The One a Month Man

by Michael Litchfield

  ‘But why should they have gone to that trouble for Tina? She was a looker, undoubtedly, but there’s nothing exceptional about that in LA or Vegas, surely?’

  ‘Not many with a cute English accent, though; a precious commodity in certain jobs over here. Something a lot of people, me included, are envious of.’

  ‘Where did you get all this info about Tina?’

  ‘Sources. You know the drill, you should know better than to ask me that.’

  ‘Of course. Sorry.’

  ‘Pardon granted. However, there’s more.’

  ‘You have me salivating.’

  ‘Spare me such details, please! The casino was the Sandstorm. On The Strip, but only just. Not one of the biggies. However, it was Mob-owned and there was a big push to improve its Strip cred. Heavy investment was underway. The Mob was using its muscle to get celebrities like Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jnr to show up, not necessarily to sing, but just to mingle and be photographed purporting to be playing the tables. Punters were flown from here, LA, San Diego and San Francisco, with their air fares paid for them. Accommodation rates at the Sandstorm were drastically pruned. Booze was free and plentiful; anything to entice the high-rollers. Once at the tables and plied with alcohol, the casino’s outlay would be recouped tenfold. This is all documented history. Vegas folklore. The important handle for you to hang on to is the inherent corruption within the state of Nevada, where the Mafia was king, not Presley, during the relevant era. Elvis merely sang for the king. So putting Tina on the payroll, securing her a Green Card, making her legit, was a kind of daily transaction, something left for a Mob minion to deal with.’

  ‘Is Tina still in Vegas?’ I said, hoping not to sound impatient.

  ‘No, but I’ll come to that. Let’s stick with chronology.’

  ‘You’re the storyteller,’ I said, amiably.

  Meanwhile, Sarah had drifted to the balcony, where, to the west, she had a view of the ocean and the beach, under a cloudless canopy. To the east, however, downtown LA and the Valley were almost totally obscured by a shroud of sulphur-bloated, low-hovering smog. Somewhere in that lung-congesting pollution was Charley, on the end of a phone-line, talking with me; in another climate. Might as well be on another planet. Life in LA could be deadly dangerous, long before taking a bullet.

  ‘I’ve been talking with a guy who was a dealer at the Sandstorm.’

  ‘A drugs dealer?’ I cut in.

  ‘No, no, a dealer at the tables; blackjack and a roulette croupier.’

  ‘Got you!’ I said, feeling a shade foolish.

  ‘He left Vegas when the Sandstorm closed. Later, it was bulldozed and is now a medical clinic. He’s retired and lives alone in LA in a rented, two-room rat-hole, but he remembers Tina Chekov.’

  Now I became wary. Vegas casinos were awash with women: gaming addicts, croupiers, waitresses, hostesses, showgirls, man-hunters and hookers. Why should he recall one of them, someone very low in the pecking order, from all those years ago? Despite O’Malley’s endorsement, I began to wonder if Charley was spinning me an elaborate yarn just for the commission; taking me for not just an out-of-town sucker, but an out-of-country sucker.

  ‘Why should he remember her?’ I challenged Charley, though not overtly aggressive.

  ‘Because she didn’t stay front of house for very long. Because she made a name for herself. In addition to making a nuisance of herself.’

  ‘Pray tell how did you make a name for yourself at a Las Vegas casino, unless you were Elvis or one of the Rat Pack?’

  ‘Simple. She became the favourite of the boss, the chief exec.’

  ‘You mean she became his mistress?’

  ‘And in doing so made an enemy of the woman she deposed. Apparently, the catfights were legendary. Front-row seats could have been sold for big bucks. One night a couple of blackjack tables were overturned, spilling all the chips and cards, and the two women had to be pulled apart by a couple of Security heavies. Tina eventually became known as the “Duchess” because of the way she lorded it around the joint, flicking fingers at waitresses and getting people fired if she took a dislike to them.’

  ‘Did the boss have a wife?’

  ‘A long-suffering one, but trying to divorce a mobster is tantamount to breaking the Mafia law of omerta; you’re likely to lose a lot more than an arm and a leg.’

  ‘So tell me how it all ended in tears in Vegas for Tina?’ I said, echoing my guess, which I estimated was an educated one.

  ‘One night, as she climbed out of her white convertible in the casino’s parking lot, someone stepped from the shadows and flooded her face with acid.’

  Momentarily, I was speechless. I was transported in a mental time-machine to Mrs Marlowe’s home in Bedford, where I was looking at the portrait of that truly beautiful young woman, Tina. A face that since then had been deliberately scorched with acid. I remembered everything that Mrs Marlowe had said about her daughter and everything was skewed. But that was life, I’d learned. Every sinner had once been a saint in a mother’s eye.

  ‘What was the outcome?’ I said, with a sinking feeling, fearing that Tina had gone to the worms and maggots years ago.

  ‘She was rushed to hospital, naturally. Doctors saved her life.’

  Relief!

  ‘They didn’t save her face, though; nor all her sight.’

  Renewed consternation. If we did trace Tina, would she be up to testifying against ‘The One-A-Month Man’?

  ‘So she was partially blinded?’ My question was a cocktail of panic and hope, in just about equal measures.

  ‘She lost all sight from one eye.’

  ‘Permanently?’

  ‘Permanently, yes.’ Cold-bloodedly and even heartlessly, she added, ‘Quite a price to pay for fucking around with people.’

  ‘Did they catch the assailant?’

  ‘No. It could have been a man or woman. There were no witnesses. The attacker didn’t speak. Tina screamed, but no one was seen running from the crime scene. The boss’s ex-bedroom playmate and wife were questioned, but their alibis were bulletproof. Someone was probably paid to do it, which is the way it works around here. Standard MO.’

  ‘Was there no money trail? Someone would have been paid. Not the sort of thing someone would do just for love.’

  ‘Maybe not for love, but most certainly for hate or lust.’

  ‘Lust?’ I said, baffled.

  ‘Yes, you know, a promise of action between the sheets could have been a sufficient temptation. If the truth be known, the cops were probably not too fussed.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I asked, for no other reason than professional curiosity.

  ‘Because of what she was. Because the Mob didn’t like bad publicity. And any story that frightened away punters was the worst possible publicity. It hit the place it hurt most – their pockets. Tina was in hospital for weeks, her face swathed in bandages. She received flowers daily, but in all that time not one visitor.’

  ‘Did that info also come from your dealer contact?’

  ‘No, I’ve spoken with a Nevada sheriff. He pulled the file for me. I promised him a Christmas card.’

  I smiled knowingly. The world was turned by the same axle and grease wherever you stood or worked.

  ‘When she was eventually discharged, Tina called the boss man at the Sandstorm. He agreed to meet her at a diner off the Strip for a coffee and doughnut. On the phone she’d said she wanted to talk about returning to work. Of course, he’d long ago engaged a new sleeping partner. Apparently, when he saw Tina’s face, he told her she was fired and barred her from ever setting foot again in his casino. He walked out, leaving his drink and doughnut untouched – and the tab for her to settle.’

  ‘A real charmer,’ I said, ‘but how would the police have known about that conversation?’ I needed to forensically test the veracity of everything I was being told in order to form a view about Charley’s credibility.

  ‘They didn’t. I got this from the retired dealer.
Apparently, the casino boss strutted around the joint, boasting about how he’d booted off the payroll the world’s ugliest whore, whose only chance of making a living was in a freak show.’

  I had a suspicion that the story was winding down. ‘OK, so what became of her?’

  ‘Well, there was nothing left for her in Vegas and that’s the end of the first chapter, which comes free. Anything else, you’re going to have to pay for.’

  ‘So you don’t know where she went?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘The problem is, as I see it, Tina could have flown literally anywhere,’ I said, downcast. ‘And how long ago was that? At least twenty years.’

  ‘A big hole to fill, I admit,’ she said. ‘But not as deep as it was twenty-four hours ago and when you left the UK.’

  ‘Spoken like my kind of philosopher,’ I said, agreeably.

  ‘Call you same time tomorrow. Ciao.’

  ‘I’ll be here,’ I said, into a vacuum.

  I postponed breakfast for a few more minutes while I phoned Sharkey to update him, deciding that the time was now ripe for introducing Charley to him vicariously. By then, Sarah was squatting beside me on the bed, a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘You’ve done what!’ thundered Sharkey.

  ‘Only way we were going to get anywhere,’ I said, equably.

  ‘You have no authority.’

  ‘Used my initiative,’ I said provocatively, winking sideways at Sarah. I could have taken a blood-pressure reading over the phone.

  ‘What about our special relationship with US law enforcement?’

  ‘Doesn’t come on the cheap any more. They’re too busy fighting their own crime. Now let me give you the good news.’

  As I brought him up to date, so all symptoms of astronomically high blood pressure receded.

  ‘And what’s our national debt come to so far?’

  ‘Zero,’ I said, giving time for this to sink in.

  ‘Nothing!’ he enthused, as ecstatic as a man facing bankruptcy whose debt had been wiped out by a mysterious benefactor.

  ‘A goodwill gesture,’ I said.

  ‘From a PI? I don’t believe it! Are you bullshitting me again or have you found a fairy godmother among thieves?’

  ‘No bullshit and she’s no fairy.’ Without histrionics, I sketched for him the arrangement with Charley.

  ‘Well, as long as you dig up Tina, alive and serviceable, I suppose we’ll be able to get it through our tight-arsed accountants,’ he said, grudgingly. Then, with a rare flourish of kinship, he added, ‘Not like it used to be, when there was a bottomless pit to fund speculative fishing trips. Now it’s like running a pawnbroker’s shop, always trying to undervalue everything and getting things on the cheap.’

  Hyperbole, of course; nevertheless, it captured the mood of most of us who were supposed to sanitize the streets with a decimated workforce – sweepers with fewer and fewer brooms.

  ‘So he bought it?’ said Sarah, as I hung up.

  ‘Sharkey isn’t buying anything. He hasn’t the beans to buy. We’re the peanut cops.’

  ‘But we continue?’

  ‘For now. He can’t afford to keep us here indefinitely. Neither can he afford for us to give up the chase. Like the world economy, he’s in a black hole. However, if Charley comes up with the goods, we’ll ensure he honours that liability.’

  ‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘We hit the restaurant for a mega breakfast and make a further dip in Sharkey’s black hole.’

  ‘If we’re going under, we might as well go down like the Titanic, in style, band playing.’

  A kindred spirit, indeed.

  11

  For the next two days we were able to continue swanning around as if on holiday, despite Sharkey’s little lecture. We lounged around the pool, sunbathed on the beach, ate late breakfasts and lunches, and dined alfresco at leisure. We were rudderless until Charley returned to give us a steer.

  When we last spoke, Charley promised to phone ‘same time’ next morning, and she didn’t let me down, but it was only to say, ‘I’ve put out lots of feelers; still waiting for call-backs. Talk with you tomorrow,’ which she did, bang on cue, but only to repeat, almost verbatim, the previous message.

  And then:

  ‘Have you two had breakfast yet?’

  ‘No, Charley, but we’re just about to.’

  ‘If you can hold fire for another forty-five, I’ll join you at the banquet.’

  ‘Will it be worth our suffering hunger pangs?’ I answered, convivially.

  ‘Yes, oh, yes … on my life!’

  ‘Then we’ll happily starve,’ I said, speaking for Sarah as well as myself.

  ‘I’m already on my way to my car.’

  Sarah’s face and eyes were ablaze with questions, which I addressed as we headed for the lifts.

  We waited in the lobby, sharing sections of the Los Angeles Times. Charley came through the entrance as if propelled by a hurricane, hair flowing like that of a galloping thoroughbred. Her cop’s eyes vacuumed the scene in one sweep and she made us without breaking stride.

  ‘Hi,’ she greeted us, as I tucked the newspaper under my arm.

  ‘Let’s eat,’ I said, dispensing with formalities.

  Charley was dressed similarly to our first memorable encounter, though now she carried a suede briefcase, which suited her better than the weapon in her shoulder-handbag and snub-nosed miniature that caressed her calf.

  ‘Lead the way,’ said Charley, which I did.

  A waitress poured us coffees. The food, hot and cold, was at the buffet counter. Charley snapped open her briefcase, which she’d rested on her legs. I was famished for food, but even hungrier for information.

  ‘Business before we eat or after?’ said Charley, removing papers from her briefcase.

  ‘Before,’ I said, overruling my grumbling stomach, which gave me an acidic-kicking for being so inconsiderate.

  ‘OK, what I’ve been doing is exploiting my contacts in the IRS and other similar agencies, plus banks, credit card companies, and cell-phone network providers. Only people living rough on the streets can ever avoid the radar of national bureaucracy, Big Brother, the ultimate voyeur. The most important news for you two is that Tina is alive.’

  ‘Where?’ I said, on the edge of my seat now, unable to restrain myself.

  ‘Still in this country. She became a US citizen some ten years ago. She pays her taxes. She has no sheet. She has two bank accounts, three credit cards, and a Blackberry. Oh, and she’s a pillar of society, with one child, a daughter. Although not married, she’s in a longstanding, stable relationship. After fleeing Vegas, she underwent cosmetic surgery here.’

  ‘In Santa Monica?’ I enquired, for clarification.

  ‘Don’t know … and that’s the truth. Suffice it to say, it was somewhere in LA.’

  ‘Was it a complete reconstruction job?’ Sarah asked, always one for the minutia.

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Very expensive,’ intoned Sarah, half-question, half-statement.

  ‘Maybe not as much as you think. The surgeon is the father of Tina’s child.’

  Stick my face back together again and you can fuck me to the moon. Not an unreasonable assessment of mine, I reckoned.

  ‘So Tina’s in LA?’ I said, arguably upbeat.

  ‘No, she’s in New York City. Queens district.’

  ‘Living with her creative knifeman, the designer surgeon?’ I surmised, as if stating the obvious.

  ‘Oh, no; that was an affair that lasted under a year. He was already married and remains so; well, that’s my limited understanding.’

  Another twist in the maze. Where were we heading now?

  ‘What’s she doing in New York?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘She runs a refuge for women victims of domestic violence. Any abuse, really.’

  ‘Very laudable,’ Sarah commented, without spin or undertow.

  ‘So when did she find God?’ I wondered aloud, argum
entatively.

  ‘Good Samaritans may be rooted in biblical legend, but since when has a religious belief been mandatory for humanitarianism?’ said Charley, her question both abrasive and rhetorical.

  I raised my serviette as a white flag of surrender. ‘What’s her partner do for his daily bread?’

  ‘She’s a management risk assessor,’ said Sarah, without blinking.

  I turned to Sarah. She turned to me. Eyes locked, before we both eyeballed Charley, who was enjoying the moment, playing us like an angler with two stunned fish on one teasing hook.

  ‘You mean her lover’s a woman?’ I said, trying not to sound incredulous, but failing.

  ‘It’s not exactly a phenomenon,’ Charley replied, searchingly. ‘Why should you be surprised?’

  I had to think about that because it was an iceberg question, with hidden implications and the ability to sink reputations and credibility. ‘Because of what she was doing in Vegas. Because of what she’d been doing in London. Because of her having a child.’

  ‘Proclivities change, you know,’ said Charley, turning me into a Stone Age relic.

  I held up my serviette yet again.

  ‘Now to a much more sensitive matter,’ said Charley, roguishly and fidgeting, head bowed as if in prayer. She crossed her legs, left over right; then right over left. She twiddled a pen, rearranged her paperwork, and pitched a sightless gaze somewhere over my head.

  ‘Tina’s partner is a Laura Farrow. A little younger than Tina, but not much. She’s away from home a lot – on business.’

  ‘Assessing risks for companies, I assume?’ I interjected with what seemed to me a logical assumption.

  ‘That’s what Tina believes.’

  ‘You mean Laura’s two-timing on Tina?’ said Sarah, female angst festering.

  ‘Not the way you’re imagining. Laura isn’t a management risk assessor; that’s just a cover, but, for it to be foolproof, not even her closest family must be privy to the truth.’

  ‘Then what the hell is she?’ I said, wanting an end to this suspense.