Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense: The Rosary Girls, the Skin Gods, Merciless, Badlands

by Richard Montanari

  He said this like it was hard to believe. “No,” she said. “But you know what? I’m okay with that.”

  Thick as a batter-dipped brick, he pressed on. “Have you ever danced? I mean, you know, professionally.”

  Here we go, Jessica thought. “Oh, sure.”

  The guy snapped his fingers. “I knew it,” he said. “I never forget a beautiful face. Or a great body. Where did you dance?”

  “Well, I was with the Bolshoi for a couple of years. But the commute was killing me.”

  The guy cocked his head at a ten-degree angle, thinking—or whatever he did as a substitute for thinking—that the Bolshoi might have been a strip club in Newark. “I’m not familiar with that place.”

  “I’m stunned.”

  “Was that full nude?”

  “No. They make you dress like a swan.”

  “Wow,” he said. “Sounds hot.”

  “Oh, it is.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Isadora.”

  “I’m Chester. My friends call me Chet.”

  “Well, Chester, it was great chatting with you.”

  “You leaving?” He made a slight move toward her. Spidery. Like maybe he was thinking about keeping her on the stool.

  “Yeah, unfortunately. Duty calls.” She slipped her badge onto the bar. Chet’s face went drab. It was like showing a cross to a vampire. He backed off.

  Byrne returned from the men’s room, locked stares with Chet.

  “Hey, how ya doin’?” Chet asked.

  “Never better,” Byrne said. To Jessica: “Ready?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  “See you around,” Chet said to her. Cool now, for some reason.

  “I’ll count the minutes.”

  ON THE SECOND floor the two detectives, led by a pair of massive bodyguards, traversed a maze of hallways, the journey ending at a reinforced steel door, above which, encased in thick security plastic, was a CCTV camera. A pair of electronic locks graced the wall next to the hardware-free door. Thug One spoke into a handheld radio. A moment later the door inched open. Thug Two pulled it wide. Byrne and Jessica entered.

  The large room was sparsely lighted with indirect spots, deep-orange sconces, pin-light cans recessed into the ceiling. An authentic-looking Tiffany lamp graced the colossal oak desk, behind which sat a man who, based on Byrne’s description, could only have been Callum Blackburn.

  The man’s face lit up when he saw Byrne. “I don’t believe it,” he said. He arose, put both hands in front of him, handcuff-style. Byrne laughed. The men hugged, clapped each other on the back. Callum took a half step backward, did a second inventory of Byrne, hands on his hips. “You look well.”

  “You too.”

  “I cannae complain,” he said. “I was sorry to hear of your troubles.” His accent was broad Scots, tempered by a number of years in eastern Pennsylvania.

  “Thank you,” Byrne said.

  Callum Blackburn was a vigorous sixty. He had chiseled features, dark lively eyes, a pure silver goatee, salt-and-pepper hair swept back. He wore a well-tailored charcoal suit, white shirt, open collar, and a small hoop earring.

  “This is my partner, Detective Balzano,” Byrne said.

  Callum straightened, turned fully toward Jessica, dipped his chin in greeting. Jessica had no idea what to do. Was she supposed to curtsy? She stuck her hand out. “Nice to meet you.”

  Callum took her hand, smiled. For a white-collar criminal, he was kind of charming. Byrne had filled her in on Callum Blackburn. His stretch had been for credit-card fraud.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Callum said. “If I knew that detectives were so beautiful these days, I would nae have given up my life of crime.”

  “Have you?” Byrne asked.

  “I am just a humble businessman from Glasgow,” he said with a glimmer of a smile. “Soon to be an auld father, at that.”

  One of the first lessons Jessica had learned on the street was that there was always subtext in conversations with criminals, an almost certain inversion of the truth. I never met him generally meant We grew up together. I was never there usually meant It happened at my house. I am innocent almost always meant I did it. When Jessica had first joined the force, she’d felt as if she needed a Criminal-to-English dictionary. Now, after nearly a decade, she could probably have taught Criminalese.

  Byrne and Callum went way back, it seemed, which meant that the conversation would probably ring a little closer to the truth. Once someone puts you in handcuffs and watches you walk into a prison cell, it’s harder to play tough guy.

  Still, they were here to get information from Callum Blackburn. For the time being, they had to play his game. Small talk before big talk.

  “How is your bonny wife?” Callum asked.

  “Still bonny,” Byrne said, “but no longer my wife.”

  “This is such sad news,” Callum said, looking genuinely surprised and disheartened. “What did you do?”

  Byrne sat back, crossed his arms. Defensive. “What makes you think I screwed it up?”

  Callum lifted one eyebrow.

  “Okay,” Byrne said. “You’re right. It was the job.”

  Callum nodded, perhaps accepting that he himself—and those of his ilk and criminal persuasion—had been part of “the job,” and therefore partly responsible. “We have a saying in Scotland. ‘Clippet sheep will growe again.’ ”

  Byrne looked at Jessica, back at Callum. Did the man just call him a sheep? “Truer words, eh?” Byrne said, hoping to move on.

  Callum smiled, winked at Jessica, knitted his fingers. “So,” he said. “To what do I owe this visit?”

  “A woman named Kristina Jakos was found murdered yesterday,” Byrne said. “Did you know her?”

  Callum Blackburn’s face was unreadable. “I’m sorry, what is her name again?”

  “Kristina Jakos.”

  Byrne put the photograph of Kristina on the desk. Both detectives watched Callum as he glanced at it. He knew they were watching him, and he betrayed nothing.

  “Do you recognize her?” Byrne asked.

  “Aye.”

  “How so?” Byrne asked.

  “She recently came into my employ,” Callum said.

  “You hired her?”

  “My son Alex does all the hiring.”

  “She worked as a receptionist?” Jessica asked.

  “I will let Alex explain.” Callum stepped away, took out a cell phone, made a call, clicked off. He turned back to the detectives. “He will be here shortly.”

  Jessica glanced around the office. It was well appointed, if not a little gaudy: faux-suede wallpaper, gold filigreed-framed oils of landscapes and hunting scenes, a fountain in the corner that looked like a trio of golden swans. Talk about your irony, she thought.

  The wall to the left of Callum’s desk was the most impressive. On it were ten flat-screen monitors hooked into closed-circuit cameras, showing various angles on the bars, the stages, the front door, the parking lot, the cash room. On six of the screens were dancing girls in varying stages of undress.

  While they waited, Byrne stood in front of the display, transfixed. Jessica wondered if he was aware that his mouth hung open.

  Jessica walked over to the monitors. Six sets of breasts jiggled, some more than others. Jessica counted them off. “Fake, fake, real, fake, real, fake.”

  Byrne was horrified. He looked like a five-year-old boy who had just learned the cold hard truth about the Easter Bunny. He pointed to the last monitor, one showing a dancer, an impossibly leggy brunette. “Those are fake?”

  “Those are fake.”

  While Byrne gawked, Jessica perused the books on the shelves, mostly by Scottish writers—Robert Burns, Walter Scott, J. M. Barrie. She then noticed a single wide-screen monitor on its own, built into the wall behind Callum’s desk. It showed a screensaver of sorts, a small golden box that continually opened to reveal a rainbow.

  “What’s this?” Jessica asked Callum.
>
  “That is a closed-circuit feed to an unusual club,” Callum said. “It is on the third floor. It is called the Pandora Lounge.”

  “Unusual how?”

  “Alex will explain.”

  “What goes on up there?” Byrne asked.

  Callum smiled. “The Pandora Lounge is a special place for special girls.”

  26

  For once Tara Lynn Greene had made it on time. She had risked a speeding ticket—one more and her license would definitely be suspended—and she had parked in the expensive lot down the street from the Walnut Street Theater. These were two things she couldn’t afford.

  On the other hand, this was a casting call for Carousel and Marc Balfour was directing. The coveted role was Julie Jordan. Shirley Jones had played the part in the 1956 film and she had parlayed the role into a lifelong career.

  Tara had just come off a successful run of Nine at the Centre Theater in Norristown. A local reviewer had called her “fetching.” For Tara, “fetching” was about as good as it was going to get. She caught her reflection in the front window of the theater lobby. At twenty-seven, she was no newcomer, and hardly the ingenue. Okay, twenty-eight, she thought. But who’s counting?

  She walked the two blocks back to the indoor parking lot. A freezing wind whistled down Walnut. Tara rounded the corner, looked at the sign on the small kiosk and calculated her parking fee. She owed sixteen dollars. Sixteen frickin’ dollars. She had a single twenty in her wallet.

  Ah, well. It looked like Ramen noodles again tonight. Tara took the steps down to the basement level, slipped into her car, waited until it warmed up. While she waited, she turned up the CD—Kay Starr singing “C’est Magnifique.”

  When the car was finally warm, she put it in reverse, backed up, her mind a clutter of hopes, opening-night jitters, stellar reviews, wild applause.

  Then she felt the bump.

  Oh my God, she thought. Had she run over something? She put the car in park, pulled the hand brake, and got out. She walked behind the vehicle, looked beneath. Nothing. She hadn’t run over anything or anybody. Thank God.

  Then Tara saw it: she had a flat. On top of everything else, she had a flat. And she had less than twenty minutes to get to her job. Like every other actress in Philly, probably the world, Tara waited tables.

  She glanced around the parking level. No one. Thirty cars or so, a few vans. No people. Shit.

  She tried to combat the anger, the tears. She didn’t even know if there was a spare tire in the trunk. The car was a two-year-old compact and she hadn’t ever had to change one of its tires before.

  “Having a problem?”

  Tara wheeled around, a little startled. A man was getting out of the white van a few spaces down from her car. He carried a bouquet of flowers.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.” He pointed at her tire. “Doesn’t look too good.”

  “It’s only flat on the bottom,” she said. “Ha-ha.”

  “I’m really good at these things,” he said. “I’d be happy to help.”

  She looked at her reflection in the car window. She was wearing her white wool coat. Her best. She could just imagine the grease on the front. And the dry-cleaning bill. More expense. Of course, she had long ago let her AAA dues lapse. She had never once used it when she was paying for it. And now, of course, she needed it.

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she said.

  “It’s no big deal,” he said. “You’re not exactly dressed for automotive repair.”

  Tara saw him sneak a covert glance at his watch. If she was going to snag him for the task, it had better be soon. “Sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble?” she asked.

  “No trouble at all.” He held up the bouquet. “I have to deliver these by four o’clock, and then I’m done for the day. I have plenty of time.”

  She looked around the parking level. It was all but deserted. As much as she hated to play the helpless female—she knew how to change a tire, after all—she could use the help.

  “You’re going to have to let me pay you for this,” she said.

  He held up a hand. “I wouldn’t hear of it. Besides, it’s Christmas.”

  Good thing, too, she thought. After she’d paid for her parking she’d have a grand total of four dollars and seventeen cents. “This is very nice of you.”

  “Pop the trunk,” he said. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

  Tara reached in the window, flipped the trunk lever. She walked to the back of the car. The man grabbed the jack, pulled it out. He looked around for somewhere to put down the flowers. It was an enormous bouquet of gladiolas wrapped in bright white paper.

  “Do you think you could you put these back in my van for me?” he asked. “My boss would kill me if I got them dirty.”

  “Sure,” she said. She took the flowers from him, turned toward the van.

  “—gale,” he said.

  She spun around. “I’m sorry?”

  “You could just put them in the back.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Okay.”

  Tara walked over to the van, thinking that it was things like this—little kindnesses from total strangers—that all but restored her faith in people. Philly could be a tough town, but sometimes you wouldn’t know it. She opened the back door of the van. She expected to see boxes, paper, greenery, florist foam, ribbons, maybe a bunch of those little cards and envelopes. Instead she saw … nothing. The interior of the van was immaculate. Except for the exercise mat on the floor. And the coil of blue and white rope.

  Before she could put the flowers down she sensed a presence. A close presence. Too close. She smelled cinnamon mouthwash; saw a shadow just inches away.

  When Tara turned toward the shadow, the man swung the jack handle at the back of her neck. It connected with a dull thud. Her head rattled. Black circles ringed with a supernova of bright orange fire presented themselves behind her eyes. He brought the steel bar down again, not hard enough to knock her cold, just to stun her. Her legs gave way beneath her and Tara collapsed into strong arms.

  The next thing she knew she was on her back, on the exercise mat. She was warm. It smelled like paint thinner. She heard the doors slam, heard the engine start.

  When she opened her eyes again there was gray daylight coming through the windshield. They were in motion.

  When she tried to sit up he reached over, a white cloth in his hand. He placed it over her face. The medicine smell was strong. Soon she drifted away on a beam of dazzling light. But right before the world went away, Tara Lynn Greene—the fetching Tara Lynn Greene—suddenly realized what the man had said back at the parking garage:

  You are my nightingale.

  27

  Alasdair Blackburn was a taller version of his father, around thirty, broad-shouldered, athletic. He was dressed casually, wore his hair a little long. He spoke with a slight brogue. They met in Callum’s office.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “I had an errand.” He shook hands with Jessica and Byrne. “Please call me Alex.”

  Byrne explained why they were there. He showed the man Kristina’s photograph. Alex confirmed that Kristina Jakos had worked at Stiletto.

  “What is your position here?” Byrne asked.

  “I’m the general manager,” Alex said.

  “And you do most of the hiring?”

  “I do all of it—performers, waitstaff, kitchen staff, security, cleaning, parking attendants.”

  Jessica wondered whatever had possessed him to hire her friend Chet downstairs.

  “How long was Kristina Jakos an employee here?” Byrne asked.

  Alex thought for a moment. “Perhaps three weeks or so.”

  “In what capacity?”

  Alex glanced at his father. Out of the corner of her eye, Jessica saw the slightest nod of Callum’s head. Alex might do the hiring, but Callum pulled the strings.

  “She was a performer,” Alex said. For a moment his eyes shone. Jessica wondered if his rel
ationship with Kristina Jakos had gone beyond the professional.

  “A dancer?” Byrne asked.

  “Yes and no.”

  Byrne stared at Alex for a moment, expecting clarification. None was offered. He pressed harder. “And what exactly would be the no part?”

  Alex sat on the edge of his father’s massive desk. “She was a dancer, but not like these other girls.” He waved a dismissive hand at the monitors.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll show you,” Alex said. “Let’s go up to the third floor. To the Pandora Lounge.”

  “What’s on the third floor?” Byrne asked. “Lap dancing?”

  Alex smiled. “No,” he said. “This is different.”

  “Different?”

  “Aye,” he said, crossing the room, opening the door for them. “The young ladies who work in the Pandora Lounge are performance artists.”

  THE PANDORA LOUNGE on the third floor of Stiletto was a series of eight rooms, divided by a long, dimly lit hallway. On the walls were crystal sconces, fleur-de-lis velveteen wallpaper. The carpeting was deep blue shag. A table and gold-veined mirror stood at the end. Each door had a tarnished brass number.

  “This is a private floor,” Alex said. “Private dancers. Very exclusive. It is dark now because it does not open until midnight.”

  “This is where Kristina Jakos worked?” Byrne asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Her sister said she worked as a receptionist.”

  “Some young ladies are a bit reluctant to admit that they are exotic dancers,” Alex said. “We put whatever they choose on the forms.”

  As they walked down the hall, Alex opened doors. Each room was dedicated to a different theme. One had an Old West motif, complete with sawdust on the hardwood floor and a brass spittoon. One was a replica of a 1950s diner. Yet another had a Star Wars theme. It was like walking into that old movie Westworld, Jessica thought, the one about the exotic resort in which Yul Brynner played the robot gunslinger who went haywire. A closer look, in brighter light, would have revealed that these rooms were a bit shabby, and that the illusion of the various historical settings was just that, an illusion.