackmail.”
“What blackmail?” His voice rose an octave and he started to sweat again.
“Don’t play cute. I saw your darkroom.”
“Photography’s my hobby.”
“Smarten up, or your only hobby will be growing flowers from the bottom up.”
He sighed. “Okay. Some of the rooms have hidden cameras, both video and still, but I don’t ever see the videotape. Every once in a while they give me some film to develop and print. Like I said, photography’s really my hobby. I just give them what they want. Swear to God, I don’t know what they do with the stuff.”
“But you make extra prints, right?”
“Hey, I wouldn’t do that.”
I laughed in a way that made him cringe and repeated my question.
“Hey, okay. I make some extra prints. But I haven’t done anything with them...”
“... yet.” I finished his sentence.
“Okay... yet.... I sort of figured I’d get some security for my old age, kind of a pension. Put a little black on those guys. They can afford it.”
“Faro, the way you’re going, I think your old age is the least of your worries.”
“I can handle myself, but your future won’t be much if you mess up the deal at the club. It’s a very serious operation.”