Second Story Man

by Charles Salzberg

  “Yeah, Tommy, you’re right.”

  “See, we’re on the same wavelength. What do you want me to tell him? I mean, I don’t want to tell him nothing you don’t want me to tell him. I want to get this right. I know it’s important. This is a first step in rebuilding our relationship. It’s very important to me.”

  “What’s important?”

  “Our relationship. It means a lot to me.”

  “You told the boys I was back in town, didn’t you?”

  There was silence. It was the kind of silence you know is really the answer to a question that wasn’t really a question.

  “It’s all right, Tommy.”

  “You mean it?”

  “Yeah. I mean it.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I swear. I mean a couple of them came by to drop off some stuff and they asked about you—”

  “They asked about me?”

  “Yeah. I swear. They did. They asked if you were back in town yet. And, well, it kind of just came out of my mouth. I mean, they were talking about the job and how tough it was with all this new digital alarm system shit and when they asked about you, it just kinda spilled out. You know, how it didn’t seem to bother you, the new systems, I mean. And then one thing led to another…”

  “I said it’s okay.”

  “You mean it? I mean, you’re not pissed at me or nothing.”

  “You are who you are, Tommy.”

  “Yeah. I am. But I want to do right by you, Francis. I want to make up for that other thing.”

  “You think you can make up for it?”

  “You know what I mean. I know I can never get back those two years you spent in the joint. I mean that’s over and done, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s over…and done.”

  “So, what do you want me to do? Anything you want. I’ll do it.”

  He was really beginning to get on my nerves. I don’t like worms and that’s what Tommy Pfister was. A fucking worm. A worm that crawled out of the dirt and primordial slime and landed in front of me. Lucky me, right? But he was a worm that might be come in handy.

  “I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “You can call me back. It’s not like I have to know now. It’s not like I ever have to call him. I don’t want it to sound like I’m being pushy. I want you to trust me again. I mean I like you and all, but I’d really like your business back. You bring in some high-class shit. I mean most of the stuff I get is crap. I can’t make a living on that. You bring me stuff I can actually make something on. That’s why I want to get back into your good graces.”

  “So that’s why.”

  I was playing with him. I didn’t trust the little prick. He’d sell me out in a New York minute. All this bullshit about helping me out might mean be a setup for dropping a dime on me. I wouldn’t put it past the little prick. I know there’s a price on my head and I wouldn’t be surprised if Tommy was already counting the dough.

  “Well, that’s not the only reason why. The big reason is because I owe you.”

  I was getting bored. I could think of a million other things to do other than waste my time talking to him. Time to cut the cord.

  “All right, Tommy. Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to call up this Charlie Floyd and I want you to tell him you heard I was back in town.”

  “They already know that.”

  “I know they know it. I wasn’t finished…”

  “Sorry.”

  “I want you to tell them I’m back in town and you heard, through the grapevine, I was on my way up to the Boston area.”

  “Is that where you’re headed?”

  “Why don’t you just the shut the fuck up. You really think I’m going to tell you where I’m headed and where I’m not headed?”

  “No, I just thought—”

  “Don’t think, Tommy. It’ll just wind up in disaster. I’m telling you what I want you to tell Floyd. You tell him you heard I’m headed up that way. You don’t know if it’s true or not, but that’s what you heard. And you also heard I been talking about using you as my fence again.”

  “You are?”

  “What the fuck you think?”

  “Oh, I get it. You want them to think you’ll be using me because then they’ll keep an eye on me.”

  “You ever think about joining Mensa, Tommy?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  “So, all’s you want me to do is tell him you’re definitely in town but you’re headed up to Boston and that you’re seriously thinking about using me as a fence again.”

  “Bingo!”

  “I can do that, Francis. I really can. You can count on me and you know what, as soon as I do it I’m going to get back to you and I’ll let you know exactly how it went down.”

  “You’re aces, Tommy.”

  “I really appreciate this opportunity to make things right.”

  “That’s okay. You pull this off and you’re well on your way to getting back into my good graces.”

  “That’s all I want. Really. That’s all I want.”

  After I hung up the phone I couldn’t stop laughing.

  Francis Hoyt

  “Do you want me to take my clothes off?”

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s up to you. You’re the one paying, honey.”

  Her name was Eileen Kim. She wasn’t particularly pretty, more like exotic, with long black hair and dark skin. Asian. Korean. Chinese. Vietnamese. Maybe a mixture. Didn’t really matter what she looked like. I was horny and when I’m horny I don’t think straight, so I have to do something about it. That’s what whores are good for. Helping me think straight. And then, after, I can just walk away.

  “Look, just take off your fucking clothes, lie down on the fucking bed, and let’s get going.”

  She made a face.

  “You don’t have to be so…crude.”

  “Let’s get this straight. This isn’t a relationship. This is a business deal. I pay, you fuck. It’s as simple as that.”

  I opened my wallet, peeled off five one-hundred-dollar bills and threw them on the table opposite the bed. “I’m paying for the room by the hour, so let’s get started.”

  She shrugged and started taking off her clothes. She was small. Even smaller than me. Maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, maybe less. She had a nice body. Not perfect, a little too skinny for my taste, but good enough. At least her tits didn’t sag. I hate that. They looked out of proportion with the rest of her body. Probably because they were fake. I’d find out soon enough.

  “Sometimes guys like to talk,” she said, taking a step closer to me. She had beautiful brown, almond-shaped eyes.

  “Not me.”

  “Why are you so unhospitable?”

  “That’s inhospitable.”

  She was still standing there, wearing only her panties, with this stupid look on her face.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No. That’s not what you said. The word’s inhospitable, not unhospitable.”

  She shrugged. “What are you, some kind of professor? You got what I meant, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” I said, as I stripped down to my underwear.

  “What do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I mind.”

  “You’re not very nice.”

  “You’re right. I’m not nice. You ever done this before?” I said, as I moved toward the bed in only my undershorts.

  “Why would you ask me something like that?” she said, as she slipped out of her panties and flung them on the chair along with the rest of her clothes. Now that I saw everything up close and personal I started to get kind of excited. I told Ricky B I didn’t want one of his skanky street whores and for once he came through with what he promised.

  “Because you don’t seem to know how this works.”

  “I know how it works,” she said, giving me a disapproving look, the kind of look I used to get all the time when I did somethi
ng wrong as a kid. “You want a blow job, or a hand job, or what?”

  “I’m paying for two hours, so we can start there.”

  I lay down on the bed and she sat beside me, her legs dangling over the side. I could see her tits much better now and I could see from the way they stuck straight out that they weren’t real. I reached out and touched one just to see for sure. I was right.

  “How long you had these?”

  “That’s a pretty personal question,” she said, as she started caressing my thigh.

  “You don’t want to answer it, don’t answer it.”

  “A year. Pretty good, huh?”

  “Not bad,” I said, fondling one and then the other.

  “They feel like the real thing, right?”

  She ran her hand down my leg.

  “You have nice skin. Soft. And you’re not too hairy. I don’t like hairy men.”

  I pulled her down and kissed her on the mouth.

  “Hey, there’s not supposed to be any kissing. Remember?”

  “Yeah, right. There’s another hundred for you.”

  She smiled then bent over to kiss me this time. Whores. They’ll do anything you want you pay them enough.

  She slipped off my shorts and started stroking my cock, then licked it until it was hard, which didn’t take long.

  The rest of it went the way it was supposed to. Two hours passed, I got my rocks off, and Eileen Kim was seven hundred bucks richer. I tipped her real good. Part of that tip was to keep her mouth shut.

  “I don’t even know who you are,” she said when I slipped her the extra money, “so how could I tell anyone anything?”

  “Just keep it that way.”

  “Whaddya got to hide?”

  “Think about that, Eileen.”

  “About what?”

  “About asking what I’ve got to hide.”

  “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I tell you what I’ve got to hide then there’s nothing to hide anymore.”

  She started to giggle. “You’re right. I guess that’s pretty funny, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It’s a riot. Now why don’t you get the hell out of here?”

  “Jeez, you don’t have to be so mean. By the way, I wouldn’t mind doing this again sometime,” she said, as she finished putting on her clothes.

  “I’m sure.”

  “It ain’t just about the money, you know. You’re in terrific shape.”

  “I got news for you, honey, it’s always about the fucking money. And you know why?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because money is nothing more than a measurement. The more you pay, the better it is. That’s how we measure things in this country. By the price. I paid top dollar for you and I got what I paid for.”

  She thought for a moment then a smiled curled over her mouth.

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Of course, I’m right.”

  “Well, I kinda enjoyed myself. Hey, I just realized something. I don’t even know your name.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me?”

  “You think if I gave you a name it would be the real one?”

  “I guess not. But why don’t you throw out something just so when I think about you I’ll have a name to connect you with.”

  “Mike.”

  “Mike,” she rolled it over in her mind. “Mike. I don’t like that name.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s kinda harsh, you know? And it doesn’t really fit you.”

  “What name do you think would fit me?”

  “Anthony. Yeah, I think you’re an Anthony. Or maybe a Christopher.”

  “Tony, it is.”

  “No. Not Tony. That’s as bad as Mike. Christopher. That’s it. And Chris for short. That’s what I’m gonna call you. Christopher.”

  I smiled. I kinda liked Eileen Kim. Maybe I would see her again. You never know.

  Charlie Floyd

  “Where’d you get these photos?” I asked Manny as I flashed him one of the glossies of Melinda Shaw and one of Evelyn Kerns that sat on the car seat between us.

  We were headed over to Westport where we were supposed to meet up with Ricky B. “Don’t forget to bring those other halfsies,” he rasped into the phone when he called. I knew he would. Money is a very powerful aphrodisiac.

  “The Miami Police Department had those photographs of Evelyn Kerns on file, Charlie Floyd. Our confidential informers provided us with information that she is one of Francis Hoyt’s paramours,” said Manny as he took the photos from me so I could concentrate on the road ahead.

  I laughed. “Only you could use the word ‘paramour’ in a sentence and not make it sound ridiculous. Where’d they get them?”

  “The ones of Melinda Shaw were obtained from her husband. He had hired a private investigator to follow his wife, whom he believed was cheating on him.”

  “With Hoyt?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And Kerns?”

  “The Miami Police Department was investigating a club on the strip and these were among several photographs taken while under surveillance.”

  “Kerns is the one in Miami, right?”

  He nodded.

  “But you’ve never actually met or interviewed her?”

  “No, Charlie Floyd, I have not. I did not even know of her existence until I searched the files for Francis Hoyt’s known associates. The photograph you have in your hand was there among several others. I had planned to interview her, of course, but I was suspended before I could locate her.”

  “Speaking about known associates, are there any others up here beside Pfister?”

  Manny nodded his head, no.

  “Francis Hoyt is a loner. We know he has had relationships with several women in various parts of the country, but never for too long. Evelyn Kerns and Melinda Shaw are the latest, but they will not be the last. It is very possible that there are others, but we have not identified them, as yet. He also had ties to an organized crime family in this area, but those are solely for business purposes and after he spent that time in prison he appears to have avoided them.”

  “What about his family? I mean the guy wasn’t brought up by wolves, was he?”

  Manny laughed. “No, Charlie Floyd, no wolves were involved in the raising of Francis Hoyt. His father is deceased but his mother and sister are still very much alive.”

  “You’ve questioned them?”

  “I went to his mother’s home, she resides in a small town outside Minneapolis, but she would not come to the door. In some ways, Francis Hoyt is a dutiful son. He makes sure she is well taken care of. I learned from the real estate agent who facilitated the purchase that that the house in which she resides was paid for in cash, presumably cash provided by Francis Hoyt. She also informed me that although she never met Francis Hoyt, she did speak to him over the phone. She was surprised when the entire purchase price of the house, one hundred ten thousand dollars, was delivered in a shoebox filled with one-hundred-dollar bills.”

  “Didn’t she think this was strange enough to report it to someone?”

  “She said she thought about it but could not think of a reason why this was illegal. And that, as she said, ‘people keep money in strange places.’”

  “What she really meant is that she didn’t want to think of a reason. This way, she takes her commission in cash and hides some of it. Money talks, Manny. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. What about the sister?”

  “She, too, would not talk to me. Using a common vulgarity, she told me what I could do with myself.”

  “Ha. I’ve been told that plenty of times. I’m still trying to work out the logistics. What about the other one?” I asked, picking up another photo. “This Melinda Shaw chick?”

  “So as far as we know, Evelyn Kerns is his current Miami girlfriend and Melinda Shaw is his current New York girlfriend. But things change very quickly with Francis Hoyt.”

 
We were only a few minutes away from Westport. Our meeting with Ricky B was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. in, of all places, the playground of an elementary school. Not the best place for a pimp to be hanging out but he was adamant about having the meeting there.

  “Meet me by the jungle gym, man,” he said.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No, man. It brings me back to my childhood. I used to love swinging from them bars.”

  I checked myself from saying he was probably far more familiar with being behind bars. I didn’t want to alienate him before we even started.

  “There’ll be kids around, Ricky. Why don’t you choose another venue?”

  “It’s Saturday, man. There ain’t gonna be no kids around there. It’s the jungle gym, or you can forget about it.”

  “You know,” I said, as I pulled off the highway. “I think we may want to work this girlfriend angle.”

  Manny nodded.

  “All we have to do is find both chicks and see if we can get them to cooperate. Why don’t I try tracking down the Shaw woman and you go back to Miami and see if you can find Kerns?”

  “I would be very happy to do that, Charlie Floyd. I miss my family.”

  “Before you leave can you get some information on the PI who took these shots of Shaw with Hoyt?”

  “That should not be a problem.”

  I parked across the street from the school. Ricky was right. The playground, part of a sports complex, was empty. To the left, there was an empty baseball diamond. To the right, a soccer field where there were a few girls kicking the ball around. Behind the playground were two tennis courts. One was empty the other was being used by a couple of older women, dressed all in white, wearing white hats turned down at the brim. They were whacking the ball back and forth at a pretty good clip. I’d played a little tennis in high school. I was even good enough to make the team but my temper did me in. If I missed a shot I’d as often as not slam my racquet on the ground in disgust. This did not endear me to the coach who claimed it got in the way of my effectiveness as a player. I pointed out that it didn’t seem to hurt John McEnroe. He pointed out I was no John McEnroe. He was right. I missed enough shots so that my racquet took a pretty good beating. Instead of replacing it, I quit the team and joined the baseball squad instead. I was a pretty good hitter and a more than adequate outfielder. If I did mess up I figured I couldn’t do much damage to my glove when I slammed it to the ground. But I lost interest in that after a season when I realized I wasn’t much of a team player.