Aphrodisiac

by Alicia Street

  One distinct problem remained. The sweet rosa de Jerico had faded and a faint smell of rotting fruit had taken over. Wheeeuw. Couldn’t tell if it was rue or some other pungent herb Inez used. I sprayed some J Lo Live Luxe on my arms and throat. And some Opium on my legs and tummy. I figured this ought to cover it up. Didn’t make a dent. How about Euphoria? I dabbed on a bit. Sniff. Nope, weird taint still there. Maybe Boss Woman. Not bossy enough.

  I’d gone through about ten of the perfumes on my dresser by the time Benita opened her bedroom door and called to me. “Saylor, you’ve got to help me decide what to wear. After telling me how many celebs and society folk go to these perfume parties, I don’t want anybody thinking I’m there to bus tables.”

  Definitely worse than her usual clothing quandary. Odd how our past wounds have a way of sneaking up on us. Something even the best therapy can’t cure. I understood. Like Benita, I’d busted my tail to achieve a lifestyle that offered a little glamour and fun. But deep inside I’d always be the working-class daughter of the folks who ran the local foam outlet.

  I capped my bottle of Wicked and buzzed across the loft. “Don’t worry, sweetie. You’re the only woman I know who can go five rounds and still look like she walked off the runway.”

  Her room revealed the two sides of Benita. Boxing posters on the wall, and white lace curtains on the windows. “¡Ay, Dios mio!” she said. “You smell like a backed up toilet.”

  “But I covered the protective oils with floral perfumes.”

  “So you’re a garden with fresh manure.”

  “Thanks. Pick out your own clothes.” Then it dawned on me. I stepped closer to her. “You didn’t put on the oils Inez sent you.”

  “Mami means well, but she gets a little carried away.”

  “How’re you going to protect yourself against someone like Drummond? Something terrible could happen.”

  “Yeah, like some nutcase CEO could hire a couple goons to kill us and our families.”

  Uncle Pete was having a walkabout in her room, his small head cocked to one side as he recited a medley of his favorite dirty words.

  I knew Benita couldn’t be pushed, so I just pulled a crepe V-neck tank dress from her closet. “Try this. You should always wear body-hugging clothes to show off how cut you are.” Truth was, the dress code at New York City parties often ranged from Gucci to church bazaar Mardi Gras wear. “I just realized something. Once we see Drummond, what is it we’re going to do?”

  “We make him talk,” Benita said. “And I tape his voice on my hidden microphone. Look. I recorded most of yesterday’s session with Tim.” She turned to the bed and opened her handbag. Inside was a pocket-sized tape recorder. “I put it in my Louis Vuitton bag so they don’t suspect anything cheesy.”

  “Where’d you get that neat little toy?”

  “Where else? RadioShack. I rigged it up myself.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Not sure, but we need something juicy enough to make the cops act.”

  “Brilliant. Only one small problem. How do we ‘make him talk’?”

  “People have a funny way of telling the truth when they’re looking down a barrel.” She reached back into her bag, this time pulling out a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver.

  My eyes went wide. “Where did you get that?”

  “My cousin Felix.”

  “Are you crazy? We could end up in jail!”

  “Or else dead in four days.” She put the gun back in her bag.

  I knew she’d learned how to shoot from her brother Hector, but carrying someone else’s gun was illegal. Aside from that, I hated guns.

  Yeah, I know what they say about women who hate guns. Totally unfounded. I love penises. Guns were designed for morbid business like blowing grapefruit-sized holes in somebody’s chest. Not exactly my idea of fun. Whereas penises, though similar in design, are much more amiable and infinitely more sensitive. The penis actually spends most of the day soft, fluffy and hanging loose, conserving its hardness for when it’s time to play. You can keep the NRA. Give me a penis.

  I shook my head. “You’ll never get through the door with that thing.”

  “Saylor, this is an invitation-only event. Very exclusive. High fashion. I doubt they’ll be frisking Donald Trump with a metal detector.”

  “But I’ve never been to a perfume launch,” I whined. “If we get thrown out, I’ll miss all the free samples.”

  “Calm down. Any hassles, I just flash my badge.”

  “Badge?”

  “Yeah. You remember my cop outfit from Gina’s costume party.”

  My life was turning into a Ben Stiller movie. “Between the gun and phony shield we’ve gotta be talking nine years. Maybe you could box in the pen, but they’d probably have me doing some kind of handiwork, and you know I hate arts and crafts.”

  I sat on the bed and folded my arms. “I have a better plan.” I had no clue what it was going to be, but I had to think of something fast to make Benita leave her gun at home. “If Drummond’s the one who hired Curtis, then he knows my name and has probably seen my face on my website. So, we’ll use sheer intimidation. Let him see we’re onto him. Get him nervous enough to say something incriminating while your recorder is running.”

  “That is the most ridiculous plan I have ever heard,” she said.

  “Then how about this? Tim put Dr. Oz and friend on the guest list. Your name is not on it. If you don’t leave your gun home, I’ll deny you’re with me.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

  I nodded, smiling victoriously.

  Glaring at me and cursing in Spanish, Benita took the gun from her bag. “Fine. Have it your way. Only do me a favor. Rinse off. I don’t want people at the launch pointing at us and whispering, ‘She pooped herself .’ ” Benita turned to her pet mynah, who was in the process of chewing the laces off her newest pair of boxing shoes. “Stop it, Petey. Saylor, would you put him back in his cage while I finish dressing?”

  I held out my hand. Uncle Pete hopped on and climbed to my shoulder. The intercom buzzed. “I’ll get it.” I hurried from the room, my foul-mouthed feathered friend hanging on for the ride.

  The doorman informed me that a Mr. Mace was here to see me. This was odd. Not that I was complaining. Thanks to our plans to lure Drummond I was dressed to raise testosterone levels. “Send him up, Caspian.”

  I checked my makeup in the foyer mirror and answered the door. Eldridge stepped in without a word, his eyes devouring me, making me nervous. He’d obviously showered at the gym and put on fresh jeans and a sleeveless tee, which by now I recognized as his uniform.

  I struck a pose. Hot New York sex shrink in her DUMBO loft with exotic bird on her naked shoulder.

  “She pooped herself. She pooped herself.”

  A soon-to-be-dead exotic bird. I scrambled for damage control. “Just ignore him. I had a little mishap. No! What I mean is, well, I, um…” Oh, that’s a sexy intro.

  “She pooped herself!” Uncle Pete went for an encore and added a chorus of, “Big butt. Big butt. Big butt.”

  Forgive me, fellow PETA members, but does anyone know a good recipe for mynah bird soup?

  Eldridge started laughing. My stellar performance went down the drain.

  “It’s not funny,” I snapped.

  “You’re right. It’s not. In fact, you got a real problem.”

  “Do tell, Prince Charming. Is it my bad smell or my oversized caboose?”

  “Forget the second part. Hell, you’ve got the prettiest fanny I’ve ever seen.”

  I turned red. The Ozyutikoffsky inverted heart.

  Confused, but remembering my manners, I escorted Eldridge to the living room. He sat on a bentwood chair without making the typical remarks about the great loft or Lana’s one-of-a-kind art deco pieces. To prevent anymore delightful samplings of Uncle Petey’s latest hits, I excused myself and delivered the loquacious mynah to his cage at the far end of the loft. I closed the door behind me and joined Eldridg
e, taking the love seat across from him. I needed the security of a coffee table between us.

  He started right in. “When I saw you down in the park, I noticed your strange odor.”

  “What?” How rude. “Don’t you ever use a liniment? I injured my back.”

  He shot me a glance that told me he didn’t believe a word. “You did not.”

  Try another route. “Okay, Mr. Nosy, I’m experimenting with healing oils for my therapy business. Why should it matter to you?”

  Eldridge stood up, gracefully edged his way around the coffee table and sat next to me. His thigh and shoulder touched against mine. Extremely disconcerting. He brought his face close and spoke in a low, intimate tone. “You’re a very unconvincing liar. I know what protective oils smell like. My father was of the Kanienkehaka tribe. My grandmother guided distressed folks with herbal medicines. Something’s going down that ain’t good. You should let me help.”

  So, it wasn’t my sex appeal that brought him here. I looked into the oddly handsome face Inez had described and saw genuine concern. How could I not appreciate the attention? Every therapist gets tired of being the eternal caretaker. But I wasn’t sure I knew how to relate to a guy if I wasn’t in that role. “Eldridge, were you the oldest child? And by chance did you have a younger sister?”

  “No and no.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Who’s threatening you? Tell me. I’m no stranger to trouble.”

  Having already leaked our story to Raffy and Tim, I was sleepless with worry over what Curtis might do to them if he found out. At least they were already involved with Gwen and had

  crucial intel that could end this thing. But there was no reason to draw an innocent outsider into this dangerous loop. Besides, we might actually entrap the mastermind behind Gwen’s murder before the night was done.

  I shook my head. “Believe me. There’s nothing more I’d like than to take you up on your offer. But I can’t.”

  “I get it. That guy you’re involved with, Mr. Hollywood, will get all pissed off if he sees me hanging around you.”

  “Alan and I are not ‘involved.’ ”

  “That was the word you used at the gym yesterday. Involved.”

  “And you’re not? What about Tara?”

  “I didn’t come here to discuss my love life, or yours.”

  “Love life? Don’t tell me you’re in love with Tara Buckley?” I looked away, totally mortified that he once again brought out the jealous fourteen-year-old in me. (Notice I put the blame on him.)

  “I told you, I don’t do relationships,” he said. “And Tara knows that.”

  The intercom rang. Petey added some whistles.

  “I’ll take it,” Benita said, jogging in from the next room. No doubt she enjoyed eavesdropping on our conversation.

  She returned and gave me a funny look. “You got a visitor. Mr. Walsh Plunkett. ”

  Oh great. He’s upped it from phone calls to visits.

  Eldridge stood up. “Competition for Mr. Hollywood?”

  “We’re not discussing those things, remember?” I followed Eldridge to the door, hoping he’d catch a down elevator before Plunkett arrived.

  No such luck. Shortly after we entered the hallway, the elevator door slid open. Inside the softly illuminated chamber stood the short, graying gentleman in black-rimmed glasses and a poorly fitted banker’s suit that must have been purchased in the days of Eisenhower. I once again noticed his extremely large feet. Well, it probably meant at least he had really good balance. In his hands, Walsh carried a bouquet of red roses and a paper bag that read BLAZING DONUTZ. Eldridge gave him a curious look and tossed me a thumbs up. My soul yearned to return his salute with a middle finger.

  Plunkett stepped off the elevator as Eldridge stepped on. My unexpected admirer peered over the top of his specs, scrutinizing Eldridge, then turned to me. “I hope I’m not intruding, Dr. Oz.”

  Whether he was looking for free therapy or a girlfriend, it was not a good idea to encourage him. But I’m such a sucker for troubled guys, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the awkward, unpolished Mr. Plunkett. “Of course not. Please come in.”

  Poor man didn’t even look me in the eye when he handed me the flowers and the bag of donuts. “I realize it’s last minute, but I thought perhaps you might let me take you out for dinner tonight.” He recited his words in a slow and careful monotone. Knowing he must have rehearsed his lines several times, I almost felt bad refusing him.

  “I’m sorry. I already have plans. Although I’ve got a little time before I leave. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

  “No, thank you. I don’t drink.” He glanced around the loft with admiring nods. “But I’d love a cup of tea. And one of the cinnamon crullers in that bag. Do you ever eat at Blazing Donutz? The food is quite good.”

  Don’t tell me that’s what he had in mind for our dinner date. Benita came to my aid, greeted Plunkett and took my gifts, saying, “I’ll handle these. And the tea.”

  I showed Walsh our view of the Manhattan skyline and caught him wrinkling his nose. Uh-oh. Here it comes again. “That’s some perfume you’re wearing.”

  Too bad, I thought. I wasn’t about to enter the lion’s den with Drummond minus my protective powers. “Forgive me,” I said. “It’s a healing oil. For my back problem.”

  That didn’t stop him from moving closer and whispering, “You’re quite a woman, Dr. Oz.”

  Yup. I’d reeled in yet another rescue case. The kind who just happened to be deeply attracted to nurses and therapists. The kind I’ve dated most of my womanly life.

  And then there was Eldridge Mace.

  FOURTEEN

  Our destination was close by, but it was raining. And after our recent adventures, nighttime walks on DUMBO’s quiet streets had somehow lost their charm. We took the Camry and parked half a block from Ten Jay Street. Benita and I pranced up the sidewalk to join a line of people waiting their turn to be screened by a man at the club’s entrance. Next to him stood the usual security in the form of two oversized doormen in tuxedos. We gave our names and rode the freight elevator to the ninth floor.

  The enormous space had once been New York City’s largest wine warehouse, cement girders and cinderblock still in evidence. I’d been to the original Club Moonbase before it closed, so I wasn’t surprised to see flame dancers on platforms or performers twirling from ropes attached to the two-story-high ceiling. Tonight they wore scanty floral patterned costumes and moved to the sounds of a swing band playing Cole Porter’s “Begin the Beguine.”

  A blissful scent filled the air. I assumed it was Beguine, the new perfume. I’d read that companies spent millions launching a new fragrance, and the Caribbean island motif that transformed this place into a tropical splendor must have cost a bundle. Blue laser lights crisscrossed over live palm trees and white, orange and red tropical flowers. A long, low wall of sea green Lucite waves moved in rhythm to the roaming Jamaican drummers.

  A waiter approached us with a tray of bubbly blue drinks in tall glasses. I took two and handed one to Benita. She peered sideways at the glass. “Looks like Sani-Flush.”

  The waiter grimaced. “The champagne is tinted blue to match the perfume’s label. Gift bottles are on the trees. Help yourselves.”

  Glittering like jewels, tiny bottles of the fragrance dangled from the palm fronds. I walked under a palm and managed to pick off a six-pack of the samples. Discreetly, of course.

  “There’s Leonardo,” I said, trying not to be conspicuous. Wherever a camera flashed, we saw another celebrity. A familiar face caught my eye. “Binnie, I see Alan Grossman. What’ll I do if he wants me to hang out with him? We’re here on a mission.”

  “I don’t think you have to worry. He looks pretty occupied with those two aspiring actresses hanging on his arms.”

  “How do you know they’re aspiring actresses?”

  “Easy. They’ve got that ‘I’ll screw both you and your pet Labrador for a part in your next movie’ look on
their faces.”

  We began wandering through the crowd, scanning for Tim Donnelly, who was probably searching for us somewhere on the other side of this twenty-thousand-square-foot space. We passed a table with bright green and yellow plates of finger food. I sometimes ate fish, but never meat, so Benita usually tested party food for me. She handed me a plate of coconut shrimp, sweet mango cheese and rum-soaked kiwi. A waiter refilled our glasses with blue-green champagne.

  “No sign of Tim,” I said, doing a one-eighty on the crowd.

  “Never mind. Look over there.” She nodded toward a man standing near the band. Maybe six feet tall, mid-fifties, a little paunch at his waist, lemon yellow tie. “That’s our guy.”

  “Yep,” I said. “On target. And no sign of his wife.”

  Benita reached into her bag and switched on the recorder. “Systems set to go.”

  That’s when it came back to me. “Binnie, I just realized we might have a secret weapon. The guys in the Hummer used a nickname for their boss. Chub Dubs. Could be a name only those in his closest circle know. I’ll spring it on him and watch him start to unravel.”

  “Good. When he talks you should watch to see if he rubs the back of his neck. Or if his eyes start moving all over the place. That means he’s lying.”

  “What if he has an astigmatism?”

  We inched our way through the crowd. A few yards away, the grand CEO of Milotech Pharmaceuticals held court with a pair of Japanese businessmen. We allowed Drummond to see us observing him. Sure enough, he began casting intermittent glances our way. My roommate looked beautiful and sultry, her dark features blending perfectly with this tropical atmosphere. I saw her catch Drummond’s eye. I aimed a teasing smile at him.

  After a few more coy exchanges, he was all ours. Drummond made a short bow, left the two Japanese men and headed toward us.

  “Let me handle the interview,” I said.