by L. A. Morse
A spotlight came on to reveal a pretty blond girl who was completely naked. Her skin was very white and her nipples very pink. She was lifted above the stage by ropes attached to her wrists. She was surrounded by three men in dark red cloaks with hoods over their heads. She screamed as they began to poke and scrape at her fair skin with various metal implements. From where I was, I couldn’t tell if it was real or fake, but I wasn’t much interested. I left before the performance was over. I had a fair idea how it came out.
I made good time getting home.
I turned on my telephone answering machine. There was a message from that asshole who was trying to sell me life insurance. If I ever ran into him, he’d damn well better have hospitalization.
There was a message from Clarissa Acker. She said hello.
Hello, yourself.
Shit.
There was also a message from Stubby. Even on the tape he sounded excited. “Hey, Sam, I’m onto something big. Boy, is it ever. We’re going to be golden. I can’t talk now. Somebody might be tailing me, but I can get free. We got to get together soon. This is big, big...” The tape clicked off.
I didn’t bother even to wonder about what Stubby had found. I’d get in touch the next day.
Just then I heard a noise in my bedroom. I pulled out my gun. I turned on the tap in the kitchen sink to cover my movements, took off my shoes, and silently went across to the bedroom. In one motion I threw on the overhead light, jumped clear of the door, and pointed the gun in the direction of the sound.
It was Bobbi or Debbi or whatever her name was. She was lying on top of the bed, naked. Her knees were bent , and her thighs were open wide. She was pinching her erect nipples between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. When she saw me with the gun, she raised her hands over her head. “I give up,” she said quietly. Shit. She was going to be a pain in the ass. I shrugged. I’d deal with it later.
TWELVE
It was pretty late by the time the girl snuck downstairs to her own apartment. She was even more eager than her mother. Ah, the vitality of youth.
In spite of the heat I managed to sleep in later than usual. When I got up, the apartment was already an oven and I was covered in a film of sweat. A shower, and I was ready to ease into the day.
While I was brewing some double strength coffee—three parts Colombian, one part Kenyan for an acid bite—I called up Stubby. Jack answered and said he hadn’t been around since the previous afternoon. I asked her if she knew where he lived and received a snort of laughter for a reply. It was a stupid question. For more than thirty years no one has known where Stubby lived. There were a few theories on the subject, but no evidence to support them.
I fried up some flour tortillas with cheese and a lot of chiles inside and ate these along with a papaya sprinkled with lime juice. While I was sipping my coffee, I looked up the number of Megaplex. After a couple of transfers I reached Adrian Sweet’s secretary. He was in conference, his line was busy, he was on holiday, he was not to be disturbed. Very protective, these secretaries, but I kept insisting. Finally she agreed to take my name.
“Just tell him I heard he was interested in photography,” I said, “and that I’m a dealer with some curious specimens he’d want to see.”
She wasn’t very happy about that, but agreed to pass on the message. Almost immediately a nervous-sounding voice came on the line.
“Who is this and what do you want?”
I told him I had some pictures that I found amusing, but that others might not appreciate. He denied any knowledge of what I was talking about, and I had to threaten him a bit.
He groaned. “Oh God! Another one. What do you want?”
“Look, Mr. Sweet, I’ve got some idea about the problems you’re having, and I may be able to help you, but I’ve got to see you, and soon. If you’re not interested, I’ll just send the pictures to some parties who may be.”
He didn’t sound thrilled by the prospect, but he agreed to meet me for lunch at the Pheasant d’Or.
Soon after I hung up, I heard the knob of the front door turn, but the door was locked. There was a soft knock. I figured it was Vicki or Ricki or whatever, back for more. Christ, what a nuisance.
I crossed the room and opened the door about a foot. I saw two hefty men standing there. The one in the front put his arm through the door and stuck a gun in my face. Shit! I hadn’t even had my second cup of coffee.
I just stood there, trying to look surprised and frightened, and suddenly I slammed the door with all my force. I caught his wrist between the door and the jamb. I heard a loud crack that wasn’t the door breaking. The gun dropped out of the hand and there was a scream of pain. I yanked open the door, grabbed the guy’s arm, pulled him in, and flipped him over my back. He hit the floor hard enough to rattle the windows.
I turned around and the second one was racing in, reaching under his jacket for a gun. I didn’t hesitate but threw a punch at his jaw with the full weight of my body behind it. From the way it went all soft at impact, I knew I had shattered his jaw. He flew through the air a few feet. As he hit the floor, a spray of blood came out of his mouth, followed by three or four teeth.
The first one was starting to groan and sit up. I jumped on top of him, knocking him back down. I put my hand at his throat and was just about to crush his windpipe when I heard a voice behind me.
“All right, Hunter, that won’t be necessary.”
I turned around and saw a large man with a dark tan. He was dressed in an expensive beige summer suit and wore a high-quality Panama. He was smoking a ten-inch cigar. He looked like an ad for a Caribbean resort.
“I’m Ratchitt of Vice,” he said.
“And what’s this garbage?” I motioned to the two bodies.
“Just a couple of my boys.”
“They make a nice entrance. Didn’t anyone ever teach them to identify themselves? If they had, I could have saved them some doctor bills. On the other hand, I just might have killed them if I’d known they were vice cops.”
He laughed, briefly and coldly. “I guess it’s my fault. I told them you were a tough guy and that you might not be too keen to talk to us. I guess they were a little too enthusiastic.”
“It happens. No harm done.”
He laughed again and looked disgustedly at the two cops. The one with the broken wrist was sitting up and staring stupidly around.
“Benson, get yourself out of here, and take Phillips with you.”
The one with the broken wrist struggled to his feet. With his good arm he took the arm of the other one and dragged him through the door. I heard a few thumps that must have been Phillips’s head hitting the steps as they went downstairs. Ratchitt shut the front door.
“Hunter, we’ve got a few things to talk about.”
“Fine. What’ll it be? The weather? Or the declining quality of those who are making law enforcement their profession?”
“Don’t try to be smart, Hunter. You don’t make it.”
I hoped I looked suitably abashed.
“I’ll tell you just this time,” he said. “Stay away from the Black Knight Club. You are impeding an important police investigation.”
“Is that what I’m impeding?” I shrugged. “It’s okay with me if that’s what you want to call it, but I would’ve thought there were more precise terms—bribery, take, graft, protection, probably a few others.”
“Hunter, don’t be stupider than necessary, huh? Stay away from the Black Knight.”
I was obviously stepping on some toes, and my visit to the club had brought a quicker response than I had expected. I said as much to Ratchitt, but he ignored my comment. He looked around my apartment, an expression of distaste curling his upper lip.
“What a dump,” he said.
He wasn’t far wrong. My apartment’s decor could be described as “early motel,” but, fuck it, I didn’t care.
Ratchitt held up his cigar. “Look at this. Made special, by hand, from Cuban tobacco brought in through Me
xico. Can’t buy them anyplace. I spend more on my cigars in a week than you spend on rent in a month.” To make the point, he dropped his cigar on the floor and crushed it with his foot.
I didn’t react. I knew I could have broken Ratchitt in half, but it wouldn’t have accomplished anything at this time. I was sure there would be another opportunity. “Your success story is an inspiration to us all,” I said mildly.
He sighed heavily. “Hunter, I’ll try to explain it so that even you can understand. You’re a two-bit shit kicker of a P.I. who thinks he knows some stuff, and who’s trying to make waves in the pot so he can get some of the drippings. Well, you don’t know sweet-fuck-all, and you never will. But I know you. You’re a bum and a punk. Let me tell you—I’ve got a great big house in the hills with a pool. I’ve got a forty-foot cruiser at the marina. I spend more on suits in a year than you earn.”
“And they say that crime doesn’t pay,” I said with a shake of my head, but Ratchitt just continued.
“No cheap P.I. or anybody else is going to fuck that up. Get it? You might be able to deal with jerks like Benson and Phillips who are even cheaper and stupider than you are, but you’ve never come up against anyone like me. You fuck with me, and I’ll bury you. You can count on it.”
I just smiled at him.
“Like I said at the beginning, Hunter, stay out of police business.”
“As in, ‘Crime is the business of the police’? “
He shook his head. “So long, sucker. Just remember—if I have to see you again, it’s your ass.” He stopped at the door. “Oh yeah. You might pass the message on to your buddy, Watkins. He’s poking his nose into things that are none of his concern, and if he keeps it up, he’s going to be in deep shit.”
He left.
I don’t think much of cops, but to be fair, there aren’t many like that asshole. Of course, it doesn’t take many like him to stink up the whole force.
Ratchitt was right about my not knowing what was going on, but people were starting to be bothered, and that was what I wanted. In spite of the way he sounded, even he was getting upset, and I liked that. With his house and his boat and his Cuban cigars, it would be a positive pleasure to take him down, that slimy creep. And I would. Yes, I would.
I picked up his broken cigar. It did look like a good one.
THIRTEEN
The Pheasant d’Or was one of those supposedly classy restaurants around La Cienega. As far as I could tell, the main thing it had going for it was the reputation of being one of the three most expensive restaurants in the city. Apparently lots of jerks impressed themselves by eating there. I would have preferred to meet Sweet for a hot dog somewhere.
I pulled my car into the entranceway, and a kid dressed like the palace guard from the court of Kublai Khan came over to park it. He looked at the car and then at me.
“Are you sure you’re at the right place?” he said.
I snarled at him and he jumped. He looked as though he thought it would be beneath his dignity to have anything to do with my heap, and he hesitated before getting in it.
“Don’t worry,” I called to him, “I got most of the dog shit off the seat.”
He leaped out and wiped the seat down with a rag he carried.
I went in, and a guy who looked a little like Bela Lugosi on a bad day ran over to block my path. He, too, looked like he thought I was in the wrong place.
“I’m here to see Sweet,” I said.
“Gentlemen usually prefer to wear neckties in here,” he said without moving his lips, as though to do so would somehow compromise his stature.
“That’s all right. If I was a gentleman, I’d probably prefer it as well. But I’m not, so there’s no problem.”
“Sir, we have extra neckties. I will bring you one,” he hissed at me.
“Sir,” I hissed back, “if you do I will shove it up your tight little asshole.”
“Well, really—”
“Now, move aside, you greasy toad, or I will pick you up and throw you into the middle of the buffet table.”
I had spotted Sweet over at one side, walked across to him, and introduced myself. He looked the same as he did in his pictures except a little more drawn around the eyes, and he didn’t seem to be enjoying himself nearly as much.
Bela came hurrying over to the table.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Sweet?”
“Yes, André,” he said, not too sure if it was.
André asked if we wished drinks. Sweet ordered a Scotch. I asked for a lot of gin in a tall glass with a little ice. André shook his head as if to say he should have known. He handed us leather-covered menus that were nearly as large as the table and as thick as the telephone book for a medium-sized town. André asked if we wished to order now or later. Sweet said the abalone was excellent and we both said we’d have that. André looked pleased to leave.
I said, “If that guy’s an André, my name’s Chou En-lai.” After that, we both sat in silence. Sweet tapped his fork on the table.
The drinks arrived. Sweet looked relieved, drank his in one gulp, and signaled he wanted another. I tasted my gin. It was cheap and might have been watered. More silence.
The food came. Sweet seemed happy for the diversion and attacked with enthusiasm. The abalone was frozen, tough, and badly prepared. I’d had much better at the shack next to the Santa Monica pier. We ate in silence. Halfway through the meal, André came over and asked Sweet how everything was.
“Fine as ever, André.”
André smiled and bowed slightly forward.
“The gin is cheap and the food’s lousy,” I said.
André’s smile froze. He pulled himself erect.
“The gin is the finest imported English gin,” he said.
“You may use imported English bottles,” I said, “but the stuff inside is the finest domestic cat piss.”
André sputtered for a minute and then hurried away.
Sweet looked pained. “That wasn’t necessary, you know. I frequently eat here.”
“That’s one of your lesser problems.” Sweet cringed as I said that. I looked at him steadily. “Look, Sweet, you may not believe it, but I’m not here to fuck you over. I came on hard because I wanted to get your attention, and that seemed to be the easiest way to do it. I’m a private investigator, and the Black Knight seems to figure in a case I’m working on, but I can’t get much information about it. That’s where I want your help. In return, I may be able to do something for you. I don’t know yet, but we’ll see how things turn out.”
He hesitated. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t, but what do you have to lose?”
He thought about that for a minute and shrugged helplessly.
“You’re being blackmailed?”
“Yes. I thought you knew that.”
“I assumed it. I didn’t know for sure. How can they blackmail you? I know what they’ve got on you, but that seems to be pretty mild stuff these days when nearly anything is tolerated.”
“I wish that was the case, but I’m pretty vulnerable. You see, the people who run Megaplex are Mormon and very conservative. They’d prefer that their top executives didn’t even smoke or drink, but they know that’s unrealistic, and so those ‘vices’ are tolerated. They’d have no such tolerance for my... uh... habits.” He paused and I nodded. “I also have a wife and family whom I love very much. They have no idea that I like... certain kinds of things... and I know it would destroy them and our relationship. I don’t want that to happen.”
“So how much are you paying out?”
“That’s the funny thing. I’m not. Well, I am, kind of, but basically I’m not.”
This started to get confusing, so I had Sweet explain it from the beginning. After a lot of questioning from me, and a lot of digressions for self-pity and self-justification from him, I finally got most of the story.
Sweet’s obsession for discipline dated from the years he spent at an English boarding school
in the early ‘50s when his father was working in London. Homosexuality among the students was traditional at the school, and mildly sadistic forms of punishment and abuse were among the main diversions. For years after Sweet returned to the States, those experiences were forgotten, but under the pressures of work and family life, cravings to experience those pleasures again began to assert themselves. He tried to suppress his feelings, but the harder he tried, the stronger the urges became, until they were nearly tearing him apart.
One day an acquaintance managed to get the truth out of him. Instead of being shocked, the acquaintance understood completely, and he told Sweet there was a place where he could do anything he wanted—a private club that made fantasies real, and not only that, but did so with complete security and discretion. For Sweet it was a dream come true, and he soon became a member of the Black Knight Club. It was expensive—ten thousand dollars to join and a thousand dollars a month membership fees, plus extra charges for the use of the private rooms—but Sweet had the money, and for the first time in years he felt completely satisfied. His work improved as well as his relations with his family, and no one had any idea about his secret life.
Suddenly all that changed. Sweet received a phone call telling him that photos existed and would be made available if Sweet didn’t cooperate. The caller didn’t want money, but only wanted Sweet to queer the take-over of Medco that he was currently negotiating. Sweet didn’t believe about the pictures and refused. Shortly afterward, he was visited by the biggest, ugliest man he had ever seen—friend Mountain, of course—who showed him a couple of photos and exercised some none-too-subtle persuasion. Sweet was terrified that his whole life was about to fall apart, and saw no choice but to cooperate. The take-over was a comparatively small matter for Megaplex, and Sweet had little trouble in canceling the deal. He never understood why anyone would want to stop the merger, and he never knew who was blackmailing him. Other than the voice over the phone, he never had contact with anyone except Mountain.